This was one of the sloppiest days I can remember. Wet snow, mixed with rain, mixed with ‘why-am-I-leaving-my-house?’ fell down in confused, erratic bursts from a heavy, unrelenting sky. The snow had come too early for anyone to be prepared, not even the city. Instead of plows clearing the road, regular people in their wildly ill-equipped vehicles barreled through piles of fresh slush like animated cars in a Dr. Seuss movie. I was sure I was going to get into an accident with the Cat In The Hat. Year after year, the first snowfall turns the civilized north into the wild west; lines on the road, speed limits and traffic lights are treated like suggestions for tourists and decoration for locals. In the dark, on that gross day, I pulled my boots off the shelf, brushed the cobwebs off my winter coat and tucked my hair under my thick toque. I was off to spend the day in a medically fragile classroom at a high school at the very north end of Brampton. No writing, no wallowing in self-reflection or getting lost in frivolous word play today; I was going to step out of my imagination and back into education. With a veritable war going on between teachers and the provincial government, I expected school to be a very charged environment; consumed by hushed discussions and choking on uncertainty like a toxic smell from a dirty microwave. Braving angry weather to get to an embattled school seemed almost Shakespearean. The weather mirroring the current mood in education was surely an English teacher’s wet dream; pathetic fallacy as real today as a teenager’s zit.

I managed to make it to the school just in time. Walking through the halls of a secondary school before the morning bell is like swimming upstream, blindfolded, against the healthiest, most determined bunch of 6 foot tall salmon imaginable. Quite frankly, I think the students are trying to spawn as well, hence their determination to stay on course and knock me off mine. In the crowd, always visible, are the teachers on morning duty; greeting kids, redirecting the loud ones to use their indoor voices and begging the energetic ones to keep their hands to themselves, not unlike quality control workers sorting chocolates on a line that has been amped up to an impossible speed. If home was calm and quiet, school is where the lid gets blown off. Teachers and EA’s stand by with emotional mops ready to save who and what they can. If home is unstable, then school is definitely where the lid gets blown off - emotion feeding emotion until the loop is unmanageable. Sometimes the day calls for emotional mops to be exchanged for human Zamboni’s; extra counselling is carefully administered to soothe and smooth out teenage surfaces. Whether the bell has sounded or not, school has started.

With my elbows out and my firm but pleasant voice, I made my way to class.

“Scuse me. S’cuse me. S’cuse me! Guys? Good lord - what does your shirt say?”.

As I neared the wing of the school assigned to special education, the hallways opened up and the chatter shifted to a new sound. Wheelchairs and standers lined the walls and small buses gathered at the side door. Students with all manner of physical and developmental disability gathered at lockers and near classroom doors, clinging to toys, staff, and anything that made the morning feel less threatening. Some students struggled, banging their heads, throwing lunch boxes and filling the air with vocalizations that somehow soothed themselves but rattled the brains of others. Staff moved in and around the students almost silent, gently patting backs, taking off boots, picking up bags, whispering soft ‘good mornings’ and offering up their hands to those who needed a touch or squeeze. Laughter crept in as routine became obvious and students settled into the safety of their surroundings. I entered the classroom, careful not to disturb the dance.

Inside the room, just after Oh Canada, two staff lifted a tiny girl from her wheelchair and gently slid her snow pants down her bony legs. They talked to her while they took off her outerwear and complimented her on her fancy leggings and fresh coat of nail polish. She smiled and tightened her already curled fists every time an answer was required. What her legs and voice couldn’t do, the twinkle in her eye accomplished. She was moved from wheelchair to stander for a morning stretch that asked gravity to work its magic on her stubborn, stiff body. Another student was transferred to a swing using a Hoyer lift and open arms. A third student was moved on to floor mats while yet another bounced on a yoga ball. Each piece of equipment and tender touch was meant to provide physical relief, emotional relief and stimulation to students with incredible needs, special needs. The day was peppered with singing, chatting, cause-and-effect toys, food, sensory interludes and tactile play. A nurse visited twice to feed and suction one of the more fragile students. Seizure protocols were reviewed and notes to parents were crafted. Each time I thought this room was going to be hypnotized by calm and caring, the student on the yoga ball would moan and cry; hot tears staining puffy acne bitten cheeks. She bounced and hit herself in the head and stomach, and occasionally leaned over to gag in a garbage pail. My guess - stomach bug. Staff comforted her, escorted her on many trips to the bathroom and endlessly discussed how to keep her relaxed until it was time to go home. I watched, I shuffled blankets and pressed buttons on toys, hoping to make someone, anyone, smile, and as an outsider, somehow contribute to the day.

At lunch, in the empty staff room, I took a breath and thought back to another day when I covered a mainstream history class. I remember standing in the doorway greeting the kids; one after another, students shuffled past me and audibly sighed in disappointment as they laid eyes on me. It was obvious how much they did NOT want me there and they made zero effort to hide this fact. One student even stopped for a moment to look me up and down.

“Miss, you remind me of Freddy Krueger.”

