A story of dealing with violence in the classroom

By an anonymous BC teacher

Two years ago, I had just finished my master’s degree through SFU. I did many inquiries on inclusion and Universal Design for Learning, First Peoples Principles of Learning and reconciliation in the classroom, and BC’s Early Learning Framework. I felt like I was at the pinnacle of my career, ready to prove to myself and everyone around me that I had mastered how to support a diverse, inclusive Kindergarten program. Instead, I was confronted with the hardest group I have ever taught. 

I started my school year confidently. I wanted to be a strong leader; I wanted to be the one who could make inclusion successful. I spent the summer reflecting on the mistakes and successes from the past, and I nailed down my routines and expectations. When the students came, I used visuals and gestural language, had predictable routines, adapted and modified learning tasks, wrote individualized and group social stories, engaged and planned with my school-based team and education assistants (EAs). We had challenges, but I felt ready to meet the needs, and encouraged my classroom team that everything would be fine. Sure, we had a near-full class with about a quarter of the students having an IEP or awaiting diagnosis; multiple children requiring toileting; and several worker safety plans by the end of September, after multiple student-to-staff violence reports; but we would be fine. The hardest part was that there were also multiple daily student-to-student violent incidents, and I knew the students weren’t fine. Then I had to acknowledge that, actually, I wasn’t fine either. 

Early in the school year, I declared unsafe work. Since the start of the school year, I had been spat in the face, head-butted, scratched, bitten, slapped, kicked, and more. I had witnessed the same things happen to my students. After a morning of having my classroom destroyed, and witnessing some intense student-to-student violence, I took a break that I was provided due to my worker safety plans. I didn’t always take this break: I usually pushed forward instead of constantly interrupting my teaching day. I sat in our staff lounge and cried. I decided to start fresh after recess and try again. As I was counting the students in the line-up, I was attacked by a student. This broke me, and I went inside and declared unsafe work. I tried to return after the long weekend, then ended up taking two weeks off. I thought this would make a difference for me and my students’ working and learning conditions. It did not. 

I did not burn out. I was not exhausted — I was excited. I had tackled many complex classes, and I had the skills and mindset to do it again. What changed was the daily level of violence.

I returned, and nothing had changed. I tried to work just mornings because I was so excited about the potential of this school year. Despite being attacked, I cared about the children, I wanted them to succeed, and I valued the relationships I was building with them and their families. Then, when my WorkSafe claim was denied because they couldn’t see how my experience “was beyond the normal pressures of teaching Kindergarten” I wasn’t just broken, I was shattered. I couldn’t believe a provincial institution could say what was happening was okay. I went from hopeful to hopeless. I went from energized to wanting to lay in the dark and cry. It was sudden, and after years of powerful advocacy for my students, I felt powerless. 

I went through months of struggling with the guilt, the shame and blame of what happened. All I wanted was to be a good teacher, a teacher who could face anything, and who was respected by my colleagues and district. As many teachers do, I have perfectionist tendencies. Even though I could remember how confidently I started the year, I was still searching for something I could have done differently, struggling with what my colleagues must be thinking of me. Thinking, “I do self-care, I make sure I have baths, exercise, and spend time in nature — how could this have happened to me? How did I burn out?” I also couldn’t get over the anger and disappointment at what had been done to me and my students. With the support of the BCTF’s Health and Wellness Program, biweekly therapy sessions, and having a chance to catch up with my own needs, I was able to make progress and could gradually return to the classroom in the spring. 

The biggest epiphany I had, and why I have written this article, is to tell all teachers that if you are injured from your working conditions, that is not burn out. I did not burn out. I was not exhausted — I was excited. I had tackled many complex classes, and I had the skills and mindset to do it again. What changed was the daily level of violence. The shock of the lack of support to address this violence added to the injury. That wasn’t my fault. I wasn’t to blame. I did my job, but I was mentally injured at my workplace because of underfunded social systems. 

When a teacher injures themselves physically, it doesn’t take much to prove it, a doctor’s word is taken. But if we are mentally injured, somehow it falls on us to prove that the injury meets a certain threshold. WorkSafe is clear that workers sustaining violence in the workplace is unacceptable, and if a diagnosable mental disorder occurs from workplace stressors, that a worker’s lost wages are compensable. I met these criteria, but somehow my claim was denied. The burden of proving my injury fell on me, and I chose to appeal the decision. After months of doctor’s appointments, a WorkSafe psychological evaluation, and various processes with the help of the BCTF’s WorkSafe advocacy team, I won my appeal. This was extremely validating, and I once again felt like a warrior. The district was held accountable for creating my working conditions. Unfortunately, I found out the district is appealing it again, and I am currently awaiting the results of this appeal. 

I care about my students and their families and know they deserve to have their needs met. I value inclusion and want all students to thrive and succeed ... But, I need the proper support to do this.

What I want to make clear is what I wanted from all of this. I wanted the proper learning and working conditions to be created to support the students and the employees involved. I care about my students and their families and know they deserve to have their needs met. I value inclusion and want all students to thrive and succeed in their neighbourhood school. I love building relationships with my school community. But, I need the proper support to do this. Ideally, we would have more funding, more classrooms, more schools, more teachers, more specialists, more EAs, and I know this is a barrier. I don’t know what the answer is at the provincial level. I have ideas, but I’ve realized that isn’t my job. 

My job is to be a teacher to the students in my classroom, and a mother to my two children at home. As teachers we care so much, but I’ve decided to show that care by focusing on the advocacy I can still do. I can be the best teacher I can be with the supports that I do have. And my “best” doesn’t have to be an unattainable ideal, but what is actually possible. I thought I knew this, but I really needed the break to know, this is enough. I want all teachers to know it is okay to need a break. We have a hard job, and to do it well we need to make sure we are taken care of too. 

The Greater Victoria Teachers’ Association (GVTA) just released a report on violence in the classroom, and Minister of Education and Child Care Lisa Beare’s response was to encourage teachers to file for WorkSafe. I did that. And it is still being fought and appealed. I have had to radically accept that these conditions aren’t changing anytime soon. I had to radically accept that I can’t cure poverty, I can’t restructure government systems, and I can’t make others care about things the way I do. 

What I can do is let go of the need for external validation, and trust that I am a good teacher. I can continue to advocate for the needs of the students in my care and find strength and beauty in what we are able to achieve each day. I can take care of myself in meaningful ways instead of performative acts of self-care. I can build a work-life balance. I can do what is possible during my workday. And then, I will go home, cuddle my kids, and know I am raising future citizens that care about this world. This is enough.