Content and trigger warnings: this blog post contains mentions of selfharm and self-inflicted scars.
Additional warning: all negative comments towards the pupils will be deleted. I hold nothing but love for these kids, and I do not condemn their words in any way. Please keep in mind that these kids are growing, not only intellectually but – most importantly – emotionally and socially.
It happens suddenly. One moment you’re teaching and in the next one question from a pupil derails your entire lesson plan. It’s typical, something you’re used to, except for the fact that you are completely blindsided by this particular question. In hindsight, there was a pretty big chance at least one pupil would pick up on it. Maybe you ignored it, unconsciously. None of that really matters, anyway. What matters is that you’re standing in front of a classroom, thirteen fifteen year old kids staring back at you. The question ‘did you ever cut yourself’ falls harsh and heavy, unfiltered in the way most of their words are. They have yet to understand the weight of their voices, the feelings that they can evoke in other people. You should be used to it by now, the way they speak first and think later, the way their words are still rough and sharp at the edges, unpolished. And you are, in a way. But when that question hits your ears, you’re simply: not.
When that question hits your ears, you want to be a teacher. You want to think deep and pick your words carefully, make it as clear as possible that you will listen to your pupils if they ever need a safe space. You want to remind them, softly and gently, that their words matter, and that the way they choose to use them does too. You want to grasp the opportunity to talk with them about why we don’t ask certain questions – at least not flat out. There’s so many responses, so many strategies and actions and discussion points and learning goals popping up inside of you, and you want to grab one and hold on tight, you really want to.
But when that question hits your ears, you’re not just a teacher. Inside of you, clawing itself to the surface, is a teenager, one that used to bite her lip so hard that it drew blood, just to stay in control of the pain. You’re sixteen years old and crumbling, looking at the world outside of you and never fully fitting in anymore. Watching it go around and around while you’re slowly spinning away. You’re seventeen years old and hiding in the school bathroom, fingers trembling as you try to hold back – but you fail. You’re eighteen years old and you slowly dare to smile again, although it’s still cramped, unsure. Filled with distrust, towards the world, and towards yourself. You’re twenty years old and you’re happy, you’re thriving, until you have to answer that exam question that catches you off-guard, that question that makes you realise that there’s more to this than ‘healing’. How would you react as a teacher, if a pupil admits to self-harm? the question read, and all of a sudden you’re crying so hard you can’t see your exam in front of you anymore. You stumble home that day, and you’ve never felt more like a kid than when you’re dad wraps his arms around you. You remember, vividly, feeling torn between being a kid, still, and being a teacher-to-be.
You’re twenty-one years old then, and you think you’ve got it figured out. You’re proud of yourself, you’re at ease with your scars. With your past, and all your battles. You think, no, you know you’ll be a good teacher. You’ll listen to those who need it. You’ll try to see the ones that don’t want to be seen. You’ll be there. You won’t be afraid to show yourself for who you are, and you’ll make sure that your pupils know that they can talk to you, always.
But then you’re twenty-two, and your pupils, filled with their youthful curiosity and unpolished thoughts, ask if you’ve ever cut yourself.
So, what do you do? How do you seperate your own life, your own emotions, from being a teacher, when it’s the emotions that make you a good teacher? How do you navigate a situation where you are torn between teaching, grasping the opportunity, and sinking down against the wall for a good cry?
You could say no. You could lie, shrug your shoulders, and ask them if it really matters. But you’re not that kind of person, you don’t want to lie and behave as if topics like these are unworthy of conversation. So you fumble, and you struggle with breathing a little bit, and you say nothing. And they know. And in the evening, when you come home, you find yourself thoughtlessly staring at the wall over and over again. There’s only one question that runs through your head.
What should I have done? How do you seperate your pain from your own emotions, your trauma from your words. How can you be a teacher that listens, a teacher that talks, without allowing your trauma to take over – while you need that trauma, those experiences, to be a teacher that listens. There has to be a balance in there, somewhere. I hope I’ll find it someday, but until then I’ll allow myself this: I’m a teacher, and I’m young. I carry pain with me, still, shame even more. And that’s okay. I’m allowed to fumble, I’m even alowed to fuck things up so royally that I kind of want to hide under a rock for the next ten years. I’m learning, and as long as I learn, I’m doing good.