Approximate reading time: 16 minutes
So, I have spent the last 6 days trying to write the second part of my three-part post, and during that time I managed to write um…. 2 paragraphs.
(Which have now been deleted – so essentially I have written nothing.)
It has not been going well.
Rest assured, I have been thinking about how to write it pretty much 24/7, and it’s mildly exhausting me.
Of course, I am fully aware of what’s behind my full-blown procrastination attack – my internal child/adult parts are at war.
(Aren’t they always!)
The latter is filled with shame that I can’t seem to settle down anywhere, which results in what feels like a daily ritual of batting down a barrage of nihilistic thoughts that sound something like this:
“Maybe it’s just you – maybe YOU are the problem”
“Why can’t you just turn a blind eye to the difficult parts in a school, focus on the positive and make it work – that’s what most normal humans do, dammit all “
“You do know you are never going to fit in anywhere – don’t you?”
And then there is another, healthier adult part that is inordinately proud of how I have handled the last 6 months, saying stuff like:
“Well done for recognising your boundaries and
for knowing what you need”
“I am proud of you, just keep going”
“PS You know you don’t need to ‘fit in’ anywhere – right?”
So, I decided today that I needed a game plan
because I’m sick of thinking about it, and for some weird reason – NOT writing about it just isn’t an option for me.
(Because there are some things I don’t quit!)
School #2 ‘Smoke and Mirrors’
I spent just over two months working in a learning resource classroom.
*Learning Resource Classrooms are smaller
classrooms set up in schools where special needs pupils
receive additional support outside their
mainstream class.
The role came up two days after the “good on paper” school, and I was initially quite surprised by how much I enjoyed it. The class was small, with just six children and a teaching assistant named Mia. All but one of the children had varying levels of autism, which meant the behaviour was a little tricky at times – but I absolutely loved it. It felt like I had spent the last 8 years going into schools and feeling so completely heartbroken by the level of support that so many children on the spectrum receive. To finally have a space where I could provide the type of support I always felt these children needed was amazing. Added to that, Mia was wonderful to work with. We were incredibly similar in our teaching styles and shared exactly the same expectations when it came to behaviour, discipline, and the standards we wanted the children to achieve.
Honestly, there were so many pros to this job. I got along really well with so many of the other teachers and their genuine appreciation for the work I was doing felt amazing. I started to feel like just maybe I had finally found the thing I was meant to be doing.
Maybe I should have got out of mainstream teaching years ago and moved into SEN.
For someone who struggles with anxiety and getting dysregulated, I found I had an inordinate amount of patience with my students during their own meltdowns. I was kicked and hit almost daily
(by one child in particular)
but I always managed to stay calm and consistent with how I handled his aggressive behaviour. Our good days were amazing and the bad days were awful – but no matter what, Mia and I would always chat about everything afterwards. We could analyse what went well, and we could both own what we could have done better.
Dare I say it – working with Mia was one of the healthiest and most supportive colleague relationships I’ve ever experienced.
I honestly loved the job.
The only aspect of the role that I did not enjoy was the general frustration and unhappiness that so many members of staff felt towards the leadership team. It created an environment in which colleagues seemed to bond over shared experiences of feeling undervalued and unsupported. In many ways, it reminded me of the unusually close bonds that siblings can develop in dysfunctional families.
At first, I was more than happy to turn a blind eye to it all, especially since I had been welcomed so warmly by my colleague siblings into the dysfunctional family.
It’s super easy to overlook these kinds of problems when they don’t affect you directly.
That is, until the illusion shatters, and you find yourself experiencing the full weight of those same problems firsthand.
I had been there for about 6 weeks, and my children were joining their main class for a Mother’s Day assembly. Right at the end of the assembly, the above-mentioned child, who was by far the most challenging of my students, got upset because another child had hugged his friend – and had then refused to hug him.
(Bless the trials of 5-year-olds)
Unfortunately, this particular child doesn’t take too kindly to anyone saying ‘no’ to him, and his response to this perceived rejection was to start screaming at the top of his lungs.
(This was a pretty typical response for him when he didn’t get his way).
Hoping to distract him and help him calm down, I asked him if he would like to show his mother, whom I had never met before, our classroom. When we arrived at the classroom, I noticed that one of the leadership team had nervously followed us all the way up the stairs. She then followed us into the classroom and asked what we were doing.
I replied that I was just showing his mother the classroom.
She requested to speak to me outside the class, where she very awkwardly told me not to tell his mother how much time her child spent in my class.
Um ok.
To say I was confused was an understatement.
Didn’t she already know that he was with me daily?
The answer to that question, as I very soon found out, was a resounding “No.”
Each morning, his mother would drop him off with his mainstream class teacher, who would then bring him to my classroom. At the end of the day, I returned him to his mainstream class just before home time.
She was under the impression that he simply attended one or two lessons a day with me each day. She had no idea that my classroom was completely separate from his mainstream class, or that he spent 98% of his school day with me.
