entry thirty-eight

 Tuesday, May 6, 2025

As a veteran special education teacher, I’ve seen a lot—but this year feels different. The lack of support from administration when it comes to serious student misbehavior is leaving me disheartened and exhausted. When a student disrupts the classroom so severely that peers are frightened and learning comes to a halt, it’s more than a behavior issue—it’s a safety and equity issue. And yet, the response from leadership has been to remove the student for just a few minutes, offer snacks and comforting words, then place them right back into the classroom with no clear consequences or plan.

This approach feels dismissive—not just of me and my efforts to manage the classroom, but of the other students’ right to feel safe and to learn. When is enough ENOUGH? How many times do we have to go through this cycle before real support is offered? The message this sends to students is that there are no boundaries. This is not okay. Behaviors continue and even escalate. It makes me feel powerless and, at times, invisible. 

I’m not asking for punishment—I’m asking for partnership. For accountability. For proactive plans. My voice feels unheard, and it’s taking a toll. We can’t keep normalizing chaos. This is not okay. Something must change.

I’ve spent years building positive relationships and restorative practices into my teaching, but restorative work only thrives in environments where boundaries are respected and upheld by all adults. Without that, students get mixed messages—and I’m left managing the fallout. I feel like I’m being asked to do the impossible: meet everyone’s needs with no resources, no backing, and no line of support. It’s not sustainable. I’m beginning to question how much longer I can do this without burning out completely.

Even more troubling is the sense that my professionalism is being quietly eroded. I am being asked to absorb emotional and physical strain without meaningful intervention or acknowledgment. That’s not resilience—it’s neglect, masked as expectation. If we continue down this path, we risk losing not only good teachers, but the stability and trust our students so desperately need. I want to keep doing this work, but I can't do it alone.

“When the Walls Don’t Listen” 

mixed media on paper 

Who's the Parent Here?

In this classroom, I stand like a dam—
breaking, bending,
while the current rages louder each day.
Tiny fists slam desks,
voices crack like thunder.

Scissors and pencils dart across the room like

sparks from a frayed wire—fast, reckless, and charged.

DCFS has been called—
not once, but again and again.
Bruises are called “mosquito bites,”
hidden beneath long sleeves and longer silences—
excuses layered over truth, again and again.

Still, school admin smiles and says,
“Just build the relationship. Try harder.”
Rigor is demanded.
Standards must rise.
But help with behavior?
Consistent consequences?
They’re buried under a mountain of appeasement.

Parents call, not to ask,
“How is my child?”
but to say,
“You must have triggered them.”
And we, the teachers,
get the reprimand,
while students get a snack and a soft voice.

Who’s the parent here?
Who’s protecting whom?
This isn’t teaching—it’s triage.
This is trauma looping,
and we’re blamed for not catching it
with broken nets and no sleep.

The problem is bigger than it appears.
And yet we’re told:
Be tougher.
Be gentler.
Be everything.

It’s not okay.
It never was.
But if I say that out loud,
I’m labeled “not a team player.”
Still, I ask—
How many cries for help
must echo in silence
before someone finally listens?

Me (Teacher): I named this piece When the Walls Don’t Listen—and it hurts how true that feels. I’m here, arms open, trying, asking… and still, nothing changes.

When the Walls Don’t Listen: Because they weren’t built to listen. Not the walls. Not the system. Not the ones with their backs turned. You’re standing there in plain sight, and yet you’re invisible to them.

Me: I kept that white space between us on purpose. At first, I thought it was about professionalism or distance… but now I realize it’s about abandonment.

When the Walls Don’t Listen: It’s the silence that follows every plea. It’s the space between your reality and their agenda. Look at them—talking among themselves, facing away. Planning "More Rigor!" while you’re sinking in the noise, the chaos, the emotional weight of every redirect you give.

Me: I don’t even know what “rigor” means anymore. All I know is that I’m expected to give more while getting less support—less understanding. Less grace.

When the Walls Don’t Listen: You’re holding all of it: the behaviors, the trauma, the paperwork, the self-doubt. And still, they talk strategy as if the walls of your classroom are soundproof—like they can’t hear the crying, the calling out, the questions, or you.

Me: I’m not hiding. I didn’t draw myself small or shut down—I’m open. Arms wide. I’m asking to be heard.

When the Walls Don’t Listen: But the walls don’t listen. That’s the cruelty of it. You’re expected to absorb, adapt, and keep going, while those in power avoid eye contact with the truth of your experience.

Me: The dark colors around me—those weren’t just aesthetic. They’re the overwhelm. The exhaustion. The feeling of being surrounded by everything except support.

When the Walls Don’t Listen: Yes. You made yourself central, and still isolated. Because you’re the heart of the work—and somehow also the one most left alone in it.

Me: So what do I do with that? I can’t just keep standing here, waiting for the walls to hear me.

When the Walls Don’t Listen: No—you don’t wait. You speak to other voices, ones that can listen. You name what’s happening. You make the unseen visible. You create. You write. You refuse to become silent just because the walls are.

Me: This piece doesn’t fix anything… but I think it finally says what I’ve been trying to get out.

When the Walls Don’t Listen: It says it clearly. And whether or not they listen, you did. That’s where the healing starts.