Today, I found myself waiting outside the principal’s office in tears for the second time in my life. The first time, I was in fourth grade. After finishing my classwork, I would talk to students around me. Regardless of where my teacher moved me, I seemed to have an insatiable appetite for talking to my peers. When my teacher’s patience waned, for which I cannot fault her, sweet Ms. Sebring sent me to the principal’s office. For some time, I stared at my plaid polyester uniform in anticipation. Fear and shame wrestled inside of me like two bloodthirsty beasts. I don’t know which was worse—Ms. Holy’s long, wooden paddle or the disapproving look etched on her face. I got swats, after which I never got in trouble at school again. That is how we rolled back then.

Flash forward nearly five decades. The difference extends far beyond the silver streaks in my brunette locks and the lack of plaid pleats. This time, I was not sent to the principal’s office—I fled to the principal’s office.

Early in my teaching career, children incapable of accepting accountability for their actions were the exception—not the rule—and their efforts were relatively benign, while their parents tended to be reasonably supportive. Within the last few years, however, the paradigm has shifted. As the number of students who struggle with owning their part began to rise, another phenomenon gained momentum—resorting to abusive tactics in an effort to avoid accountability at all costs. 

As a survivor of domestic violence, I recognize abusive tactics such as blame shifting, gaslighting, and harassing when I see them. In recent years, their foray into my professional life has been perplexing at best. For someone diagnosed with complex PTSD, they are downright triggering.

I worked hard to learn to overcome the effects of previous trauma, cope with triggers, and refuse to tolerate unacceptable behavior in my personal life. Rising up in resistance in the professional realm, however, is trickier to navigate. And the apples do not fall from the trees these days. Typically, when I encounter a child clinging to victimhood at all costs, a parent lurks in the shadows like a copperhead waiting to strike.

That was the case today. A young man refused to leave my classroom, refused to stop attempting to argue long after I quit participating in the conversation. No matter how many times I told him to leave, no matter how many times I told him to wait until we could conduct a conversation with an administrator and his mother present—as she requested (demanded?) in her emails this morning—he stood in my classroom during lunchtime, attempting to wear me down. He rationalized, justified, minimized, and flat out denied his behavior, all the while demanding that I explain myself. Ultimately, he called his mother and tried to force a conversation with her in the moment, claiming I told him to do so. I stared at the phone in his hand, envisioning the woman on the other end of the line. The woman who has made it clear she believes I am the problem—not her son. I felt harassed and outnumbered.

“I told you I am not doing this with you right now,” I said as I walked out of my classroom and headed toward the front office. When I reached the seat outside of the principals’ offices, I plopped down and felt the magnitude of the moment. Despite my best efforts, tears leaked down my freckled cheeks.

I wish I could say this was a one-time occurrence, that I had not experienced harassment at the hands of students and their parents previously. Sadly, this is the third school year I have encountered such bad behavior. 

It is age appropriate for children to struggle with accepting accountability. It is my job to facilitate this, and I have patience with students enduring this struggle—even eighth- and ninth-graders. But when parents perpetuate bad behavior and engage in it, my patience wanes. 

I spoke with three different principals today. Each one was compassionate, encouraging, and supportive. I know how fortunate I am. Nevertheless, today was one of those days that makes me question why I remain in education. Despite all of the challenges educators face, if I ever decide to leave the profession, it will be because of dysfunctional dynamics invading my workspace—the ripple effect of parents whose toxic tendencies trigger me.