As a child, I remember being so excited for any break from school. Whether it was a
three day weekend or two months during the summer, I couldn’t have been happier to see my
mom be first in the pickup line on the last day of school. I figured everyone felt that way, but
when I became a teacher, I found out I had been horribly mistaken.
In my second year of teaching, I had a self-contained classroom of 21 third graders. I
bonded more with those kids than I ever have with another class. I taught them every core
subject throughout the day without sharing them with another teacher.We genuinely loved being
together. It felt like a family. When a handful of students began to cry the day before winter
break, a three week long stretch, I thought it must be because they loved being with me and their
classmates a little too much.That had to be why they were crying.These kids just had a better
experience than I did in the education system.I was right about a couple of them. One had a
different reason.
One of my brightest students, who we will call “Tom”, was going through a hard time
because his mother was battling breast cancer—and losing.He loved her more than words can
describe, but because she was severely ill, the court ordered for him to be placed with his father
over the holidays. Yes, he would miss us, but this arrangement was what caused him so much
distress the day before break.I didn’t know until much later in the year as to why.
Several months later in April, when we were reading a book titled The Missing Gator of
Gumbo Limbo, I thought the book contained too many mature themes like domestic violence and
homelessness for eight year olds to be reading.It turns out, the representation of children going
through the similar trials as themselves allowed my students to feel comfortable enough to share
about their own experiences. Tom raised his hand one day and shared stories that made the rest
of the class fall silent. He described his mother, the one battling breast cancer, being physically
and emotionally abused by his father. The sights, the sounds, and his own anger toward his father
were being shared with the class. I didn’t dare interrupt him, even though my coworkers later
suggested that I should have.In my mind, I was just proud of him for breaking his silence on
something that weighed so heavily on him. Now, he had my support, his classmates’, and that of
the guidance counselor once I told her.
I frequently think about him, especially at this time of year around the holidays. What
must he have felt to be trapped with his father for twenty one days? Tom said he never hit him,
but to know that his mother was hit by the hands making him breakfast, pulling up his blanket at
night, or opening the door for him… It was enough to enrage that little boy. I understood why he
wanted so badly to be at school. It was a safe environment away from his father.
Now, several years later, he has to live with his father, permanently trapped until
adulthood, since his mother died last summer.When I saw him at the funeral, he appeared to be in
despair. When his father put his hand on his shoulder to comfort him, I saw his whole body
tense. He made eye contact with me and the utter heartbreak I have for his situation tripled. His
father would not allow him or his brother to go to therapy, although it was strongly suggested by
the school and family members. It was difficult for the guidance counselor to support him
without backlash from his father, too. Later in the year when he started picking fights at school, I
knew why. We all knew why.
For some kids, school is a safe haven from the horrible events happening at home. Every
child should want to go home. They should feel more love there than anywhere else, but
sometimes it doesn’t work out that way. As teachers and as humans, we try to spread love and
support in every opportunity we see, and that has to be enough, even though it’s not.
