Another Day, Another Lesson I Didn’t Expect

Everything began like any other day. I clocked in, checked the notes in my planner, and began helping my first class. Then the office phone rang. The secretary said the principal wanted to see me. For a moment, I froze — not out of guilt, but confusion. I hadn’t done anything wrong. I try my best, I show up early, I help however I can. Still, I said “Sure, no problem,” and made my way to his office.

The moment I walked in, I could sense something was off. He told me to close the door and sit down. His tone was polite, but heavy — the kind of tone that hides reprimand behind courtesy. He asked how I liked the job so far, if I was learning new things. I said yes, genuinely. I really do enjoy helping the teachers and being around the kids, even when it’s chaotic. Then he said, “Just a few things.”

And just like that, my stomach sank.

He mentioned that I shouldn’t let the kids be under the table or poke me, that I shouldn’t be drawing or writing during class. Then he added that he’s noticed I’ve been making a lot of copies for the teachers — too many, apparently — and that “if I’m making a lot of copies, something isn’t right.” I didn’t even know how to respond to that. Was I being used by the teachers? Was he implying I was wasting time? He didn’t ask for my side, just spoke as if my silence was agreement.

When he finished, he said I’d now be working with kindergarten after I’m done with the first-grade class I assist. That left me speechless. When I was hired, he specifically told me the job was for first grade. Now I was being moved without warning or input. Still, I said “Okay” and walked out trying to keep my composure.

He also made a point to mention my size — how because I’m a large male, the students should “listen to me.” I found that logic ridiculous. If size or gender made kids obedient, parenting and teaching would be effortless. Children don’t respond to intimidation; they respond to connection, to patience, to trust — all things that take time, not stature. Even the teachers struggle with the same kids daily. What makes him think I’d have some magic authority?

Around two weeks ago, I saw something that still lingers in my mind. The principal and security came into one of the classrooms to handle a misbehaving child. I watched as they grabbed the child by both arms and carried him out. This was a six-year-old. And in that moment, I couldn’t help but think — is this really what discipline means now? Is this how we’re supposed to “teach” them?

To make things even stranger, as I was walking back from recess with the kindergarten class, closing the gate like I always do, I heard the principal yelling my name from across the playground. He told me to “be on the kids” because they were running around — even though there was already another aide at the front of the line managing them, and I was doing what the substitute teacher had just asked me to handle. I could feel the frustration in his voice, like I was somehow always in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I can’t help but wonder if he has it out for me. Maybe it’s my planner — the one I use to write notes from teachers, reminders, tasks. Maybe he doesn’t like that I try to stay organized. Or maybe he just doesn’t understand that I’m not some untrained, uneducated helper. I’ve finished my Master’s in Forensic Psychology. I’ve just started a Master’s in Sociology. I’m here because I want to work, to help, to contribute — not to be micromanaged like a child.

Three hours a day. A thousand dollars a month. A job that’s supposed to be simple yet leaves me more stressed than any academic paper I’ve ever written. And for what? To be told I’m doing too much, or not enough, or not the right kind of “enough.”

I just hope my father is watching over me. I thought I had already moved past this issue — past the overthinking, past the anxiety that comes from not knowing whether you’re truly doing well or simply being tolerated. I wish he were still here to give me advice, to tell me what to do next, to remind me that some people just won’t ever see the effort you put in until it’s too late.

Maybe tomorrow will be better. Or maybe it’ll be another day of pretending everything’s fine. Either way, I’ll keep going — because I have to.