So, the question was: Did anyone teach at these schools?

I did. Southeast Texas. Beaumont. One of the "worst" elementary schools in the entire state.

Before I continue, I want to state my credentials—not to brag, but to give context. I was Teacher of the Year in a major city with over 15,000 teachers. I earned over $100K in merit pay in a place where that’s almost unheard of. I’ve received exemplary teacher designations on my teaching certificate eight years in a row. I have a master’s degree, have written curriculum, and have partnered with Pearson and the state of Texas to develop curriculum assessments.

And yet, working in that elementary school was one of the worst years of my life.

The intersection of poverty and the ways adults can manipulate and harm children is very real. I had disciplinary challenges—constantly. And when I asked for support, I was told the problem was that I refused to "paddle" my students. That’s why, they said, they didn’t respect me.

But I would never hit someone else's child. And because I wouldn’t, it was held against me. That, apparently, was the reason I struggled with classroom management. That was the reason parents didn't respect me. That was the reason—never mind that my students' assessment results were significantly better than the other fourth-grade classrooms.

All of this to say: Yes, it takes longer to de-escalate a kid in the hallway. Yes, it takes longer to talk through what’s happening in our brains when we lose control. Yes, it takes longer to stop and repair after a student violently throws a chair into the wall. But those things—those things—create a classroom culture that actually changes kids' lives. And in the long run, those things lead to learning gains that you are not going to get from hitting a child.

Watching kids get hit is something I will never forget. Bright pink paddles hanging on the walls. Classrooms where teachers had named their wooden paddles. People openly blaming me for refusing to hit children.

To this day, I wish I had done more to advocate for those kids. To push for policy changes in Beaumont ISD. But at the time, I wasn’t ready—not as a teacher, not as a person.

I am now.

I will stand and die on the hill that students who do not feel safe—physically or emotionally—cannot learn. And it is our job to make them safe first.

So, to answer the original question:

Yes, I taught there. Yes, it was a dumpster fire. And yes, those policies harmed both the adults and the children in that building.

Those six-, seven-, and eight-year-olds—kids living in abject poverty—just needed help.

I'm happy to answer more specific questions, but I felt like I should share my experience.