Imposter

A young professional struggles with imposter syndrome while dealing with the stringent demands of the public school system.

Photo by Ivan Aleksic on Unsplash

8:00am – Shawn C., age 12.

Moderate articulation disorder.

I finish scribbling notes and double check my watch. The session went long again.

This morning Shawn’s tongue popped out between his teeth like a haphazard rattlesnake with almost every s he produced. And here I thought Shawn was almost ready to be discharged from therapy.

“Can I stay in here?” Shawn’s usual winsome smile is absent.

“I wish you could. But my next kiddo is shy. I don’t think he would talk if a big, scary sixth grader were in the room.”

Shawn begrudgingly follows me into the hallway.

Maple Vale Elementary School emblazons the stark walls, accented by a brightly-painted maple leaf. The leaf, once a saturated cranberry, has chipped and faded to a dull red.

I hustle down the hall, watching the giant clock above the lockers. I’m going to be late picking up my 8:30.

I look back over my shoulder. “You sleep okay last night?”

Shawn shrugs. “My littlest sister was crying.”

“I’m sorry. It’s rough when you don’t get enough sleep.”

Shawn grunts as we turn onto the sixth-grade hallway, thrumming with the voices of raucous twelve-year-olds.

“See you next Tuesday.” I smile, but he doesn’t meet my eyes as he ducks into his classroom.

I check my watch again and jog to the third grade hallway.

In grad school, professors stood in front of my class of simpering over-achievers, myself included, and talked about elementary school caseloads of 50 kids. About how to individualize sessions for each student. Themed lessons! Holiday activities! Turning our years of education into Pinterest-worthy crafts!

And what do I have? A caseload of 82 kids. A schedule of sessions that I have to squeeze around lunch periods and recesses and assemblies like a high-stakes game of Tetris.

Themed sessions? It’s a good day if none of my students flings a board game across the room.

And I’m always running behind. Shortchanging these students, most of whom can’t afford speech therapy elsewhere, and have no recourse but me, with my four months of experience and my scheduling problem.

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8:30am – Wilson P., age 10.

Severe fluency disorder.

“I know we didn’t have much time to practice today,” I say as I herd Wilson out of the speech room and back into the hallway, “but next week I’ll meet you at lunch, okay? And you’ll order from that lady at the pizza kiosk. And use easy onset.”

“W-w-w-w-w-w-w-w –” Wilson pauses and frowns. I walk quickly and force myself to stay quiet as he works the words out. “W-w-why is y-y-y-your room so s-s-s-small?”

“The school’s pretty packed. They don’t have a lot of extra space.”

“I th-th-th-think your room u-u-used to be a c-c-closet.”

I shrug. “Probably.”

At his classroom, the room is filled with the shuffle of pages and the whisperings of kids who are supposed to be quietly reading.

“Wilson!” Mrs. Freeman looks up from her keyboard. “What library book did you pick?”

“I-I-I-I –”

“Where is it, in your cubby? Okay, go get it.” Her eyes drop back to her computer screen.

Wilson swallows his half-formed words, gives me a quick, fierce hug, and darts into the room.

I check my watch. Four minutes. Enough time to cut through the sixth grade hallway and pick up my 9:00.

My shoes squeak against the linoleum, my mind racing alongside the relentless ticking of the clock.

I can’t even tell if my thirty minutes a week is having any effect at all on sweet little Wilson. He stutters just as much as he did in August.

I should have said something to Mrs. Freeman. That would have been the perfect opportunity to advocate for my client, to educate my team members.

But I didn’t.

I have the right letters behind my name. CCC-SLP, tied with a little red bow. But am I a fake? An imposter, a quacky professional preying upon susceptible parents who don’t realize that I have no idea what I’m doing?

I careen into the sixth-grade hallway, and a door bangs open before me.

With an incomprehensible shout, Shawn storms from his classroom, a tightly-wound bundle of anger in a too-big hoodie.

His face crumples, and he leans against the wall and sinks to the floor.

“Shawn?” I squat down.

He mutters a jumble of words into his knees. I sit beside him on the sticky floor and lean my back against the scratchy brick.

He says nothing more, but in his silence I hear the tidbits I’ve gleaned of his life:

Man of the house at age twelve. Five younger siblings clinging to him. An overworked mama. Teachers stretched thin as translucent taffy.

It’s amazing that this is the first day I’ve seen his smile shatter.

The door creaks open, and Ms. Gantz pokes her head out. Her eyes have the dazed look of an animal caught in a stampede. “Shawn, are you ready –”

Shawn shoots to his feet, giving me the briefest glance before slinking, hood up, back to his seat.

Ms. Gantz cocks her head at me, a grown woman sitting on a dirty floor. “Thank you,” she says, and closes the door.

As I stand and make my way down the hall, the ticking of the clock worms its way back into my head. Strange – I hadn’t heard it in – how long was I sitting with Shawn? Six minutes.

I’m late to my 9:00. Six minutes of session time, gone.

Shawn’s crumpled face springs back to my mind – how young he is. Still a child, still a trace of baby fat around his cheeks.

He might never say his s correctly. But something within me – like the tiny, straining bud of a tree waiting to bloom – senses that perhaps those six wasted minutes are the most important thing I’ve done today.

Pulling my shoulders up a little straighter, I stride down the hallway and open the door, just a few minutes late, to pick up my next client.