A Love Letter to the Forgotten

Photo by Richard Stachmann on Unsplash

The sky looked heavy that day—low, gray, unsettled. It hung with the weight of something it hadn’t yet decided to release.

I was standing in a third-grade classroom that smelled faintly of pencil shavings and freshly waxed tile. The kind of space designed with soft hands and softer hope, adorned with colorful paper lanterns, vibrant alphabet rugs, and beanbags sagging with trust. People who still believed in the gentleness of childhood created this room.

They had never encountered trauma like a surprise in Velcro shoes. They had never seen what clenched fists can hold at eight years old.

He didn’t scream.
He didn’t cry.
He didn’t threaten.

He simply raised a loaded .357 Magnum and pointed it at my face. Three inches from my nose.
Third grade.
Hollow eyes.
Steady hands.

No panic. No theatrics. Just stillness.

Someone had taught him that survival meant preemptive violence.
“If the world’s going to hurt you,” his uncle told him, “get there first.”

And he believed him.

I didn’t react the way they train you to.
I just stood there, heart pounding—not from fear, but from something I couldn’t unsee.
Recognition.

I had seen that look before, in a mirror. At the same age.

What no training manual can adequately prepare you for is the scenario in which a child arrives with the same ghosts as you. When the turmoil they introduce into the space echoes your childhood back to you.

When I started this work, it didn’t have a title.
There were no instructions.
No flowcharts.

Schools didn’t know what to do with children who had lived more by age eight than most adults do in a lifetime. So they punished them. Removed them. Warehouse-style special ed rooms with flickering lights and packets of busywork. Places where hope went to die quietly.

And then the phone started ringing.

“Well, no one else will take him…”
“She’s been through things we can’t handle…”
“There was an incident…”

They called me.

At first, I was a behavior specialist. But that title fell apart quickly. I became whatever the moment demanded: crisis responder, counselor, surrogate parent, translator of trauma. I had not only witnessed the storm; I had weathered it, growing up in its midst.

I was aware of the impact of adults who loved you one day and then disappeared the next.
I would jump at the sound of slammed doors, not because they were loud, but because they weren't supposed to be that loud.

I used to wear my pain like armor. Now I used it like a key.

And I stayed.

For forty years, I stayed.

You wouldn’t have found my name on a school website. There were no glossy staff photos, no inspirational quotes in my classroom. The kids I taught didn’t make the honor roll. They made court appearances.

They ran.
They hid guns in their locker.
They stole cars before they had learner’s permits.
They curled up in dumpsters.
They whispered about their abuse as if it were unfinished homework.

Some carved their skin with Bic pens while the rest of the class reviewed fractions. Some watched their fathers overdose in rooms that reeked of urine and despair. Others stared through me with eyes that begged, Don’t you dare pity me.

And I didn’t.
I honored them.

Because they were still here.
Still breathing.
Still trying.
Still daring to trust someone enough to stay.

They were brilliant.
And broken.
Hilarious.
And human.

Some made it. Some didn’t. I carry every one of them.

The girl who danced in strip clubs under a fake ID—chasing rent money instead of a diploma.
The boy who once whispered, “I still hear your voice when I’m close to the edge.”
The graduate who leaned in quietly and said, “I didn’t think I’d live this long.”
The teenager who signed a $50 million NFL contract, now playing under stadium lights.
The 14-year-old who took his mother’s life—and now spends his own behind bars.

These weren’t horror stories.

They were my Tuesdays.

What scared me most? Never the kids.

It was the denial.

The system didn’t see them.
The adults dismissed them.
The leadership sanitized them.

I brought a suicide note to a principal. He told me, “She’s just seeking attention.”
I reported a weapon. The school resource officer laughed and said, “He’s just fat and bored.”
I triggered alarms, and HR summoned me to inquire whether I was escalating the situation or being overly dramatic.

And then a shooting would make the news. A viral video would surface. A teacher would be hurt.
And we’d all act shocked.

But we weren’t shocked.
We were silent.

We watched the warnings pile up like kindling. And then we struck the match with our indifference.

Most of my students were bullies.
Most were victims.
Most were both.

They didn’t need saviors.
They needed anchors.

They needed someone who saw the damage and the dignity—and refused to look away.
Not another lecture. Not more shame. No more judgment or hidden agendas. Just someone to say:

“I see you. I expect more. And I will always be here.”

The system subjected them to constant surveillance, unwarranted suspensions, and pervasive suspicion.
I gave them eye contact. Boundaries. Truth.

Permission to be both furious and worthy.

I never tried to fix them.
I just kept showing up.

The development of anger takes time, brewing in moments of silence, fueled by unaddressed emotions, and often stemming from unresolved trauma.
It germinates in silence.
It flourishes in homes where shame is the main course and grief is the wallpaper.
It begins with the first sting of betrayal, a pain left unacknowledged, festering in the shadows of silence and denial.
Or the hundredth.

I’ve seen trauma harden into cruelty.
Grief rot into rage.
Shame turn hands into weapons.

These weren’t bad kids.
They were kids who had never been safe. Or loved. Or respected. Or wanted.

And no new initiative, policy, or protocol will change the outcome until we’re willing to tell that truth—unflinching, uncomfortable, whole.

I carry every one of them with me.

The funeral programs.
The psych hold records.
The juvenile court transcripts.
The ones who made it.
The ones who didn’t.

And I carry the meetings. The ones where I was told to lower my expectations. Or leave.

I also carry the teachers—the few who were stubborn, rare, and fierce, and who remained in the rooms that no one discussed. Who still do.

I’m writing this now because we are still failing these children.

Yes—some schools remain sanctuaries.
But far too many have become battlegrounds, where safety is fragile and survival is a daily negotiation.

We hand educators a lanyard and a whiteboard, then expect them to heal generational trauma with checklists and broken systems.
We draft IEPs with lofty goals but no resources, no time, and no room for the messy, complicated truth of what these kids carry.

We label them faster than we listen.
We diagnose them before we know their names.
We punish the symptoms while ignoring the wounds.

And then we act surprised when the pain erupts—loud, raw, and public.

But we shouldn’t be shocked.
The ones we fear most have been sending signals for years—loud, clear, and ignored.

The most dangerous student I ever met wasn’t a monster.
He was a message.

And we are still pretending not to hear.

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