Praised, Then Picked Apart

The day after my meeting with the principal, I walked into another one — this time called to “discuss concerns” from one of the teachers I assist. I told myself it was probably routine, maybe a check-in or something minor. But as soon as I sat down, that uneasy feeling returned, the one that has started to follow me around this job like a shadow.

The teacher began with kind words. She said I was always on time, dependable, never questioned what she asked me to do. She mentioned how I genuinely seemed to enjoy working with the kids, how I came in each morning greeting everyone with a smile. For a brief second, I thought maybe this was going to be a positive meeting — a moment of acknowledgment. But then came the inevitable “however.”

She said I wasn’t proactive enough. That I needed to develop the skill of keeping my eyes on every single child at once — to somehow know what each of them was doing, even when I couldn’t see their hands or feet behind a table. She wanted me to correct them, redirect them, call them out when they were off-task. I understand the point — I really do — but I’m human, not omniscient. I told them before: this is my first job ever. I’m not even through my second month. I’m still learning, observing, trying to find my rhythm. But it felt like they didn’t care to hear that.

It wasn’t advice. It was judgment disguised as guidance.

Then came another blow to my confidence. During a schoolwide shakeout drill, I was helping with kindergarten — staying at the end of the line to make sure no one got left behind. A few stragglers slowed down, and I gently urged them along. The teacher leading the line even turned back to thank me, saying, “You’re doing a good job.” And right as she said it, I heard the principal’s voice cutting across the campus, yelling my name. Telling me to hurry up. To “make the kids listen.”

He didn’t see that I was handling it. He didn’t hear the teacher’s praise. He just saw me and decided I was the problem again.

At this point, I can’t help but feel like he’s looking for reasons to make me uncomfortable — or worse, to push me out. Maybe it’s because of a misunderstanding. Maybe someone told him something that wasn’t true. Ironically, the same teacher who called the meeting complimented how I take notes in my planner — the very thing that I suspect got me into trouble the first time.

It’s hard not to feel disillusioned. I wanted this job to be a stepping stone — a chance to help kids, to learn something new, to contribute while still pursuing my graduate studies. Instead, it’s turned into a source of anxiety.

Three hours a day. Barely a thousand dollars a month. No training. No structure. And yet, expectations that feel impossible to meet. They want perfection from someone who was never given a chance to learn.

I know I’m overqualified — a Master’s in Forensic Psychology, working on another in Sociology, graduating summa cum laude, a member of two honor societies — yet none of that means anything here. In this small city, jobs are given based on who you know, not what you’ve earned. Nepotism fills the positions, and people like me — who worked, studied, sacrificed — get whatever is left.

I’m grateful to be employed. I truly am. But I’m tired of walking into work with a knot in my chest, wondering what I’ll be accused of next. I want a job where I’m respected, where I can grow, where I can make a difference without feeling like I’m one mistake away from being replaced.

I just want to help my family. To be the dependable man my father once was. But right now, it feels like I’m stuck — a cog in a system that doesn’t care who’s trying, only who’s convenient.

Still, I’ll keep showing up. Keep applying. Keep hoping that somewhere out there, there’s a place where effort matters more than appearances — and where kindness isn’t mistaken for weakness.