I’m a writer. As a general rule, I write in silence. I find it impossible to pour my thoughts out onto paper when I am surrounded by noise—not even soft music playing in the background. Life would certainly be easier if my pen and I could function harmoniously while the noise of the world carried on around me, but the reality is that noise distracts me, taking my mind off my work. I need quiet for my thoughts to flow and peace to write them down.
My son harbors the same need, but unlike me, he doesn’t have any control over his working environment. He sits in a classroom with nearly 30 other children. He has to focus on his sums, read instructions, and complete tasks while all around him his classmates chatter with or whisper to each other, shuffle around, drop things, consult with the teacher, or demonstratively vie for his attention.
My son is distracted by this classroom noise, and he loses his train of thought; his concentration ebbs. His frustration builds because he’s a conscientious student who cannot meet his own high expectations. The level of the work is within his reach; the quiet he needs to concentrate is not. He falls behind on his tasks. He shuts down. And he says nothing to his teacher. He feels helpless. He feels inadequate. He feels like a failure. His self-esteem is quashed. But he stays quiet.
Quiet doesn’t mean he’s okay.
Other children draw attention to themselves like magnets with their noise and disruptive behavior. Teachers have no choice but to react. Quiet children, like my son, fade away in classrooms all over the world. Children like my son feel lost in the learning spaces filled with chatter, fidgeting, and distractions—the very environments that are set up to nurture them and help them blossom. Their learning is impeded. Bright students doubt themselves. Enthusiastic pupils lose their hunger to learn.
There are no tell-tale signs on my child’s face that he is struggling. His head is down, and from the outside, he seems focused as if he is working devotedly on his schoolwork. It’s a brilliant façade that hides his racing mind, which is frantically trying to process the overload of sensory input that engulfs him.
His introverted nature means he won’t purposefully draw attention to himself—he won’t scream for help even when he needs it most.
Instead, he’ll muddle on as best he can, bottling up his emotions, frustrations, and struggles until he gets home. As he crosses that threshold of safety, comes in through the front door of our home, he releases what he has kept corked up during his school day: there’s an explosion of big emotions. It may take the form of fat uncontrollable tears, or anger, or aggression, or a wordless retreat to a safe haven to be alone.
I can take my son in my arms, hold him, and let him know I understand how he feels. I can let him know I have his back, that he’s in safe hands, and that he can let go of his emotions. And I can listen.
I can keep the dialogue open with those whose role it is to educate him. I can keep talking, but lessening the dim in the classroom seems an impossible ask. I don’t have the power to conjure up the quiet he needs in the place he needs it most..
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