A 12-year old girl is suspended for saying a curse word.

By Michelle Mason, Kids Connected Care Coordinator

There are moments in this work when the truth hits you harder than the incident itself. Not because the child’s behavior was extreme, but because the adults responsible for her care had not done the most basic thing: see her.

This is the story of an African‑American child experiencing homelessness , a child navigating emotional dysregulation shaped by instability, trauma, and survival. A child who walked into a school building everyday unseen, undocumented, and unsupported. A child who became visible only when she was suspended.

And it took the advocacy of a care coordinator to make the adults in the room finally recognize the humanity of the student they were serving.

The school did not call the parent.

They did not request a meeting. They did not initiate a conversation. They did not ask questions. They did not attempt to understand.

They simply suspended the client.

No context. No inquiry. No relational engagement. Just discipline.

When the care coordinator reached out, the STLS liaison, the person responsible for supporting students experiencing homelessness, could not provide a single piece of documentation for the child. No intake, no conversation with the mother, no school history, no emergency contacts, no understanding of her trauma or needs.

The office manager did not know her, the social worker did not know her, the counselor did not know her, and the teacher had never spoken to the mother prior to the incident or in detail after. Yet the teacher had already decided how to discipline her.

A child experiencing homelessness, a child with no safety plan, a child whose background was unknown to every adult in the building. And the response was, let us punish her more.

The Students in Temporary Living Situations program exists to remove barriers for students experiencing homelessness. It is meant to ensure that children have stability, transportation, access to services, immediate enrollment, academic support, and a point of contact who understands their circumstances. STLS is supposed to be a safety net, a bridge, and a source of advocacy for children whose lives are marked by instability.

It is not supposed to be a program where the liaison does not know the child, has no documentation, has never spoken to the family, and cannot identify the student’s needs. It is not supposed to be a program where the first time the school pays attention is when the child is being punished.

In the middle of the consultation, the care coordinator asked the question no one else had thought to ask:

Do you even see this student, do you know her background.

The silence that followed was telling.

Because the truth was undeniable, they did not know her, they had not tried to know her, they had only reacted to her.

The teacher, who already appeared to hold a bias toward the client, had made a disciplinary decision without ever speaking to the student she was punishing. She had not built a relationship, had not asked questions, and had not sought understanding.

Yet she had the authority to decide the consequence.

This is how patterns form in schools, this is how inequities deepen, this is how unequal race theory plays out in real time for Black and Brown children.

Not through grand gestures, but through everyday decisions that communicate, we do not need to know you to discipline you.

This situation was not about a single suspension, it was about a system that failed at every step.

The school had no trauma informed lens, no STLS compliance, no intake process, no emergency contacts, no understanding of homelessness, no relational engagement, and no consistent disciplinary policy.

Yet they had a punishment ready.

This is how retraumatization happens, not through dramatic events, but through everyday neglect that tells a child, your story does not matter here.

The care coordinator stepped in with urgency and clarity.

First, contact her mother immediately. Only then did the school admit they had no emergency contact information.

Next, what is the school policy for this level of discipline. The answer, there is no policy. Discipline is at the discretion of the teacher.

Then, how will you support her academic and emotional needs.The case manager’s immediate response, put her on a behavior contract.

A behavior contract for a child they had never taken the time to understand.

A behavior contract before learning her triggers, her trauma, her strengths, her story.

A behavior contract as the first response, not the last.

This is not trauma informed practice, this is institutional convenience disguised as intervention.

In moments like this, the words of bell hooks ring painfully true:

There are things that we have to say that are wounding, but it has to be said if we want to address it.

And what needed to be said in that room was this:

Black and Brown children are disproportionately punished because adults do not take the time to know them, because systems are built to react, not understand, because inequities are normalized, because bias is allowed to guide decisions.

It may wound to hear it, it may discomfort those who benefit from the system, but it must be said, because silence protects the pattern.

The care coordinator shifted the conversation away from punishment and toward humanity.

Who is this child, what has she survived, what does safety look like for her, how can the school support her emotional regulation, what does academic progress look like for a child navigating homelessness, how can adults respond with compassion instead of control.

Only then did the room begin to soften, only then did the adults begin to see the child, not the behavior, only then did the conversation move from discipline to dignity.

This story is not about a suspension; it is about visibility.

A child who had been invisible to the system until she made a mistake, a teacher who held authority without relationship, a school that reacted without understanding, a system that punished without context, a pattern that mirrors the unequal treatment of Black and Brown children nationwide.

And a care coordinator who refused to let that stand.

Because when systems forget who they serve, advocacy becomes the bridge back to humanity.

This child deserved to be seen, she deserved to be known, she deserved support, not punishment, she deserved adults who would meet her with grace, not judgment.

And because someone advocated for her, she finally received what every child deserves, to be seen, to be understood, to be treated with humanity.