The trouble with trauma-informed education is the movement’s baked-in propensity for teachers to modify student expectations based on the child’s adverse experiences, some of which might even be legitimately tragic. This malpractice is not usually a deliberate action. It’s generally an educational blind spot rooted in deep and sincere empathy for the child. Diminished expectations are not, however, confined to academic performance. Sadly, student behavior is also affected, and the acknowledgment of trauma has now devolved into behavior management strategies heavy on restorative discipline and light on behavior-changing consequences. When well-meaning educators make trauma-based excuses for students (or accept excuses from them), the child is victimized all over again by way of altered expectations.

“Excuses are tools of the incompetent, used to build Monuments of Nothingness and Bridges to Nowhere. Those who excel in excuse making seldom excel in anything else” (author unknown). These two simple sentences capture the mindset of nearly every great success story ever written, especially stories about children overcoming trauma. Excuses are temptations for all of us when we see kids who have been dealt bad hands in life. They are easy and understandable, but they often manifest themselves in stunted academic and behavioral expectations.

The remainder of this post is dedicated to teachers everywhere who are tempted to accept and/or make excuses for trauma-exposed children. At the risk of exposing an enormous burden, let me speak clearly. Educators–you and I–are the single most predictive factor in a child’s academic success. That’s a harsh reality. You, the teacher, are the ONLY hope some students have. How do I know? Because countless trauma-exposed, high achievers have overcome the very excuses behind which some teachers are tempted to hide, student circumstances. Consider the following success stories from four different arenas: medicine, sports, politics, and law. Individuals profiled all have two things in common–they experienced legitimate adversity, and they encountered at least one teacher who refused to make or accept valid excuses. The application for schools is clear–our capacity to succeed is inversely proportional to our tolerance for excuses, even those that could be justified due to childhood trauma.

Ben is a neurosurgeon and the former U. S. Secretary of Housing and Urban Development. I find neither accomplishment uniquely impressive. There are literally thousands of neurosurgeons in the U.S. alone, and there is no short supply of bureaucrats in the Beltway. What I find ultra impressive, however, is how public school changed the trajectory of his life. Consider that poverty-based trauma would have been an understandable and perfectly acceptable excuse for Ben’s teachers. This little black boy from the streets of Detroit was raised by an illiterate single mother because of a bigamist father. Nobody would have blamed Ben or his teachers for hiding behind his formidable circumstances. Poverty, after all, has likely built more Bridges to Nowhere than any other excuse. Ben’s teachers, as early as elementary school, acknowledged his adversity but admirably chose against excuses. Because of that decision, Ben made some choices of his own. He chose education instead of poverty. He chose to become a physician instead of a statistic. When he could have justifiably chosen an existence based on victimhood, he instead chose to become the Director of Pediatric Neurosurgery at Johns Hopkins when he was just 33 years old. Ben Carson chose to rely on his Gifted Hands (the title of his autobiography) instead of relying on the sympathy of others…because firm and demanding teachers encouraged him to do so.

Wilma was a three-time, Olympic gold medalist. She was also a premature baby, one of twenty-two siblings, a polio patient, a Scarlet Fever survivor, and a victim of segregation. Any of these traumas individually, not to mention their collective impact, would have served nicely as a sympathetic excuse for the educators in her life. Wilma’s teachers and coaches instead chose to look beyond her traumatic circumstances. Because they did, Wilma made some choices of her own. She chose Olympic medals over crutches, achievement over prejudice, and success over failure. Instead of building “monuments of nothingness” her teachers inspired her to build a legacy: three golds and one bronze medal, world records, and countless awards (two-time A.P. Woman Athlete of the Year, U.S. Olympic Hall of Fame Inductee, and recognition as the 41st Greatest Athlete of the 21st Century, according to ESPN). Still, her greatest legacy, in my opinion, happened in the classroom, not on the track. After all the fame and accomplishments, Wilma became an elementary school teacher. The “poor little crippled girl” from St. Bethlehem, Tennessee passed away in 1994. She now has roads, bridges, awards, and schools named after her. Wilma Rudolph has her own statue in Clarksville, Tennessee and her own U.S. Postal Service stamp. Interestingly, neither image acknowledges leg braces or other excuses. Neither did her teachers.

Diane is a Registered Nurse who served four terms in the United States House of Representatives. Because her parents were undereducated (Dad dropped out after sixth grade and Mom quit after ninth), she also spent her formative years in Baltimore’s public housing, shared a bed with two older brothers in a house on the wrong side of the tracks, and regularly heard from her mother that she would never be able to attend college. Fortunately for Diane, her high school guidance counselor, Mr. Whiting, decided that she did not have to be defined by the circumstantially traumatic hand she had been dealt. In a former Tennessean article, Diane recalls that Mr. Whiting “saw something in me I didn’t see in myself.” She goes on to say, “If it weren’t for him, I don’t think I would be where I am today.” When even her parents were willing to hide behind the Poverty Monument, Mr. Whiting taught Diane Black a most valuable lesson: “…everyone has God-given potential,” and “where you start in life does not determine where you end up.” Mr. Whiting acknowledged her trauma but stopped short of coddling practices. Because he did, Diane Black chose education, nursing, and public service.

Daniel is an electrical engineer by way of MIT (bachelor’s and master’s degrees) and a Doctor of Jurisprudence by way of Cal Berkeley. This attorney who now specializes in patent law and intellectual property rights was also a young Hispanic boy from the violent streets of East Los Angeles. Daniel’s math teacher, Mr. Escalante, chose to disregard the gang- and drug-related trauma embraced by some of Daniel’s other teachers. When asked about Mr. Escalante, Daniel doesn’t hesitate. “Everything I have right now I owe to him.” Clarifying Escalante’s impact even further, Daniel remarks, “I owe my life to him.” The odds were stacked against Daniel and the rest of his classmates, so few could blame the teachers who accepted the trauma for what it could be–roadblocks and dead ends. When most adults in Daniel’s life pointed him toward a Bridge to Nowhere paved by excuses, Mr. Escalante built a bridge of education over the roadblocks, and Daniel Castro followed it all the way to MIT and UC Berkeley. Garfield High’s most impactful teacher and the subject of the film Stand and Deliver, Jaime Escalante, refused to lower his expectations for traumatized students. Consequently, hundreds of underprivileged Latino students became attorneys, engineers, professors, and scientists.

Given these historical examples of perseverance in the face of legitimate trauma, we need to ask ourselves an uncomfortable question: Would any of these success stories be possible in today’s climate of trauma-informed education? Great teachers acknowledge trauma and adverse circumstances for what they are–obstacles–and then they erect educational bridges over them built on high and unforgiving expectations. Well-intentioned, marginal teachers lower their academic and behavioral expectations because student trauma and tragedy tug at heartstrings. How tragic. Let’s stop loving our kids all the way to failure.