I’m feeling more and more tension between my role as vice-principal, learning support teacher for Grades 1-4, and classroom teacher. It’s a high-wire act to balance the requirements for each; too much time on any and my preparedness for the others suffers.
A colleague came to me as vice-principal and advocated for another educational assistant. They feel the pressure of classroom management with a full room, and with students with exceptional needs. Except, there are no classrooms with “exceptional needs” because every room seems to have students with diagnoses which impact their learning, and trauma, English as a second language, and students who require behavioral supports. We live inclusion; every child matters and we don’t shelve the learning for any. Unfortunately, when I look at our matrix of educational assistants and classrooms, there are greater needs than there are people to support them.
There are 16.8 full-time (FTE) educational assistants in our building and two pre-kindergarten classes, five kindergartens, four grade 1, four grade 2, three grade 3, three grade 4, a grade 3/4 combined class, and three combined French Immersion classes. Pre-kindergarten and kindergarten students attend half time, but it works out that we are running the equivalent of 21.5 classrooms. On the surface, we appear to be a well-resourced school for staffing (and in many ways we are) with almost one educational assistant per classroom. However, there are some students who need 1-to-1 support because they are medically fragile or have severe learning or emotional needs.
One wall of my office is a large bulletin board. On it are the schedules of every educational assistant. We affectionately call it, “The Matrix”. I looked at the Matrix and couldn’t see any way to provide an additional educational assistant without impoverishing another group of children.
“Can you work within your team to find more support?” I asked.
“We’ve done that. Susan comes across the hall to my classroom for extra EA support when her class is at music or gym. These kids need more attention, and I’m not able to give it to them. It feels like I’m drowning.”
“I see how hard you are working, and I hear that you would like more support. I don’t have any other support to offer. We have complete confidence in your ability. Ask your team if they have any strategies or classroom routines that would work for your class.” It’s like we are having two distinct conversations. She’s calling out, “HELP! I can’t do this!” and I’m saying, “It’s okay. You’ll be alright.” She goes away in tears. I feel like garbage, because I’ve been in her shoes and heard the same kinds of trite truisms. It will get better. You’ll be okay. We have faith in you. Maybe she will be okay. In the meantime, I’m watching her implode as she loses sleep and feels helpless in her classroom.
She goes away in tears. I feel like garbage, because I’ve been in her shoes and heard the same kinds of trite truisms. It will get better. You’ll be okay. We have faith in you.
The overcast sky the next morning matched my gloomy countenance the next morning. I drive sixty-five kilometers to work. That’s not uncommon in rural Alberta. I pulled on to the highway and came up behind a tandem tanker truck. I desperately wanted to overtake him, but the wash from his trailer and the spray from the wheels on the wet highway coated my windshield in brackish water and I couldn’t see into the oncoming lane. I felt my frustration mounting and the tightness in my chest. It was an impossible situation; I was stuck going slower than I would like and yet unable to pass because it was unsafe. I let myself become more and more irate with each moment behind the tanker.
After a few agonizing minutes, the oncoming lane appeared clear and I quickly moved around the truck. As soon I was clear of the spray, I could see both lanes ahead of me we deliriously clear. Not only was the way open, but as soon as I had overtaken the truck, I could see how beautiful the reflection on of the sky on the wet road was. I took note of the brush-strokes of rain draped from distant clouds, and the pink of morning light breaking over the horizon.
Why was I so frustrated with the truck? I thought. Maybe it was because I couldn’t see any way past it. I had stuck thinking. The truck became a metaphor for my work situation. What blinders do I have on to the staffing needs? I know that with time, the students will learn routines and build skills to work in classrooms, but at the moment things seem pretty daunting.
I shared this revelation with my administration partner. I couldn’t ask for a better principal to work with. She listened keenly as I expounded my roadside revelation and kindly accepted it, without commenting that perhaps more sleep and less coffee would be in my best interest.
We talked through the classroom support situation and decided that the best thing is to take some pressure off of the teacher. If any staff member is overwhelmed to the point that their health compromised, we are placing productivity above their capacity to keep producing – in this case providing a safe and welcoming learning environment. We’ll likely have to go into the school financial reserves. I’m not sure if a greater need is coming, but at the moment, it seems like the best choice to help a colleague see the open road ahead.