At the end of the day, when this mum came to pick up her child and had time to piece together what was actually happening, she was absolutely furious, resulting in a fairly heated confrontation with her child’s class teacher and foundation phase leader.
I happened to be there at the time – and she was fuming.
(I couldn’t say I blamed her.)
Afterwards, I went to speak to the deputy headteacher about what had happened. He told me he had spent a considerable amount of time on the phone trying to calm this parent down, who was understandably confused because she didn’t know who her child’s teacher actually was.
(Ya think?)
It felt like the blame for this whole mess was split evenly between myself and the mother.
The mother was labelled as a “difficult” parent who needed to be managed carefully.
(Why not start by being upfront and honest with her?)
And I was told in no uncertain terms that, from that point on, I was not allowed to speak to any of my students’ parents again.
(That’s a tad drastic, don’t you think)
It went something like this:
“You are not a teacher; you are support staff.
Any communication with parents will be through the child’s class teacher only.”
To say I was a little dumbfounded would be an understatement.
I planned and taught all of the children’s work.
I followed their EHCP plans and delivered their interventions.
I dealt with their challenging behaviour and, for all intents and purposes, carried out the responsibilities that would normally be associated with a full-time teacher.
But I was NOT a teacher?
While I understood that this child was technically still registered as a pupil in his mainstream class, and his class teacher remained responsible for him, the day-to-day reality was very different. I can guarantee that should anything happen to any of these children in my care during the day, the person who would have been held accountable would undoubtedly have been little old me.
In that moment, as I sat there, I thought how funny it was that I was back here again – feeling like I needed to justify and defend the most basic fact that I was indeed a teacher and worthy of being treated like one.
I suddenly thought about when I had originally accepted the job. My agent had initially told me that the school did not want to hire a qualified teacher for the role and that they were actually looking for a Higher-Level Teaching Assistant.
That, in fairness, was my first red flag.
(That I ignored)
How could you NOT want to put a qualified teacher with your most vulnerable SEN children?
It was for this reason that they were not willing to pay me at the rate of a qualified teacher.
The difference, however, was only around £10 a day,
(Which was still considerably more than my daily supply rate)
so, I decided to take the job because I genuinely loved working with Mia.
As I sat there processing everything, I wondered whether the reason they had been reluctant to employ a qualified teacher was not solely monetary, as I had originally thought. Could it have been that a more experienced, qualified teacher might be less willing to simply follow instructions or accept decisions without challenge? In contrast, with a teaching assistant who could be perceived as perhaps being more flexible and, ultimately, more easily ‘managed’.
Mmmmm…
And here I now sat.
The irony was not lost on me that I had spent the last 10 years learning to find my voice, only to be now told that I wasn’t allowed to use it.
I simply stated that I was a teacher, that I had been teaching for 25 years, and that I was the person teaching these students full-time. The deputy head teacher doubled down on what he had said, and in that moment, I realised that no amount of explaining or trying to justify my role was going to change how I was viewed.
I also knew I couldn’t continue to work there.
The weekend that followed was awful. I cried pretty much the entire weekend. My gut knew I had to leave, but my heart wanted to stay. The thought of abandoning these children and Mia was beyond painful, but at the same time there wasn’t an inch of me willing to accept their terms.
One of the things I have always prided myself on is the strong relationships I build with the parents of my students. Gaining parents’ trust is one of the most important first steps when working with children. When supporting children with SEN, this is doubly true – raising a child with additional needs can be incredibly lonely and isolating for parents. I mean bloody hell; I have just spent the last 4 years of my life completing a master’s in attachment theory – a field fundamentally concerned with the relationship between children and their caregivers.
How could I not care about these relationships?
I spent the same tissue-drenched weekend updating my CV and uploading it onto as many recruitment websites as I could find – looking this time specifically for SEN work. I also made a very clear list of what I was looking for in my next school.
On the Monday, I handed my notice into my agent and offered to stay until the end of the term so she could find a replacement.
I am beyond grateful for my experience at this school.
I discovered something that I am really good at.
Working with Mia gave me a glimpse of what life can be like when you are working with healthy, emotionally grounded people.
A reminder that there are wonderful humans out there doing their utmost for our children. But I also wasn’t fearful that I might not find that again. All I knew was that I needed to find that same level of camaraderie in a school that shared the same basic core values as me.
It’s funny how experiencing what you don’t want makes you so super clear on what you do want in life.
What I need is a school where relationships genuinely matter; where communication with parents is open and honest, and where staff are trusted to use their professional judgment. I can’t survive in a school where every interaction is going to be micromanaged. More than anything, I want to work in a school where I can continue to learn, contribute and do what I know I am good at, without constantly having to justify my experience, my qualifications or my right to have a voice.
Maybe what I am looking for is a unicorn school?
Maybe not.
Only time will tell.
To be continued…
