Diary of a Year 9 High School Teacher 2.0
Our guest author for our ‘diary of a teacher’ blog series is Jane Corcoran.
Jane is an Australian high school teacher, writer and mother. She is passionate about compassion and curious about culture.
Jane says she has ‘no bloody idea’ how to confidently teach her own children (let alone other people’s) about the complicated and nuanced territory that is sex and consent - but she’s showing up to find out. And thinks you need to as well.
An open letter to Grace, Brittany and Chanel.
I just needed you to know about something that happened today.
It happened in a school in a town that you would never have heard of.
It’s not anything all that remarkable. Or especially brave. It’s not going to change the world. But it was a moment in time that happened as a direct result of you, and the fire you started.
It happened when I was walking to my first class this morning. My bag was heavy with the supplies for a day of teaching, but I felt light. The excitement of a new school year still made everything feel slightly brighter.
But when I turned the corner to enter the library, I heard them. A male voice sliced into my consciousness.
‘So, which one of our group of mates would be the most likely to rape do you reckon?’
The other voices broke into a chorus of laughter.
My heart stopped. A heat flooded my body. I kept walking as I turned around to see the owners of the words.
Three year 12 boys with manicured mullets and senior shirts met my eyes.
They hid their faces behind their hands as they dissolved into laughter and whispers. Giddy in the realisation that they’d been overheard.
‘Oh f&*#, man. She so heard you’ one mullet whispered to the other.
I realised then that they thought, in the moment, that this female teacher would leave the interaction there; glare at them with disdain and keep walking. Ignoring the words that become actions that become a culture that has poisoned the lives of so many.
And maybe, on another day I would have. After 14 years of teaching you can predict how this interaction will go.
They’ll deny they said anything.
They’ll get angry in an attempt to intimidate me.
They’ll refuse to tell me their names.
I’ll be late to my first class.
I’d tell myself, what could I actually do? How could I prove what they said? I don’t know their names, it’s a big school. And what could I say to them that would make any difference anyway?
So instead [although it is mortifying to admit] I would have…
Swallowed my anger.
Breathed.
Walked away.
I would have told myself…
It’s just the way it is.
But that day I saw another way it could be. I have watched Grace and Britney wage war with their words. I felt the hands of these warriors fall upon my shoulders. I remembered Chanel in her quest to wake us up.
These young women slowed me down as I tried to walk by the group of boys. They’ve drawn a line in the sand, these three. They’ve taught us that looks of disdain only get you so far.
I felt a tiny flicker of a flame ignite inside me.
As I ushered the mullets over to the side of the library, rage stung my eyes. I ripped down my face-mask and snarled.
‘Who said that?’
To my surprise the tallest mullet raised his hand.
‘And what did you say?’
He lowered his head, finally showing some semblance of shame. He muttered the exact words I knew I’d heard.
A deep rage and sadness thrashed through me. How? How are there still young men with loving families and solid educations that still think rape can be fodder for banter amongst mates at 9am on a Thursday?
Their words reveal a truth we already know - no real progress has been made. The toxic culture is as alive today as it ever was.
In that moment, my mind went to …
30 years ago: My friend in primary school who told me that her 15 year old neighbour ‘did things to her’ so we weren’t allowed to play outside anymore.
20 years ago: A friend in high school who met an older guy at a friend’s party. She’d only had 2 drinks. He got her the second one. She couldn’t remember how she ended up in a park down the road. All she knew was that every part of her body ached.
10 years ago: The uni friend who knows she said ‘no’, but she probably gave mixed signals before she said it out loud so… ‘what could I expect?’
Every year as a teacher, a story of another girl. Another party. Another neighbour. Another trauma.
The scars of the abused never fade.
But in each of their stories, it was the wound left by the people who ‘walked by’ that threatened to poison the slither of peace they had left. It was the ones who caused the secondary trauma. The ones who were supposed to be the safe place to lay your bruised and battered soul.
The mother who wouldn’t report the neighbour to the police because ‘what good would it do?’ The teacher who said it’s your responsibility to not ‘put yourself in that position’. The police officer who filed a report while saying ‘don’t hold your breath lovey’.
The Prime Minister who had to talk to his wife before he felt empathy.
The security guards who gave your rapist access to a room to commit his crime.
The government who falls short in creating real, lasting change.
Each failure to support in any significant way adding more and more weight to the suffocating shame.
So, standing in front of those boys, I snarled my anger and disgust. I spat venom and rage in response to the casual banter about brutal acts of violence they enjoyed a joke about.
I felt tears sting as I implored them to do better, because they know better. That I hoped with everything I am that they live their lives as men of integrity and that means never, ever letting a callous and cruel comment like that leave your lips again. And never, ever letting your friend think that performing this toxic version of manhood is acceptable.
They looked so small as I raged. Tiny boys with heads bowed. Dying with the excruciating vulnerability that one wears when the darkest sides of our nature are exposed. When we see how our cruelty looks in the light.
I do not know what can actually be done to change this pervasive culture that they think is acceptable.
I’m not going to kid myself and say that any real change was created from my 6-minute rant.
But I know that there are little fires like this one everywhere.
For centuries women have been suffering silently in their shame. Now they’re shouting it from press clubs and rallies and schools.
And in the process, returning the shame to who it truly belongs to.