i'm in my education class.
my professor talks about how earlier in the semester, a student came up to him asking to speak after class. how he pulled up a chair, offered the kid some tea while they chatted. how the fourteen year old girl asked him in detail what, if she disclosed anything, my professor would have to tell and to whom as a mandatory reporter. how my professor told her. how the kid said never mind and left after being told that if she disclosed any parental abuse, he would have to report it to the school social worker and she would get dcfs involved. how my professor spent his prep period fighting tears. how he talked to the guidance counselor anyway out of concern and nothing happened nothing happened nothing happened.
i'm in my education class.
a classmate, on the verge of tears, recounts a harrowing experience in which their little sister survived a school shooting. how their sixteen year old baby sister was texting the family group chat while it was happening, repeating, i love you, i'm sorry, i love you i love you i love you and how they had to pull over on the way to their parents' house to cry and throw up and hyperventilate on the phone with police who couldn't say anything other than we're on it, we know, we're trying. how the kids got the rest of the week off. how they went back to school eight days later and no administrators told them or their families or the community anything. how the kids had panic attacks at every fire alarm or slammed door for the rest of the year, and nothing happened nothing happened nothing happened.
i'm in my education class.
we read legislature about nation-wide book bannings and the knee-jerk backlash against critical race theory and the fact that educators in my state can't even call a student by a nickname anymore without parent validation, much less pronouns. about the queer kids, the trans kids, the kids of color, the marginalized kids, who are being institutionally harmed by practices we are forced to adopt, lest we get stripped of our licensure. we read about how current curricula doesn't just silence voices, it crushes them. about how everything we've been doing is wrong. how we aren't allowed to change it unless we give up our livelihoods. or get lucky with a good principal. or sacrifice things we didn't ever think we'd have to sacrifice when we were starry eyed and seventeen and dreaming of getting accepted into a university that was gonna teach us how to be good at this. good to my kids. a good teacher. but none of that happened. nothing happened nothing happened nothing happened.
i'm in my education class.
i remember the lockdowns and the bomb threats and the fear. huddled against the wall, my phone on the other side of the room so i couldn't say goodbye if it was real. i remember the guidance counselor's blank face, the teachers who never reported anything. the abuse at home no one ever found out about until i was all grown up and out of the house. i remember the callousness of readings, the isolation of never being the standard. feeling lost and hurt and misunderstood.
and i'm tired. and i'm scared. and i'm devastated that in a few short months, i'm going to be in a classroom with thirty children looking at me for what to do. and i want to serve them. what if i fail?
my classmate says well what are we supposed to do? we can't just not go into the classroom. we're teachers.
i'm in my education class.
nothing ever fucking changes.
