Dedicated to Chrissy and every school with a Chrissy in it, every leader like Chrissy, every academic and union rep making public the wrongs, and every political backbencher with the courage to disrupt the system.“
Bro, I want you to know that there are two wahine in our school who you have made a real difference for, and because of you, every child who steps through that door (probably hundreds of them —if I don’t retire just yet) will feel the benefit you have given us. YOU make a difference.”
That was Chrissy.
She said that to me.
Even down the phone with a poor Northland reception she could hear my mauri was off. My wairua was worn thin — frayed from the quiet violence of a system that expects educators to mop up the state’s inequity with their own wellbeing.
Her words didn’t just soothe.
They ignited.
They gave me back the fire in my belly.
And today, I want to pass that ignition on to you.
Because I had spent the break doing what many of us do — recovering from illness and lamenting the mess we’re in.
The kids in crisis.
The systemic injustices.
The layer upon layer of bureaucracy that continues to colonise the hearts and minds of our tamariki.
The cough with claws I couldn’t get rid of.
But Chrissy reminded me: we do make a difference.
Even when we can’t see it.
Especially when we think we’re failing.
So, to every educator, every leader, every policy writer who genuinely gives a damn about equity, Te Tiriti, and tamariki — say it out loud today: “You make a difference.”
Those words might be the embers that reignite someone’s fire.
I’d been doing my fair share of polite ranting (and, let’s be honest, occasionally not-so-polite) about mandates, about being shut out of curriculum conversations, and about the heartbreak of watching trauma walk into my room each morning—sometimes clomping in wearing worn-out Crocs (or here in Northland like me, barefoot and brave).
In the passion and the fight I’d forgotten to pause and see what I was doing.
At first, when Chrissy said it, my mind flooded with the things I used to do — deep philosophical debates, student spoken words, unpacking Banksy Art through adolescent lenses, award-winning film projects. Students creating bold political images like this.
Now I was supervising play-dough and puddles.It felt…less.
But Chrissy stopped me right there:
“It might look different, but don’t you dare think it’s less. You are still making a difference.”
And when the call ended, I sat in the quiet and let that truth land.
What am I doing?
I’m helping children sit next to each other without hurting each other.
I’m nurturing emotional regulation in kids whose lives are chaos.
I’m building whanaungatanga with rainbow chalk drawings and puddle experiments and turn-taking with play-dough and shells.
I’m scaffolding safety — not for my old silent-debate crowd, but for little ones who just need to trust the world for once.
This is still responsive, still intentional, still learning.
It’s just learning wrapped in care, in regulation, in wairua restoration.
It’s exactly what this moment — what these kids — need.
And let me tell you — this magic matters.
We have made puddles on the playground and watched them dry up, chatting excitedly about evaporation — science in action! But somewhere between “observe and describe” and “stand back from the puddle,” a few curious minds had drifted…to their earlier chalk drawing of a rainbow. You know — the one from maths, when they were supposed to be drawing rectangles and calculating perimeters. Instead, we got rainbow artistry and impromptu experiments on water damage. Was it perimeter? No. Was it learning? Absolutely.
I smiled. Year 2 science/maths experiment. Image: Supplied
We had been talking about dragons — how to trap them, how not to wake them, and what might happen if we did.
We had learned to play a sport every playtime that required cooperation. Learning to win and lose without a punch-up or a meltdown was the real victory.
I met them where they are — because kids do well if they can.
We had been learning how to recreate seed germination through stop-motion animation.We had been learning to take turns and build sea creatures made from shells by sharing and saying please and thank you with a compliment to the mahi.
We had been rolling play-dough and trying our best not to get it on the black carpet while writing our names and feeling the heat transfer as we warmed it up — learning manaakitanga for the cleaner who has to vacuum it all up later.
We had learned how to hold iPads and create with technology and sit and draw while the teacher read stories after morning tea.
We had used cardboard cloud shapes from Rona and the Moon pūrakau to try and make the biggest and the smallest shadow in the classroom, under the glow of torches and our best efforts to make bright spaces dark, we measured the shadow’s diameter.
We had measured trees and netball courts with trundle wheels and clickers (because the trundle wheel was broken).
We’d built marae out of 2D shapes and learned resilience the hands-on way — cutting ten ovals for the hāngi pit with blunt, glue-crusted scissors and a glue stick so battered it had more pencil holes than a colander and more fluff stuck to it than a boiled sweet washed in a pocket full of tissues.
A “shellyfish”. Image: supplied.
This is the magic of the classroom.
This is where my kids are at.
This is why I teach.
This is a response to my context.
My old context was one of critical thinking and silent debates and film making and stories comparing wars — that was responsive to my old context.
But I’m still the same teacher.
The IQ hasn’t changed.
The intent hasn’t changed.
The expectations are still sky high.
I’m just responding differently, because the kids in front of me need something different.
So don’t blame the teacher. Don’t blame the context.
Just respect that the response is necessary.
The distance between these schools? Just 34.4 km.
The distance between my children’s regulation skills and developmental ability? Might as well be the moon.
So while some are still scratching their heads, hunting for evidence to back the minister’s claim that “every brain learns the same” — I say, you don’t need a research grant. Just step into a classroom. Come and meet the kids. The evidence is everywhere — in the laughter, in the questions, in the silences thick with trauma, in the way learning shows up wearing worn-out Crocs and carrying more than just a schoolbag.
These extremes — and why they exist — we can probably all hypothesise.
But the reason they exist means nothing to me.
How I respond to the kids in front of me means everything to me.
So if you’re reading this and thinking, “I’m not doing enough” — let me say it like Chrissy would:
You are making a difference.
Maybe not with curated projects and beautiful bullet journals.Maybe with chalk, dragons, puddles and play. Maybe by just showing up when it’s hard.
That counts.
That is the mahi. And to those who stood before the Education and Workforce Committee this week — who spoke truth, who named racism, who defended a rich, broad, humanising education for all tamariki — We thank you. You carry this kaupapa with courage.You are refusing to underserve.You are refusing to be silenced. You are saying what needs to be said: our kids are not economic units. They are not future data points. They are whole people, now. Toitū te Tiriti.Maybe we’re not behind at all — maybe we’re exactly where the future needs to begin. Because this is what it looks like to honour tamariki, to centre justice, to show up with sleeves rolled up and hearts wide open.We’ll make a difference somewhere, to someone, all of the time. So go on — tell someone today: “You make a difference.” Then go show them why.
This blog was first published on the author’s blog, Engaging Learning Voices, and it is republished here with permission. To see the original, click here.
