Not a Safe Place

I heard screaming and sobbing.

I turned in my chair and looked out the window of my office. Down on the basketball court, I saw a young student — no older than seven — curled into himself, kicking at the adult trying to pull him to his feet and into the building.

I watched for a moment.

Would they try to de-escalate?

The crying only intensified.

I ran downstairs and out the front doors. As I approached, I slowed my pace. The adult’s face showed clear frustration. I asked if there was anything I could do to help. They said they had tried everything — that the student wouldn’t listen, and they didn’t know what was wrong.

I asked if I could stay and sit with him.

They agreed and went inside.

I sat down on the pavement a few feet away.

I didn’t speak.

I didn’t know what had led to this moment, and I didn’t want to make it worse by saying the wrong thing.

He had wrapped his arms tightly around his legs, face pressed into his knees, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles had gone white.

After a few minutes, the sobbing softened.

His breathing slowed.

When it felt right, I said quietly:

“You don’t have to say anything. I just want you to know I’m here. I’ll stay as long as you want me to. And if you want me to go, that’s okay too.”

Silence.

Then a small nod.

A few minutes later, he lifted his head and stared straight ahead. Then he looked at me and said:

“Thank you.”

I asked if he wanted to share how he was feeling.

He took his time.

Then he whispered:

“This school is not a safe place.”

It caught me off guard.

I had only been back at the school for a few months. I had some training, but not enough to feel fully prepared for a moment like this.

I asked him why he felt that way.

He said:

“No one understands me. No one tries. We moved here a year ago. I didn’t want to leave.”

And suddenly, things became clearer.

This wasn’t defiance.

This wasn’t simply a behavior issue.

This was a child trying to process loss, transition, and disorientation in a place that didn’t feel safe.

I told him I was sorry for what he had gone through.

At that, his body relaxed. His hands unclenched.

I asked if there were people at the school he trusted.

“My siblings,” he said immediately. “They listen to me and take care of me.”

Then he paused.

“And I trust you.”

That surprised me. We had never spoken before.

When I asked why, he said:

“Because you sing and play guitar.”

I smiled, but didn’t laugh.

There was nothing light about what he was saying.

We talked for a while longer.

I didn’t rush him.

Eventually, I asked if he was ready to go back inside.

He nodded.

But as he stood, the lightness that had entered the conversation disappeared.

Later, I spoke with one of his parents.

I shared what I had seen and heard, and suggested that he needed safe people and spaces to process the transition he was going through.

A few days later, I was sitting in a weekly staff prayer time.

People filtered in and took their seats.

At the beginning, it was mentioned that the same student had experienced another episode.

The moment passed quickly.

But it stayed with me.

I share this not to highlight a single incident.

But to give context.

We tried to advocate for students.

We raised concerns about what we were seeing and hearing.

Those concerns were often dismissed, minimized, or redirected.

And over time, the space to advocate clearly and directly for students narrowed.

What stays with me most is not the meeting.

It’s the moment on the court.

A child, sitting alone, looking up at a school building and saying quietly:

“This school is not a safe place.”

That is not a conclusion drawn from policy.

It is not the result of a formal review.

It is a lived experience.

And when moments like that are not fully heard,
or are explained away,
or are treated as isolated,

they do not disappear.

They become part of a pattern.