I’m not perfect at my job, but I know my presence makes a world of difference
I proudly landed my first school counseling job at a public school in New York City. I had been warned by fellow counselors we can never be fully prepared to take on the enormity of our role.
I admit to feeling intimidated upon hearing the label given to children of whom I would be working. The term, “emotionally disturbed (ED)” also intrigued me, but painted a picture before I even met a single child on my caseload. Not learning specific special education classifications in graduate school, I read up as much as I could about this identification. The image my mind had created included children appearing older than their natural age, possessing negativity and a toughness about them; similarly, to the many Hollywood movies about inner city kids, and contrary to the children whom I grew up with in suburban schools. And then I arrived to work on my first day, wide-eyed and with a tough exterior of my own that I anticipated I would need.
To my amazement, the school atmosphere was warm and welcoming, and the children were respectful and appeared comfortable and safe in their surroundings. The staff spoke positively of their students, and they all felt the need to share information with me about how best to help them. My expectation was to feel out of place, however I recall immediately feeling appreciated for work that I not only hadn’t started yet, but truthfully had no idea how I would even begin my “counseling” work.
It is almost two decades and several counseling positions later, yet I still wonder what Anthony and Laura are doing with their lives today. Anthony was a young boy with stellar attendance. He showed up to school every day on time and although he wouldn’t make direct eye contact, his round, full cheeks would smile broadly when he sensed my presence. Anthony was a fifth grader and rather well-known by teachers throughout the school. There was a gentleness about him, and a strong self-awareness at his young age. Anthony had many bad days, probably more frequent than not, but his bad days consisted of his need to sit away from his classmates; and he knew enough to ask for me at these times.
Anthony rarely talked to me about his home life or his friends, but his strong subtly showed how much my presence meant to him. His teacher frequently called on me each time he abruptly left the classroom, usually after a remark from a peer was said in class. I would find him standing outside the classroom and the relieved look on his face as he saw me said it all. Taking just a few minutes to sit beside him, sometimes in silence, calmed him tremendously.
It wasn’t long before the teachers would tell me how much Anthony admired me and praise for my work with him. Although these compliments felt great to hear, I didn’t quite understand what I was actually doing with Anthony, or for him. I could rarely carry out any planned activity for him, knowing that I needed to be flexible based on his disposition or surroundings in the moment.
It wasn’t until so many years later that I did understand. I couldn’t articulate it then, but I instinctively knew that Anthony was so much more capable than most people could see him, due to his “ED” label. The school staff knew. They were a group of intelligent professionals whom I attribute so much of my knowledge and experience as a counselor fresh out of graduate school. They could see his potential, emotionally, socially, and academically. Through my special role as a school counselor, I had the privilege of working regularly and closely with him. I believed in Anthony, and I allowed him to be himself. I treated him with respect and as very capable, and he knew it.