Last week, we went to visit an elementary school principal to talk about our plans at Echo Parenting & Education to pilot a year-long school trauma training that would target the whole school body - from teachers, to yard and cafeteria staff, to teachers aides. My colleague and I were waiting for the principal in the school office, watching the little kids coming in to get band-aids and parents with toddlers in tow talking to the school secretary, when suddenly we heard crying and screaming and the sounds of a scuffle as two teacher's aides dragged an 8-year old girl through the office and into a small room. The crying and screaming continued, accompanied by the muffled thud of feet and fists hitting the wall.
"That was the principal," said my colleague, of the third woman who had entered the room and remained while the teacher's aides hovered in the doorway. The secretary shoo-ed out the school children who had been observing all this with big eyes and the rest of us sat in uncomfortable silence.
"It's LAUSD policy," my colleague went on to explain. "Removing the child and putting them in a safe place when they are a danger to themselves or others." I swallowed hard, having found the scene hard to witness, and hearing the now discernible cries of the girl.
"You're a monster!" she sobbed. "A monster!"
I have to hand it to the principal - she was responding in an exemplary way, keeping her voice calm and kind. She was obviously telling the girl that they were going to call her family.
"No, not my aunty, not my aunty!" the girl pleaded. Then, "Not my grandma. Not my grandma!" The cries grew loudest when the father was mentioned: "Not Papi! Please, not Papi!"
"No one's safe," observed my colleague, grimly.
After ten minutes of this (during which the principal put her head out to deal with yet two more disciplinary matters), the grandmother arrived. "Callate ya! (Shut up!)" she commanded, as she strode into the small room. The sobs subsided, the girl grew quiet and the principal emerged, red faced and tousle haired, to the silent audience in the waiting room.
After apologizing for the delay, the principal ushered us into her office. "How's your blood pressure?" I said, in an attempt at empathy. "Mine's through the roof, and we were just sitting on the sidelines!" When we moved on to discuss the specifics of our proposed training, I talked about the paradigm shift that underpins both our view of child raising and trauma informed care.
"For example," I said, "we would ask of that little girl, "What happened to you?" instead of "What's wrong with you?" The principal sat up straighter, and the next thing we knew she was offering all her professional development days, early days, sub days, any space she could find in the schedule to get the whole school body trained.
A good result, you could say of our visit, including a graphic reminder of why schools need support in becoming trauma-informed. Except a little girl is still out there, repeating words that she has heard so often they have become her trauma mantra: "You're a monster! You're a monster!" For her, and all the other children out there we will continue to offer nonviolent parenting services, so that teachers and principals can get on with the business of education and not a realm they will never have enough rooms to contain - the trauma that originates in families.
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