I’d been drawing faces in my exercise book for an entire double lesson. Mrs Smith had asked me to pay attention several times and kept me back after class. I was ready for the standard reprimands: “If only you made more of an effort. Don’t assume because you find it easy everyone else does.”
I was a bored, disruptive and difficult student – and my behaviour had won me few friends among my peers or teachers. I had topped all my classes in secondary school without doing any work. I was bright, middle class and faced none of the hardships of poverty and troubled home lives that many of my fellow students did, but I still wouldn’t behave.
Instead of the usual rebuke, Mrs Smith quietly and calmly said: “What’s wrong? I think you need to tell me something.” My throat suddenly felt like it had a sandpapered fist in it. I’d been waiting for that question for years. I started shaking and sweating. I felt sick with guilt and disgust. If she was surprised by the effect her words had on me, then I don’t remember her showing it.
“You don’t have to say anything. I’m going to put a blank piece of paper in front of you. See what you can put on it.” She pushed it across the table. With this encouragement I wrote the sentence that saved my life: “My teacher in primary school abused me.”
She didn’t blink. “That’s very sad. I’m very sorry that happened to you. Thank you for telling me, but we’re going to have to talk to some other people about this.”
That was the last conversation the two of us had about it. I was told I could only discuss it with my form tutor and the deputy head. The next day I was pulled out of lessons, and interviewed by a social worker and a police officer. Without telling me, my mum was called into school and told. She was in bits within a few short hours. I felt so guilty, like I had contaminated her life. That day still haunts me: it was so brutally handled. I honestly believe the way it was managed was, in some ways, as damaging as the abuse.
Even after 15 years, I haven’t forgotten the initial question the social worker asked: “Was it just a pat on the bum?” This really set the tone for the conversations I had with the case handlers and, after two interviews, I was offered no further support.
The lack of other evidence meant that for some time it became a my-word-against-his scenario. I was asked about details of the actual assaults, but never about the process. They didn’t want to know about how I was steadily and cleverly groomed or even where in the school it had happened. No questions were asked that could establish his pattern of behaviour so someone could see if this had been repeated.
The police looked for photos on his computer, but without those, it seemed unlikely that this apparently well meaning man, who after all wasn’t “far from early retirement” might do anything wrong. He was not successfully prosecuted and continued to work for several years. I still struggle to live with the fact that he may well have had access to other children. I can only hope that my speaking out at least meant he was watched by other staff and his count of victims was smaller than it could have been.
Throughout the process, I was treated very much like an adult. Social workers and police officers all behaved as though this was some sort of complaint about sexual harassment in the workplace. “What sort of relationship did you have?” and questions about pats on bums and hands on shoulders when I was desperately trying to explain it was a very gradual physical and mental process that led to repeated rape. They didn’t think of me as the child of eight being sexually abused – they interviewed me as a mature 15-year-old who might have been sexually active with a peer. I think this is often a problem with victims of abuse, but especially with bright students, who are somehow seen as more mature, particularly if they are arrogant or obnoxious like I was. But they aren’t.
In fact, it was only Mrs Smith who really saw the scared child hidden behind the obnoxious bravado and middle-class privilege. I wish I could have talked to her about it more, but the one or two attempts I made were gently deflected. She taught me as though I was entirely normal, never treated me differently and still told me off when I was annoying. That made me feel more normal, it mattered.
Teachers are understandably exhausted by horrific workloads, diktats and the strain of having to be both educators and social workers. But, my god, I am so thankful that some of them are, by instinct and training, wonderful at both. That Mrs Smith managed to see a hint of the true problem, despite the pressures of teaching brilliantly at a tough comprehensive, is nothing short of amazing.
I’m not the person I might have been. I’m working on it, but in my head I’m still a victim rather than a survivor. I did far better than expected in my GCSEs, went onto A-levels, university and a good job. But were it not for Mrs Smith, I would never have found a way out of my mental trap. She made me realise that I wasn’t just lazy – someone could look at me and see that there was a person not waving but drowning.
While I believe many adults let me down during this time, I really want to say thank you to Mrs Smith. She saved my life by helping me express what had happened. To those, like her, who are born to teach: I hope you know yours is a vocation beyond value.
- The name in this article has been changed.
- In the UK, the Samaritans can be contacted on 116 123. In the US, the National Suicide Prevention Hotline is 1-800-273-8255. In Australia, the crisis support service Lifeline is on 13 11 14. Helplines in other countries can be found here.
