Light for a Fall semester, but thank goodness, because there was so much going on in my personal life, that fitting anything else in would have been impossible 🙃
September 18 – Niagara University, Dr. Dana Radatz Criminal Justice Domestic Violence class
October 15 – Ferguson Home EmpowHER Corporate Training
November 25 – University at Buffalo, Dr. Rob Keefe Theories of Human Behavior & Development class
December 3 – CalState University Sacramento, Dr. Danielle Slakoff Domestic Crime & Violence class
Abusers don’t target everyone in their life; this is something that those who work in the field of intimate partner violence know to be true. Friends, family, neighbors and co-workers of an abuser are often times treated with dignity and respect, all while the abuser is systematically and brutally victimizing their intimate partner. And yet more often than not, victims and survivors are faced with shock and denial when they confide stories of abuse. The perpetrator is frequently known to be a nice guy. A good friend. Great at his job. Charming. Friendly. Honest.
O.K. But isn’t it also possible that there’s another version of him; one that only his wife or girlfriend gets to see?
Let me tell you a story: The year was 2000. I was working as a shift manager at a Pizza Hut. One of our cooks was a college kid who was doing an internship at a local elementary school. He frequently talked about it while he worked, and always had a new tale to tell. The stories mostly involved the teacher he’d been assigned to work with. Recently divorced, the teacher had two small daughters and spared no detail about what his crazy ex-wife was putting them all through. The abuse. The lies. The squandering of resources. His ex was a shameless alcoholic; a whore who had what amounted to a revolving door on her bedroom. More than once, The Kid expressed how sorry he felt for the guy. I listened for weeks, saying nothing. Then one afternoon, after a particularly cringe-worthy accounting, I decided to speak up.
“Has this guy ever mentioned his daughters’ names?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he replied, while sweeping a bit of mozzarella cheese out from under the make-table. “Anna Claire and Grace.”
The cook that was working the line froze. The girl that was on cash turned around; her mouth hung open in disbelief. “Do you know what my daughter’s names are?” I asked calmly. He’d felt the vibe in the kitchen shift and was suddenly standing very still, broom poised mid-sweep. When he shook his head no, I replied, “Anna Claire and Grace.”
The conversation that followed was a difficult one. The Kid was the only one on crew who hadn’t been privy to what I’d been through with Dorian. Because of this, he was unaware that Pizza Hut had sheltered me when I’d run away from home with my daughters. He didn’t know that the management team had made sure that I was still able to work while I lived in hiding, giving me an assumed name and putting together a safety plan at a unit miles away from where I’d lived.
The reality was that the company was still sheltering me. Because Dorian had been aggressive with me immediately following the divorce, there were still safety concerns. It had been decided that I would work at yet another unit a few days a week, in order to keep Dorian guessing. If he never knew where I was, it would be harder for him to continue to stalk and harass me.
When The Kid apologized, I told him not to worry about it; there was no way he could have known that Dorian was talking about me. When he asked if he ought to mention to his professor that a guy like Dorian was working with special needs kids, I told him to follow his heart. I honestly didn’t think that anyone would care. Not at a standard, run of the mill school; not at The Stanley G. Falk School, which is run by Erie County Child and Family Services. I was accustomed to skepticism surrounding my accounts of abuse; of people believing Dorian when he lied and said that I had been – and still was – the real problem.
I don’t know if The Kid ever alerted his professor, but I can tell you that Dorian continued to work at The Falk School for several more years. While I cannot say for certain whether or not he gossiped about me to any of his other co-workers, it’s probably safe to say that anyone who worked with him would have thought that I was an absolute monster. Perhaps I would have thought the same, if I’d been in their position. Because honestly, why would someone who was so seemingly dedicated to children lie about such things?
It’s always during this time of year that I urge my readers to take a moment to consider the language they might use should someone close to them disclose that they’re being abused. My advice is always to let victims and survivors know that we believe them; that what happened to them is not their fault and that there is help available. This month, though, I’m also asking you to take careful stock the next time you hear someone talking about his “crazy” ex-partner. Even if you know that guy to be a nice person. Even if he’s highly educated or works in a helping profession. Even if you think you know him, inside and out. I’m also asking you to question whether or not his ex-partner is truly “crazy”, or if there’s a chance that she’s simply reacting in a way that’s completely normal for someone who’s being abused. I’m asking you to do something that’s not commonplace, though it should be: to err on the side of caution, and believe the victim.
The first time I left teaching was in the late nineties. I had a young daughter and one on the way, and it made more financial sense for me to quit than to pay for daycare for two. Leaving a job that I loved was heartbreaking, but I held out hope that someday, I might return.
More than two decades later, I was finally in a position to do just that. I couldn’t have been happier. Unfortunately, within the first three weeks, I was hit, punched and scratched by two “difficult” children. One bit my assistant. I had chairs thrown at me, instructional materials destroyed and whole shelves cleared by children in fits of rage. I was called an idiot, a bitch, and worse. I was threatened, as were my assistant teachers and the other children. I once had to have an assistant gather my children into a corner of the classroom so that they wouldn’t accidentally be injured by their raging classmate.
No, this wasn’t high school; it was PreK. And I wasn’t teaching four and five-year-olds in some run-down facility in an urban setting, as some might assume. This franchised facility is located in the suburbs and stocked with enough toys and educational materials to serve five centers. Nutritious meals and snacks are served daily. Beautiful outdoor play areas are at every teacher’s disposal. Daily yoga instruction is written into the curriculum.
When I went to administration for help, I was met with a shrug and told that nothing could be done. When I suggested that we speak to the children’s parents, perhaps recommend therapeutic intervention, administration recoiled. I was told that the parents had been spoken to numerous times. When I suggested that we speak to them again, I was told that while I certainly could, it probably wouldn’t make any difference. Besides, the children in question were both moving on to kindergarten in the fall; we just had to wait it out.
I was stunned by the apathy of the administration, as well their complete disregard for the wellbeing of the remainder of my children. The stress of being in that classroom every day had some clinging to their parents at morning drop-off. The “difficult” children’s emotional outbursts during mealtimes had some classmates plugging their ears, while others simply dissolved into tears. One student started wetting again during naptime. Others began acting out in kind, mirroring the behavior of their out-of-control classmates. In the end, I knew that I could not be part of an organization that put profits over the well-being of children. I only lasted three weeks before I gave my written notice.
There are educators with advanced degrees who run classrooms that are specifically set up for students with behavioral issues, but we were not. While my “difficult” children were grossly disserved because of this, all of my other children ended up being disserved, as well, as a result of that untenable situation.
I’ve read probably a dozen articles about why so many educators are leaving the classroom. I remember asking myself if it could really be as bad as people were making it out to be. I’m here to tell you that it’s so much worse. There’s not enough money in the world to offer an educator to endure physical and verbal abuse every day, especially after looking at us like we’re asking too much when we seek out remedy. Insufficient parenting is loud. Trauma is louder. Apathy on the part of administrators is loudest of all, and it’s turning into the soundtrack of our swan song.
Linda Dynel 