The Day a Substitute Teacher Misunderstood My Tics
Middle school was already a minefield of awkwardness, but living with Tourette syndrome added a layer of unpredictability to every classroom moment. Most teachers at my school knew about my tics—the involuntary throat-clearing, blinking, and shoulder jerks—and they’d learned to accommodate me. But substitutes? They were wild cards. One chilly Tuesday morning, a substitute teacher turned a routine math class into a humiliating ordeal that still lingers in my memory.
It started like any other day. I walked into math class, took my usual seat near the window, and pulled out my notebook. My tics were acting up more than usual—a combination of stress from a pop quiz rumor and the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. I tried to suppress them, pressing my palms against the desk, but suppressing tics is like holding your breath underwater. Eventually, you have to come up for air.
The substitute, Mr. Carter, introduced himself with a stern voice. Within minutes, he’d zeroed in on me. “Is there a problem?” he snapped after I sniffed loudly for the third time.
“No, sir,” I muttered, heat rising to my face.
He glared. “Then stop the distractions.”
I tried. For the next 10 minutes, I focused on staying still, but my body rebelled. A loud grunt escaped me. The class froze. Mr. Carter’s face turned crimson. “Out. Now,” he barked, pointing to the hallway.
Stunned, I grabbed my backpack and stumbled out. The door slammed behind me. I slid down the wall, tears blurring my vision, as muffled laughter seeped through the door.
Why Tics Aren’t a Choice
Tics—sudden, repetitive movements or sounds—are symptoms of neurological conditions like Tourette syndrome. They’re not habits, jokes, or attempts to disrupt. Imagine an itch you must scratch or a sneeze you can’t stifle. For kids with tic disorders, the classroom can feel like a stage where every involuntary action is scrutinized.
Many people assume tics are voluntary because they wax and wane. Stress, excitement, or fatigue can amplify them. That day, Mr. Carter saw my tics as defiance rather than a neurological response. His reaction wasn’t just embarrassing—it reflected a broader lack of awareness about invisible disabilities.
The Ripple Effect of Misunderstanding
After the incident, I avoided school for two days. My parents scheduled meetings with the principal, and my usual teacher apologized profusely. But the damage was done. For weeks, classmates mimicked my tics or whispered, “Don’t get kicked out again!” I felt like a walking liability.
Mr. Carter wasn’t malicious—just uninformed. Many substitutes receive minimal training on disabilities. They’re handed lesson plans and attendance sheets, not guidance on supporting students with unique needs. In my case, the school’s failure to brief substitutes about my condition set everyone up for conflict.
What Schools (and Teachers) Can Do Better
1. Preemptive Communication: A simple note in the substitute folder—“Maya has Tourette syndrome; her tics are involuntary”—could’ve changed everything. Schools should standardize systems to discreetly inform substitutes about students’ accommodations.
2. Disability Training: Mandatory workshops on neurodiversity and invisible disabilities can equip substitutes to respond with empathy, not frustration. Role-playing scenarios might help them practice supportive language.
3. Student Advocacy: Kids with tics often become accidental educators. While it’s unfair to put the burden on students, teaching them phrases like, “I have a medical condition—it’s not something I can control” empowers them to self-advocate.
4. Classroom Culture: Teachers can set norms at the start of the year: “In this class, we respect differences.” When peers understand tics aren’t “weird” but biological, bullying decreases.
The Silver Lining
That day in the hallway, I made a decision: I wouldn’t let ignorance define me. I started speaking at school assemblies about Tourette syndrome, sharing how tics work and why kindness matters. Some classmates apologized for their jokes. Others asked thoughtful questions: “Does it hurt when you tic?” or “Can you sleep okay?”
Mr. Carter’s harshness taught me a hard lesson about the world—but also about resilience. Not everyone will understand your struggles, but their reactions say more about them than about you.
Final Thoughts
To educators: A little knowledge goes a long way. A substitute who’d paused to ask, “Are you okay?” instead of assuming the worst could’ve turned that Tuesday into a teachable moment—for the entire class.
To students with tics: You’re not a disruption. You’re navigating a world that sometimes forgets to be curious instead of critical. Keep advocating for yourself, and remember: your worth isn’t measured by someone else’s snap judgments.
And to Mr. Carter, wherever you are: I hope you’ve learned to ask questions before jumping to conclusions. Maybe someday, a kid like me will walk into your classroom and leave feeling seen—not exiled.
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