Divergent Learning Diaries

Many parents dread the trials of the secondary school subject teacher evening. They are crowded, logistically challenging stress fests for anyone.  Add the ND dynamic and it’s a recipe for trauma.  

Running the subject teacher gauntlet with same-aged siblings is an even bigger nightmare although, on this occasion I wasn’t challenged by the twin dynamic where I need to juggle appointments for both children not really knowing who was whose teacher.  Since Patti had not been in attendance due to poor mental health (exacerbated by multiple school based traumas, of course) I just needed to attend the dreaded event with one twin.

The event will replay in my head for a while I suspect.  With it being (as is typical) at the end of the long school day Joni had long lost the effects of her ADHD tablet.  I told her she didn’t need to attend but she wanted to see all her ‘friends’ so she joined me.  Her form tutor had chirpily advised all students to join their parents to engage in the learning conversations that would help  them with their progress.  So she came.

The minute we stepped in we were both on edge.  We walked past the welcoming committee of senior teachers who smiled and said ‘hi’ because they all knew me from various suspension meetings.  We headed to her first teacher, a humanities subject, and she said she couldn’t speak to this teacher so began her trademark pacing in circles on the balls of her feet around the perimeter of the school hall (the echoey room we were in for added ND overwhelm).  Instantly I could see the divide between her and her peer group.  And it smarted.  However, I proceeded to the queue and waited my turn to see this first teacher.  

Unfortunately this appointment was the most traumatic and sadly set the tone for the evening.  Her teacher thought it was a shame that there was so much lost potential, that she was lucky she was ‘bright’ as otherwise her work would be way below expected for her age and that she was probably in the wrong type of class.  ‘

What do you mean?’ I asked, confused.

‘I mean she could just do with a smaller teaching group.’ She responded looking slightly nervous about where she was going with this.

‘Oh, great,’ I replied, ‘Is that possible then?’

‘Oh, no.  Not here.’ She said

Stunned, I realised she had inadvertently tripped herself into suggesting that Joni shouldn’t have been in the school at all.  That was the first appointment for my ‘bright’ child who quite frankly, despite her difficulties is doing ok cognitively and would never qualify for funding to access a smaller setting.  I reported this in terse terms and from that point the conversation was only going one way.  

This was followed by a science teacher who said her behaviours were at times ‘annoying’ to her peers and since she was in a ‘top set’ these were the type of students who wouldn’t (or shouldn’t) have to put up with some of her calling out the answers and her Maths teacher who agreed that she was able to be in a higher academic group but couldn’t explain why her department refused to put her there. (I think I have a good idea why not).  Then, another humanities teacher who said he couldn’t really have her in class often as she was immature around sensitive information and didn’t always find the ‘appropriate’ responses.  

Maybe I am being exceptionally sensitive here, I have become more so since realising my children are autistic and seeing them flounder so frequently is incredibly hard.  I was just not as prepared as I should have been by the extent to which the adults around Joni just didn’t ‘get’ her in the way she needed them to in order for her to thrive and learn alongside her peers.

At this point in the evening Joni was still pacing around the edge of the hall, occasionally and randomly calling out impulsively.  The behaviour of a 12 year old comfortable in her surroundings?  Not really.

Similar experiences followed and Joni didn’t join me for any of these conversations, clearly dysregulated by the experience and probably acutely aware that she did not have relationships with these professionals responsible for her education, learning and development.

Fortunately, this isn’t a tale of total doom and gloom.  Joni joined me for the final two appointments, demonstrating that she had managed to develop a connection with her PE and Spanish teachers.  Her PE teacher smiled throughout the appointment, stifling a giggle, he obviously found Joni’s quirks amusing (they often are!) but it was her Spanish teacher that rescued the evening.  

Well actually, she demonstrated connection, empathy and compassion for a child who is quite clearly a fish out of water, who faces barriers to connecting within this huge community and a daily dose of sensory overwhelm that is clearly disorientating and disabling  (flashback to the pacing and talking out loud).  Anyway, this sensitive and perceptive human loved being Joni’s teacher and found potential.  She had also offered her extra lessons in her own time (Joni had to drop French because the teacher found her difficult) to teach her even more Spanish.  She was going to make her the Spanish speaking champion of her year group!

