I used to hate summers and holidays as a kid because it meant too much time at home and too much time, unstructured, with people who weren't safe.
For me, that was my biological father, my first step-father and two step-siblings and I didn't hate long breaks and time away from school. I loved September and when Christmas break was over.
This isn't a post about what happened to me as a kid. It's a reminder for teachers that home can be hard and what you do, allow, see and witness, even wordlessly - does indeed matter.
School for me was mostly a safe place and that meant it was warm, lights on, and predictable. Teachers didn't have to be schooled in being trauma-informed or do anything specific to intervene on my behalf for me to benefit. School started and stopped on time. People were in the classroom and available. There was a nurse and back then at least breakfast, lunch and snack provided.
Rules were followed and clear and expectations were known. All of that mattered.
Sometimes, teachers did try to get to know me better and ask how things were at home. As a kid though that wasn't a question I knew how to answer.
I was not honest, when asked, "Do you wet the bed?" though it was clear I did. I was expert at pretending what was happening was not and I didn't know how to change that up on the dime, in second grade, in one conversation and then go home where things were the same.
But now, as an adult, decades later I can see the kindness and warmth of teachers who reached out. Now, decades later I can appreciate how nervous teachers maybe not knowing what to do tried to do something. I'm grateful. It gets in. It didn't at the time. At the time I had a blank stare. At the time I was suspicious, cautious, quiet. And this poem helps explain why. Kids are often busy with way more than school work.
I think of the teachers when I hear this poem. I think of the kids as well filling their classes... maybe your classes.
Poet Linda McCarriston Reads "Hotel Nights With My Mother" from BillMoyers.com on Vimeo.
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