“What the ?” I said catching myself mid-sentence.

“No, no, like, your shirt, not you.”

I have not worn my red and navy striped shirt since. Truth be told, the similarity was uncanny. I laughed as the student gave me a crooked smile and strode past. He paused in front of the class and belted out, “This sucks. We have a supply!”

Naturally, I started the class by thanking them for referring to me as Freddy Krueger and audibly letting me know they could barely stomach my presence. Out of guilt, they shared with me the reason they were so upset. All week long they had been wrapped up in an epic Jeopardy tournament with their teacher, reviewing material for their unit test and today was the finale. The teacher had created a detailed daily board with questions, ranging from easy to treacherous. The kids were so engaged, many had been up all night on chat rooms prepping. Unfortunately, a family emergency had occurred and the teacher couldn’t be there; they were stuck with me. For 15 minutes we talked about the game, the teacher and all they had learned until finally, they decided to organize themselves and go ahead and play anyway. This teacher had lit a fire in them that no Freddy Krueger lame-ass substitute could put out.

I have 15 years worth of teaching memories that fight for my attention, most of them positive. Are there bad teachers? - Yes. Are they the majority? - No. Not by a long shot. Are good teachers annoyed by the morons on staff? - Yup. The same way great presidents might be miffed at the mockery of office under Trump. But most don’t dwell on their existence the way the rest of the world does. There’s too much to do. 30 % of new teachers leave the profession in their first five years and it’s not because they found the job too easy.

https://news.ubc.ca/2015/04/22/why-are-so-many-new-teachers-burning-out/

Ian Hanomansing’s tweet from November 13th, 2019

I am heartbroken day after day when I drive home and hear talk radio attacking teachers and EA’s and listeners calling in to echo the angry sentiments. Not enough people see or think about all the tiny good things a teacher or support worker do each day. I wish John Lennon were alive to write another song, one that asks people to imagine...imagine a world where we all stood behind our education system. Imagine what school would look like?

Why do teachers fight every three or four years? It’s rarely for new or more. Lately it’s just been the struggle to preserve what is already there. If needed, the fight extends to reform. No doubt the system could upgrade to meet change - change in learning styles and needs of the ever-evolving population of young people. When new government steps up again and again to fire the first shot, the only thing teachers can do is stand up and fire back. If they don’t, those bullets hit terribly precious targets.

Doug Ford awarded his staff a 14% raise (https://www.queensparktoday.ca/deputy-ministers-get-14-per-cent-pay-bump) then approved the Ministry of Education in cutting back on teaching and support staff in schools. In the name of modern learning the Ministry wants to send vulnerable teens away from school to do e-courses. Instead of high-fiving friends, making fun of teachers and living in a real community of peers, they will be at home, alone. While schools bring in therapy dogs, set up greenhouses, and offer yoga and meditation classes at lunch to battle rising anxiety and depression, which takes time and manpower to implement, the education minister thinks it prudent to have fewer adults in our schools watching over kids and volunteering for these mental health initiatives.

What you give to schools, you give to kids. One less cell phone package, salary, or expense account for a Ministry of Ed staffer results in far less collateral damage. Maybe we could save a bundle on air conditioning in their offices the way we have saved on no air conditioning in the schools?

Before the end of the day, the snow pants were slid back on the drowsy young student and all the kids were packed up for their bus ride home. Mittens and agendas were tucked into bags and wheelchairs pushed out to buses. Another day of care and challenges laid to rest. It was hard not to notice that the end of day bustle was different from the morning. So many kids lingered. Some lay on the floors stretching, preparing for practice; small groups set up ping pong tables, instruments were being warmed up, paint brushes came out of cupboards, and annoyed students hung their heads and reluctantly walked to homework club. Others just hung around.

As I exited the building into better weather, I felt hopeful. The day had not been toxic. There was too much to do. Again the skies seemed strangely in sync - the slush was melting and the sun was winning the battle against the grey. I watched other staff get in their cars and pull out of the parking lot, heading home in daylight and in far less treacherous conditions than we had arrived. I was relieved my drive home would be less stressful. I lay my toque on the seat beside me and started up the ole mom-mobile. I no longer expected to crash into the Cat In The Hat but I couldn’t help but think of Dr. Seuss again.

“Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better, it’s not.”

Dr. Seuss.

I agree. I care about education and see profound moments that mean more than cheap beer. The system needs help and that won’t happen with less.

So let’s pull up our socks and open our eyes

It’s not the kids government cares about

It’s budget and size

Let kids play their games and teachers teach stuff

Just cancel a useless program and scale back on big gov’

No more fighting over basics, enough is enough

By Carol Sloan

Note: I have three children in school - both elementary and secondary level and they are split between two boards - Catholic and Public. I am a writer now but have 15 years experience as a full time educator. If I lost you today because our thoughts don’t align - I’ll miss you, but this is me.

Myselfthink.com , one of Toronto’s Top 50 Blogs - https://blog.feedspot.com/toronto_blogs/#

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Education - Unless Someone Cares