(the following post is better understood when read after the one under it, but I wanted to post them in chronological order. Do scroll down and read The Bully playground first)
Was it just The Bad when I worked at those three schools?
The Bullying colleagues, the teambuilding days I dreaded,
the budget they had for wine and posh snacks for the Friday-after school- hours,
(but when I asked them to use that money for our library instead, as our books were falling apart, I was met with critisism and told t h a t money was only for wine & snacks…)
The endlessly boring, crushing, frequent, long, pointless meetings.
The forced ‘volunteer’ system.
Not even talking about the system itself- but all else I did not resonate with, within that work environment.
So, was there beauty in this world at all?
There was. It is what made me stay for thirteen years.
Some of it inspired me. Raised my spirit. Made me smile or
cry happy tears.
This is for the beauty- ❤️
The visits I made to my pupil’s homes. One year I decided to visit all the pupils in my group during my lunchbreak and did it over the course of a few months and visited all the children.
It made some colleagues roll their eyes too far in their head,
like they were not approving of a new colleague introducing their Amish traditions.
I cherish the memory. It was a humbling experience which I highly recommended to the others there.
From the excitement of each child that I was going home with them, to the parents who prepared full tables of food,
(which made me feel awkward as I never meant to burden the parents) the children showing a different side of themselves that I had never seen before,
to myself showing another side of me to the parents as well (never wanted to be the stranger that taught their children)
The teacher-parent meetings that most colleagues dreaded but I looked forward to.
I always found it special to connect with the parents in a different way,
without their children there.
Some parents would talk about themselves for the full twenty minutes they had. Which I also understood. There was sometimes the language barrier with non native speakers and parents could always bring someone to translate or we could provide an interpreter, but some deemed it unnecessary,
which often resulted in either confusion, hilarity or both;
Like the father who asked questions about what his own medication was for.
Or the one time a father did bring a translator and instead
of him speaking in his native tongue, he would speak in mine and the lady just repeated his exact same sentences to me….but much slower.
You had to be there to believe it.
For that colleague who listened to my rants each morning, for eight years,
with such kindness and patience and who was my partner in crime at our
“how to leave the teambuilding days unseen” missions.
She was my getaway car. There next to me, on my last day at that school, wiping my tears when no one stood by me.
I think she would smile, knowing I’m a home educator now.
For the caretaker (janitor) at the last school I worked. He made me pull through. We shared the same views, glanced at each other during those boring meetings and understood without words. We did, but they did not understand us. A born storyteller, alchemist, mentor. What an honour it was to work with him.
For all the children who were the beauty in that world.
Their smiles and thank you’s, their cards, their play, their being real
The “Miss I love you so”, with letters big and wide
Their sweet hugs, growing tall, the wonder of it all
Who they would become, the honour of guiding them along
Their morning dance and song
Milk teeth situations and hair slides being stuck,
lunches missing, hair lice days, blackboard drawings,
secrets, Christmas dinners, friends, playing in the sun
The cosy friday afternoons, the visits to the farm
Their stories, adventures, silly jokes and all the fun
They were as much my teacher as I was theirs.
(And for the tears that I’ve just shed. I am grateful that we’ve met)
Much love,
Silvia
The Bully playground
I grew up in a family with teachers; my mother in primary school and my uncle a music teacher. I remember always being told it was the best job for a woman. In my maternal homeland, Serbia, they used to say: “yes, that will indeed be the best choice for you, as there are three good reasons to be(come) a teacher. They are June, July and August…”
I wanted to study languages, Italian or French. In Paris. History of Art. Music. Spend days in botanical gardens. Roam around old towns and markets. Make that all come together into a dream-job somehow. As I was a teenager and so full of doubts, I could not make a choice and I was not given enough to make it, I ended up ‘choosing’ what already seemed carved in stone for me: teacher studies.
Looking back now, I don’t know if I liked anything about it. The insanity of it all being that I never liked school in the first place *endless facepalm*.
As a child and especially teenager in secondary school, I had secret dreams and wishes that the school would burn down in the night, that the worst teachers were ill (P.E!) on a strike or fired. I spent most of my days there in severe stress and the worst were the physical education lessons which I managed to mostly spend on a bench, which took quite a bit of persuading as the teacher usually had doubts that I was on my period again or how I could possibly sprain my ankle that often, but it was worth it. The alternative was an injury from the actions of insecure and angry teenagers playing ballgames that she did not interfere in (not looking up from her paperwork and I knew, as I spent a lot of time next to her, on that bench) resulting in those boys aiming and throwing heavy balls straight into your abdomen (…) I remember the feeling of agony too well, while they all had a good laugh. Another favourite of hers were the Rings (gymnastics) as she was very old-school and did it in a very Spartan way (commands in monotone shouting) and everyone laughed if you’d become entangled. I am still undecided if I should write it about it as the ptsd flares up) It wasn’t a time nor place where moving and enjoying physical exercise was the goal; It was a bully playground. So was the whole school.
