Teaching T has taught me as much as I teach him. I am still learning—learning how he sees the world, how he communicates, and how he finds his way through sound, movement, and connection.
If T were to tell you his story in my classroom, if he could put his experiences into words the way he feels them, perhaps this is what he would say.
This is How I Learn
When I enter my classroom, everything feels big. Lights shine, chairs move, voices blend together. My eyes try hard to see, but they get tired sometimes. I look anyway. I want to know what is happening around me.
I know each and every child in my class. I know their smiles, their favorite seats, even the way they hold their pencils. I love helping my teacher—giving out workbooks, arranging them neatly on the tables so every child has their own, just right.
Words are tricky for me. I hear them, hold them, and say them back just the same. When I repeat what adults say, it’s my way of joining in. I don’t have many of my own words yet, but I have learnt how to say “no,” and I am trying to catch other words and learn how to use them.
I can read. My teacher says I am a good reader. But halfway through, the words sometimes slip away, and I lose my track. Then a familiar voice finds me again and helps me come back. I still struggle to pronounce some words clearly, but I keep trying.
My hands have started to grip a pencil a little tighter. Letters are forming—wobbly and beautifully crooked. I grip my scissors and cut the best I can. I paste the colourful widgets the way I think is right. My teacher lets me. She says I am learning, and that makes me proud. Some days, she shows my work proudly to other teachers, our Principal, or the Deputy. I love hearing them say “wow,” but I feel shy. I hold my teacher’s hand tightly and stay close to her, borrowing her calm until I can find my own.
My body understands things before my mouth does. When music starts, I feel happy right away. My feet move. My arms dance. When I dance, my heart feels light and my body feels calm. Dancing helps me feel safe.
I like being close to people, especially my classmates. I reach out with kisses and touch, because closeness is how I show care. Sometimes my feelings grow bigger than my words, and my hands move before I can slow them down. I might hit—not to hurt—but because I am still learning gentler ways to tell others what I need.
My teacher helps me learn. She says, “Kisses are for mummy and daddy. At school, we wave,” and she shows me with her hand. She says, “Hands to myself,” and I try to copy her. I am learning what my hands can do at school.
I do not like it when my teacher says she is sad. My eyes search her face, trying to understand what her feelings look like. I want to make it better, but the way is not clear to me yet. I am still learning how feelings live in me—and in others. All I know is that if I hold her hand tightly, things feel better.
Playing is new for me. I watch others and try to do what they do. When a teacher shows me slowly, I can try again. I like when my day stays the same. Routines help me understand what comes next.
I love watching blobs of colours floating—spinning, swirling, moving wherever they want. Sometimes it feels like the colours are dancing with me. I could watch them forever.
I need help with taking care of myself and with learning how to play and work. I try my best, even when it is hard. My body and my mind are still growing.
Even with all of this, I am cheerful. I laugh. I move. I dance. I learn in my own way—through sound, movement, helping, reading, cutting, pasting, and repeating. With patience, kindness, and music, I am finding my place in the classroom, one small step at a time.
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