Preface: Psychological Safety in Action

It was 6 p.m. on a winter's night. The sun had set long ago. It was cold and the rain was bouncing off the floor. I stepped out of the office, pulled my collar up around my ears and headed back to my car after a busy day at work. I was 22 years old. 4 ft 11 inches tall. Tired. Vulnerable. My laptop was slung over my shoulder as I made my way back to the car park on the edge of town, alone.

I had a 15-minute walk ahead of me from the probation office. Around 6 minutes into the walk, I felt a presence appear behind me. A man was now keeping pace with me. He was close. Uncomfortably close. I stopped, hoping he would continue to walk ahead of me. But he didn't. He stopped walking and lingered behind.

Not knowing what to do, I picked up the pace. We had more distance between us now but I could still hear his heavy breath when he exhaled and his footsteps as his boots made contact with the wet floor. I knew I was in danger. I tried to remember protocol. Ah yes, call the office. Step one. I grabbed my phone and called Cath in the office. She was always there at this time of night, waiting for our phone call to let her know we had arrived home safely.

This call was different. I asked her to talk to me until I got into my car. She did, my tone telling her everything she needed to activate Code Red. Within a second, I was on speaker phone with everyone at head office listening in. They had a second line ready to call the police and a third line ready to call the probation office emergency number. Typically, my panic alarm was in the bottom of my bag. Groan.

After what felt like an eternity, my car was in sight. I got in, slammed the door shut (nearly taking my leg off), locked it and drove away in less than 10 seconds. But not before I saw my mysterious stalker. He was a very tall man in his forties. I knew who it was. I had been teaching him for the last three months.

The next day my senior leaders called an emergency meeting with all five of the probation offices I worked in. Security was stepped up for me. My stalker's probation officer was alerted to his behavior and they began the process of dealing with it from their end. The teaching contract I had with him ended immediately.

My stalker continued for three weeks. Every time I was in Dewsbury Office, there he was. Following me. Watching me. I was given bodyguards. I couldn't leave the office without a probation officer escorting me. From the moment I pulled up in the car park to begin my working day, during lunch and tea breaks, through to walking to my car at the end of the day, there was always a male probation officer next to me to protect me.

For those three weeks, I had a phone call at the end of every day with my manager, to check in on how I was feeling, to talk about any concerns I had and to highlight any potential issues that were arising. We talked about my work, my students, my home life and everything in between. I was out as a gay woman at work. Everyone I came into contact with during my working week knew about my sexuality, including my colleagues, students, probation officers and administration staff. Nothing was off limits to discuss with my manager or team if I chose to.

Navigating a High Stakes Classroom

From my first day in the role, my protection, safety and well-being were taken very seriously by my employer. They had to be. It could have been a matter of life or death.

I realize this might sound scary for a first job fresh out of university, so let me help you visualize my work environment and the safety precautions that were put in place to keep me safe.

Rotating around five probation offices across the region during the week, I worked in little consultation rooms, where every hour one ex-offender would leave and another would take their chair – a student for the next 60 minutes. I was there to teach adult ex-offenders English and math. Or so I was led to believe.

The consultation room always contained four things. There were two chairs with a large, heavy desk separating them and a filing cabinet that locked if you kicked it. Hard. The floor was cold, the walls were bare and the windows barely opened. The radiator was broken; permanently fixed to ON at full blast. It was hot, oppressive and smelt funny. Not in a good way.

There was a big, red panic button under the desk (a secret one) and one visible on the wall by the “probation blue” door. Everything in these places was painted royal blue, which was a source of much amusement amongst my colleagues. The panic buttons were placed strategically so we could easily access one from wherever we were in the room, in the eventuality that something kicked off. Which it did. Frequently.

If you pressed one, either on purpose or by accident (for example, when crossing your legs under the table), urgent assistance burst through the doors in the form of large, muscly, shaved-headed probation officers. Imagine sitting there teaching the intricacies of adding and subtracting fractions to a 47-year-old, or how to read ABC style to a 69-year-old, when three muscly men come crashing through the door. Awkward. Yes, it really happened.

My first day in my shiny first proper job went like this. At 9 a.m. I walked up to reception and took my place in the queue, behind a myriad of people that were high, drunk or looked like they hadn't slept in a week. That is what I was dealing with. When it was my turn, I was asked to sign in and directed to wait in the waiting room with everyone else. I looked very out of place in my new trousers, funky animal-patterned shirt, waistcoat, polished shoes and snazzy laptop bag. After what felt like an eternity, someone came to collect me and took me through to the offices.

After initial introductions to the probation officers on duty that day and the office managers I was shown to what they called my “teaching room” and was handed a security fob that would open all the doors in the Probation Office.

As we have already established, the “teaching room” left a lot to be desired. I was hoping it would be behind the safety of all the security doors. It wasn't. I was allocated a room that the probation officers used to meet with their cases, some of which were high risk and would later become my students. I got acquainted with my “new” office for the day. It didn't take long. There wasn't much of it.

I was there to teach people who had committed offenses related to drugs, alcohol, violence, theft, criminal damage, road traffic offenses and sexual offenses. These crimes, the people committing them, and their stories were part of my daily reality. It is safe to say that my workplace was a hostile, aggressive and nerve-wracking environment.

Before I met any student for the first time, I had to read a report telling me everything I needed to know about the person. This included information about their childhood, their education, work history and information about their key relationships and family members. And most importantly, their offenses. In minute detail. Oh, and what I needed to be aware of when I was with this person on my own for the next 60 minutes, including potential risk of harm they may cause me. It was riveting reading.

I had a stack of these reports on my desk and a full diary of students to work with one-on-one. Now remember, this is day one. Talk about initiation by immersion!

I started to read the reports. Within minutes I was overwhelmed by the intensity of what I was digesting. I can honestly say, my mind could not comprehend some of the offenses, especially the animal cruelty cases. I still feel sick to this day about a handful of cases I was involved with.

In 10 minutes my first student was due to walk through the door. And I was beyond terrified. I had never been in trouble with the law and had yet to sit eye-to-eye with someone that had. Terrified doesn't come close to how I was feeling on that first day.

I had read every single morsel of information about this person. I knew who they were, what they thought, what they had said and how they responded under pressure. I knew too much. Any time now I would receive a phone call from reception to collect this person from the waiting room for their first lesson.

For seven months, I met student after student one-on-one, teaching them English and math, just the two of us in a pokey little room. After seven months I was promoted to a senior role within the teaching department. I was exposed to more and more serious offenders and, for the first time, groups.

I got to know these people. And I realized something quickly. The report that I had read. It wasn't them.

What I learnt is that every single person I taught and spoke to had veered away from their true selves to meet external expectations; they had lost touch with their Authentic Self and this is the reason they had committed an offense. They had molded themselves into someone they thought might be more accepted or loved. Some people had put up barriers to protect themselves from being hurt any further, whilst the others had lived up to the expectations that their peers and/or family had of them. If you constantly hear as a kid “you are a bad boy,” that becomes ingrained into your subconsciousness. You are more likely to “act” that way. My students told me time and time again that they heard these messages about themselves as kids, so that is what they became.

After a few sessions working together, the desk became a real barrier to their learning, and to our emerging trust and respect...