A few weeks ago a colleague and I were invited to join an online streaming event where James, (not his real name) a former student of ours, was presenting from Scandinavia on his experience of the UK education system.
James is now 25 years old, he is a skilled and experienced professional in youth work and, when asked to he shares with education leaders, his first-hand expertise in the importance of trauma-informed practice. On this occasion James was presenting his story to an international audience of professionals – he exuded passion and authority. James described a childhood filled with trauma and abuse upon trauma and abuse, and a mainstream education system which did not understand or tolerate his ‘problematic behaviour’.
This presentation was the first time James had spoken publicly about the sexual, physical and emotional abuse inflicted on him as a young child and the additional trauma he experienced through multiple premature bereavements; he wept at times as he spoke as, I suspect, did most of those present and tuning in. My colleague and I both wept – she was in a park, viewing on her phone as her children played, I was at home in front of the laptop; we texted each other, as we watched, marvelling at the strength and power of what we were witnessing and the hugely imposing man our ex-student has become.
James spoke about feeling let down in mainstream education from which he was excluded by Year 8; he spoke about the difference made by the (at the time unregistered) alternative provision he was eventually referred to – run by the organisation my colleague and I were working with. James said he learned to feel safe to experience his pain and anger without fear of additional rejection; he said learned to trust and be trusted and began to believe in his own value and ability. He didn’t mention what he learned about Maths or English (though he did achieve qualifications in them). What was important in James’ experience there were the authentic relationships he built with teachers, mentors, administrators, managers and other students. It was the warmth of community at the AP which made a difference to James, and that was based on a social pedagogic philosophy which favours relationship building, coming alongside students and creating good outcomes with, rather than for them.
James’ was not a straightforward journey at the AP– it’s legend among all of us who were there that in the early days after James’ referral to us he spent large parts of his school day sleeping across soft chairs in the kitchen. There was at least one incident when James felt cornered in an office and lashed out at an internal window, the glass shattering. As a team we later reflected that we had not managed that situation well – by having what was a predictably triggering conversation in a small room where James did not have a clear exit route we did not meet his needs properly, and should have planned things better.
James has always been an immensely impressive person, his strength, resilience and his capacity to give to others have always been inspiring, his sense of humour and fun are always present and he remains a great person to spend time with. There were times in James’ childhood where mainstream systems made it difficult for those working in them to recognise these qualities in him, even when the trauma he was suffering was well known to them. As an AP for children with SEMH difficulties It was our responsibility to create an environment where the emotional and physical needs of students could be well met. We did this through a holistic ‘head, heart and hands’ approach where authentic relationships can enable children to understand their value and the agency they have in their lives.[1] James used the support on offer, along with his own talents and qualities, to produce outcomes for himself which couldn’t’ have been imagined at the schools from which he had been excluded.
I’m privileged to have been involved in James’ education in a setting which could respond to his needs. These days I’m also privileged to call him a friend.
[1] This is a term used in social pedagogy, see, for example Hatton, Kieron, Social Pedagogy in the UK, Lyme Regis, 2013, passim.