A teacher was being bullied by students. He had to shout to be heard but I think I was the only one who listened. He would knock on his desk with his ring to get their attention. I felt so sorry for him, I wanted to get up and scream at times, but was too scared. My best friend at that time was smart, had a marvelous sense of humour (why I liked to hang out with her) but was perceived as obese, had a nose like ‘Miss Piggy’ (their words) and some ‘bad luck’ with her surname that was a swear word with one added letter, which sent the (I guess the angry P.E-)boys into a frenzy. She was harassed and bullied, every single day. I wasn’t at that level, but since we were always together in classes, I witnessed everything. They would make a hard knot out of a towel and throw it on her face. They would make ‘oink’ noises walking past her. It was endless and teachers did nothing when we complained. One teacher actually bullied me. Long story. There were just three years between what my friend went through, to my actual studies. Perhaps I thought, in a subconscious way, that I could change something within by becoming a teacher.
I did enjoy working with children in my apprenticeships, but it took me long to finish the studies as I still silently dreamed of doing the things I mentioned above, which slowed me down, as if not being motivated nor inspired by the endless, tedious assignments wasn’t enough. I felt so trapped and had doubts that were like heavy blocks on a rail, but the train was already so near its destination…I finished it. Somehow. To the joy of my family. I now owned June, July and August….
Fast forward a few years later when I was working at a primary school in my town. I always ask myself the question about defining moments. When was the defining moment, if there is one, or many, accumulated over a longer period, that I realised that I was not happy in this job? Many moments led to it, in my case, but I guess I knew it quite soon.
All the schools I had worked at (officially three, but with my apprenticeships it is over ten schools) were similar. I am different, always have been and wherever I go, it shows. Although not very eccentric, an introvert and in my own world, outgoing and funny at times, I’m also…..a bit rebellious. Colleagues….we are talking about adult professionals…would turn their back to me in the canteen, after I would decline their invitations to go to a bar after work as that was not my thing. True story.
I loved to do special things with my children on Friday afternoon as an end of week celebration. We would play theatre, learn about and eat special exotic fruits that I had brought. We had a therapy bear who would go on sleepovers with the children but sometimes I would take him myself and on Monday I would tell them that he took a trip to Paris (filled his suitcase with French goodies and snacks and a postcard with a french stamp) and we would all open his suitcase in wonder, read about his Paris adventures and eat the goodies together. These are one of the fond memories I do have (always the children) Now, colleagues would find out about our Friday afternoon celebrations and some often would react with a full blown tantrum (“we all have to do the same thing!!) Again, adult professionals.
We would have team building days (not sure what we built on) where we would be forced to spend the day with colleagues we had nothing in common with, doing activities I did not want to engage in. Ever. Only thing I would actively engage in on those days was how to escape early and unnoticed. What did this remind me of?
All the schools used methods against bullying in their lessons, in all the age groups. I sort of worked with them myself, against my will, but rebelled heavily and adapted it to fit better. I once overheard a conversation of a few colleagues about a pupil (ten) who could not ride a bike. One of the teachers said: “He is so stupid, he is ten and still can’t ride a bike.” I overheard this twenty years ago but still remember vividly, that I wanted to ask why she did not teach him then? What did she perceive to be her role? Would he learn this skill from being mocked? What if you teach him? This is just one example. I have so many. These people, these teachers were bullies themselves. Really…praising how you are working to stop bullying within your school, but you are a bully yourself; towards children and colleagues both. These people needed a mirror, not an method. It wasn’t like this was only one school, it was like this in every school I worked at.
In the last school I worked, my only true friend who was his authentic self, was the caretaker/janitor who would always say that since he was not a teacher he felt they looked down on him. He had worked countless jobs before becoming a caretaker at this school (we coincidentally started there at the same time) From maintaining a French castle to scary encounters with grizzly bears in the Rockies and dealing with corruption in Brazil. I saw someone who was more than the teachers there. I always said they should have used his experience and let him tell the older children his stories. On a Friday afternoon. Real stories of grizzly bears and French castles, while having cookies and tea….Perfect, true storytelling and so educational. I suggested it once. Never heard about it. Perhaps it had more of an effect on me than I thought. Some things had happened to me around that time. Accidents. Things that made me face reality a bit more. I realised that the environment was making me sick. Not overnight…but gradually….
After thirteen years, I could not work any longer. I like to think that I made it that long because I worked undercover...helping the children….Because…in a way…I did…..I hope and know…that many of them…have fond memories of their time with me. I know, as some of them have told me, years later. I think about them often. My first pupils are in their twenties now. I wonder.
Leaving the bully playground, I knew I would never want to see my own child in that system. That system that is not broken, but made that way, for a reason. I stepped into the world of home education, long before my daughter was born. I wonder what had taken me so long to come home to this….and here I am.
And now it feels like full circle. I hear the stories from fellow home educators and their children, some who were in the system but left….their stories of children crying on the kitchen floor on a Sunday evening because they dread going back on Monday…and facing their bullies…The world becoming stranger and more dangerous, upside down and backwards….and their relief when they take them home….to live, to learn….
This is our journey of a learner.
Follow our stories on this journey: learning together, on this endless adventure.
Much love, Silvia
The Journey of a Learner 