If you’re not a teacher, you have no idea how bad it is right now

3 a.m., early October. I’m lying in my bed praying for help.

It is my first-year teaching in Oakland Unified School District, but I’ve spent four years teaching in private schools to prepare, because I believe deeply in integrated public schools. When I started in the district, I already had strong professional skills as well as a strong self-care routine.

Because of my experience I also knew what I was looking for in a school and found it. I thought I was ready.

What I didn’t know before starting was the district had been mismanaging the school for years. Almost half the staff left the prior year. Still, we were hopeful that this year we would turn the school around.

Less than a week before school started, the district told us we would not be getting a second first-grade teacher. I would have 28 students — the state maximum for first grade.

School leadership looked at me with worry in their eyes. I looked back confidently. “The start of the school year always feels uncertain,” I said. “I have good behavior management. I got this.”

After the first day, I was in tears. I rearranged my entire classroom — putting in all the highly restrictive group management systems we intentionally avoided in private school. I had hoped to instill the same sense of agency in public school as I had in private, but 28 kids are too many for that level of freedom.

And these 28 students came from two kindergarten classes without consistent teachers. One teacher had quit midyear, and her class was on day-to-day subs for three months. The other suffered chronic health issues due to stress, was out often, and quit teaching at the end of the year.

I spent the first few weeks focused on students’ social and emotional skills. We expanded our emotional vocabulary from “happy, sad, mad” to over 15 different emotion words.

I talked to last year’s staff to learn more about my students. Last year there were daily fist fights, and students had destroyed the classroom almost every day.

Now in first grade, my students came to school ready to defend themselves against each other, either by running away, clinging to the teacher or getting in the first shove.

The school’s only academic mentor, Ms. R., came to my room the first week to help. She had worked there for a decade, and her presence made a big difference. When a kid suddenly began
to scream (and I do mean scream) “f— you. Everybody is stupid,” she was able to take him out
of the class, so the rest of the students didn’t become dysregulated as well.

At the end of the first two weeks Ms. R. confided, “I didn’t think you were going to make it this long.” I looked her dead in the eye and said, “I’m here to stay.”

Parents approached me the first week offering help. They told me about last year — how unsafe it had been. I did my best to reassure them. They expressed gratitude and reiterated that if I needed anything, they would help.

The class began to settle and learn fundamental kindergarten skills like listening and lining up.

But there were still four students exhibiting extremely unsafe behavior — getting in physical fights and running out of the classroom.

One day, they joined forces and destroyed the classroom.

Leadership tried to help. A veteran teacher offered to do a demonstration lesson for me in my classroom. At the end she said, “You’ve got your hands full. Seems like you’re doing a great job.” She didn’t offer to demonstrate again.

As the year continued, Ms. R. started to get pulled away to support other struggling classrooms. We began to slide backwards. When a student climbed onto the desk and kicked another student in the face, without Ms. R. there to remove him, I had to stop everything to go speak with him and keep the other students safe. Events like this were not uncommon.

I taught them about the “quiet, safe place” tool — put your heads down and imagine you’re in a quiet, safe place. When one of the violent students began to get dysregulated, I would call out, “Go to your quiet, safe place” and the entire class would put their heads down and cover their ears (effectively dropping into a safety position).

One day when I was out of the room for training for 30 minutes, a student jumped up and attacked anyone he could. I spent hours calling families to explain how their child got kicked in the head, punched in the stomach or had their hair pulled out. The families were incredibly understanding, but they needed to do something to help.

They wrote a letter to the school district, arguing that the district had so badly mismanaged the school that they now needed to repair the damage. They requested an aide for the classroom. The district sent a one-line “thank you for your email. We’ll be in touch.” They never did get back in touch.

I started talking with the other teachers. They were all amazed that I had stayed, let alone made any progress with the group. One veteran teacher said, “You absolutely have the hardest class, and the largest. They need to give you more support.” I used these opportunities to mention Ms. R. and ask if they’d give up her time in their class to help in mine They agreed. Ms. R.was now in my room for most of the day.

The class was getting back on track, but I was still under enormous stress.

I worked 10 or 11 hours a day on a contract that only paid me for eight. Between 8:30 a.m. and 2:45 p.m., my students and I spent the day in a loud, unpredictable, and often unsafe place. Adrenaline and cortisol coursed through my veins by the gallon.

My sleep suffered along with my mental and physical health. When family and friends expressed concern, I replied, “This is the hill I’m willing to die on.”

I had just three or four students who continued to be disruptive. One day a little boy pinned a girl against the wall and punched her in the head multiple times.

Every day, I spent hours on the phone or in the parking lot, talking to families. They were so respectful and responsive. They made an incredible difference in the students’ behaviors.

Despite my success, my partner continued to worry about me. Every day, I came home and cried in his arms from exhaustion and frustration. I often woke up sobbing in the middle of the night.

Other teachers and staff began to comment on the progress we were making. A behaviorist came into observe and had no suggestions — only compliments.  

Positive feedback helped me stay positive and empowered. Despite exhaustion and stress impacting my physical health, I was making a difference.

One day, I realized that I had enjoyed the morning’s lesson. Although I was beginning to find joy in my job again, I was drained. Chronic pain was returning.

Thus, I found myself praying in bed at 3 a.m. in early October.

The next day, my principal called me into her office. She told me that the school was underenrolled and being consolidated by the district. As the teacher who signed their contract last, I had one week to choose another school and transfer to another classroom that had (once again) been on day-to-day subs for months.

I went through all the stages of grief, from denial — I won’t go, to anger — they can’t make me, to acceptance.

The first week at my new school, I came down with strep throat. Since October, I have had strep throat twice, RSV, a bacterial sinus infection, and a viral cough. The stress of teaching in Oalkand Unified has destroyed my immune system.

My story is not unusual. Teaching in our schools is hard, and it’s getting harder. We cannot continue to ask more and more of our teachers — this approach has caused a mass exodus from the profession. We have to start supporting teachers. Supporting teachers is supporting students. I know; I’ve spent my year witnessing how teacher burn-out traumatizes students.

•••

Kira Billman is a teacher in Oakland Unified School District.

The opinions expressed in this piece represent those of the author. EdSource welcomes commentaries representing diverse points of view. If you would like to submit a commentary, please review our guidelines and contact us.