So leaving school that evening was on a higher note. Humanity had prevailed but in honesty we were both delighted to escape the heaving mass of teenagers and their parents.  

I spent a while considering our experience.  My child and the nature of her significant needs were not understood by the majority of the adults who were responsible for her during the day.  They simply didn’t get her.  Not only did they not get her, they didn’t seem to have any desire to do so (with the definite exception of PE and Spanish!)  This meant that already, in Year 8 an intelligent child was losing access to the complete curriculum that the majority of her peers were fully enjoying as she was being quite frequently sent to the quiet space for SEND students.

As the head of a secondary school, who too frequently receives concerns and cries of dissatisfaction from parents of similarly challenged children, I have reflected hard on how my gut wrenching experience has likely been replicated in my own school on many occasions.  This whole episode stopped me in my tracks.  As did the awful reflection that as a subject teacher of hundreds of children, many with significant or acute needs I had probably wrong footed when giving feedback that may have niggled or upset parents who were too polite to say so.  

That evening was an emotionally painful experience and I say this without any hint of hyperbole.  It was clear that the majority of her teachers knew her needs but found her an annoyance  because she doesn’t fit the norm and presumably requires more effort to get through a lesson.  I get how tough the working day as a teacher can be but the feeling that your child isn’t really understood (or is  quite disliked) by those who should be championing her still bothers me now.  I’m a realist who understands that excellent schools are striving for the creation of learning environments that support the educational experience of all learners and the unpredictable nature of the ND child can pose a challenge to this in classrooms.  But how can it be that some teachers can create the climate where children like Joni can thrive and others still see them as a nuisance?

We’ve all got such a long way to go and a lot of work to do but we can start by being kind.  And our next step could involve listening and patience.   And the next few steps must involve high quality training for all adults who engage with young people. Because my child, my fabulous, smart, unique gift of a human was not and is not seen by those who are supposed to inspire and champion her.  I don’t hold any individuals responsible but as a collective we must, must, must do better. 

The Autism Education Trust are midway through presenting a statutory 5 hours of training to school teachers in the UK.  It’s good quality stuff and therefore teachers who I work with are engaging well with it.  But translating learning into practice takes time and genuine empathy for the daily challenges of neurodiverse children and teens is a requirement (and is sadly just not inherent in all teaching professionals, particularly in Secondary Schools).  Neurodiversity training for teachers and school staff must be part of a regular training cycle and opportunities to engage with a range of neurodiverse voices, advocates and experts must be a regular part of that experience.  If the estimation that 20% of the population is correct, that’s a lot of school students and their parents relying on the rapid evolution of a much more inclusive and obviously welcoming environment for their ND children.

And for those teachers and schools staff who are still developing these skills I’d suggest some really easy hacks that will help you cement the trust of an ND young person really quickly:

#1 Tell them how much you have been looking forward to having them in your lesson that day (specifically them)

#2 Tell them whenever you can how important their contributions are (specifically them, in public and private, as often as you can)

#3 Try to find a quiet time without any observers to talk through any inappropriate behaviours and suggest alternatives that you can try together

I recognise that these suggestions will seem simple enough to sound patronising to the seasoned education professional but I can’t underscore how much of a difference these simple boosts can make.  While such positive reinforcements will motivate all children, not just those with additional needs, it’s important to remember ND children are already on the backfoot the minute they set foot in the sprawling complex environment that is the mainstream secondary school. I see the most challenging behaviours in my ND daughters when they feel unsafe or that they aren’t quite getting it right and are standing out from the norm. Kindness and being overly positive is everything to them and helps them feel that its safe to be themselves in your company

Oh, as a final note, half a term after this subject evening, Joni changed Spanish groups and will no longer be taught by the teacher who invested so much in her.  

That final silver lining of that particular evening sadly lost its shine.

Thanks for reading.

Louise