He Was Just Hungry
“Change moves at the speed of trust.” That’s what Nathaniel Smith, Chief Equity Officer at the Partnership for Southern Equity, says—and I’ve watched that truth walk through the halls of every school I’ve ever worked in.
Back when I was teaching middle and high school English at an alternative school, my students used to ask me, “Why do you teach the bad kids?” And my answer was always the same:
“You’re not bad. You’re just kids who made mistakes and got caught. My job isn’t to judge you. It’s to help you understand the choices you made so you can make different ones when the time comes again.”
One morning during my planning period, a student walked in, tense, eyes heavy.
“Johnson,” he said, “if I don’t get some food, I’m going to fight.”
I asked why he didn’t eat breakfast.
“They wouldn’t let me in,” he said. “I was late. Principal shut the door in my face.”
I told him I was heading out to grab some food for my team, and I’d get him something too, pull him out of class when I returned so he could eat in peace. He nodded, grateful.
But when I came back, food in hand, I heard a ruckus down the hall. I already knew it was him.
Minutes later, he was being led past my classroom in handcuffs, flanked by school resource officers and city police, eyes wide and wrists cuffed. I stepped out and pleaded with the officers. “Let me speak to him before you take him.”
They agreed.
I handed him the food I brought, and we talked.
I told him something I’ve told many kids over the years—something shaped by love, not pity. Something like:
“Look, we’re all doing the best we can with what we have, even when it comes out messy. I’m not here to judge your actions, but we do have to find safer ways to respond. Nobody blossoms in starvation—physical, emotional, or spiritual. You’re not broken. You’ve just been growing in hard soil.”
He looked at me and said, “At least I know I’ll have breakfast now. Lunch, too. Maybe dinner if no one picks me up. And somewhere to sleep.”
Let that sit.
A child, who’d already asked for help that morning, had learned the system wouldn’t feed him, but it would jail him.
This is why trauma awareness training isn’t a luxury in our schools or any public-facing profession. It’s not a nice-to-have. It’s a necessity. Because this wasn’t about behavior. It was about hunger—and the ways we mistake unmet needs for misbehavior.
When educators, school staff, and police are not trained to see the full context—the hunger, the closed door, the unmet need—they end up policing trauma instead of preventing harm.
Prevention Science teaches us that the most effective interventions don’t start at the moment of crisis—they start upstream. They start with understanding the social determinants of health and safety: food security, housing stability, community support, access to mental health care.
In this case, the determinant was breakfast. Not behavior.
Joshua T. Dickerson’s poem, “Cause I Ain’t Got a Pencil,” paints this reality in verse:
“Brushed my hair and teeth in the dark,
Cause the lights ain't on
Even got my baby sister ready,
Cause my mama wasn't home.
...
Then when I got to class the teacher fussed
Cause I ain't got no pencil.”
I don’t have children yet, but every student I encounter is mine. Children like mine and maybe yours show up carrying more than a backpack. They carry grief, hunger, responsibilities, fear, and hope. What they need isn’t just a curriculum. They need care that’s informed, consistent, and rooted in the truth of their lives.
Implementation science reminds us that intention doesn’t translate into impact without strategy. If we want schools to be safer, if we want to reduce fights, outbursts, or disengagement, we have to shift from punitive to preventative frameworks.
We need training that:
Helps educators understand trauma’s impact on brain development and behavior
Builds shared language between school staff, administrators, and resource officers
Centers the whole child, not just the compliant child
Translates research into day-to-day practice, in real classrooms with real kids
Because the truth is: systems don’t fail people—they’re designed that way.
But we can redesign them.
With love.
With training.
With trust