Stories of trauma: How can we approach ‘dark content’ in schools?

Several years ago, while I was working at a secondary school in New Zealand, I chose to teach The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath to my Year 13 (final year) English class. It is a novel that is reasonably popular across the country in senior English classrooms, and I felt encouraged by the engaging class discussions and the strong insights that the novel provoked. I was eager to teach it again after some decidedly muted enthusiasm from students for previous book choices. However, at the end of the term I was approached by a counsellor colleague who had a firm request: please, don’t teach that novel again. Sadly, but not altogether unsurprisingly, the novel had resonated strongly with some of the students in the class. I was aware of this; several students had confided in me that the novel was powerful precisely because of this resonance. It made them feel, as they said, like they were not the only ones to feel the way they did.

I was not, I believe, unprepared introducing the material in The Bell Jar. I spoke to the class before they had laid eyes on the book and gave them content warnings (something discussed later in this article) about what they would encounter (which, in the case of this novel, covered a significant amount of traumatic material). I made it very clear that no one would be made to study the novel, that alternative texts and topics were available to study if they so chose, and that they could tell me in confidence, or anonymously, if they were uncomfortable with starting the novel, or continuing once they had started. I provided the opportunity for the class to vote on several novels and choose which one they wanted to study. The Bell Jar was the overwhelming favourite. Only one student in the class opted to study alternative material (he stayed in the class, and I relied heavily on small group work so that he was not exposed to the ideas and content of the novel).

I was surprised to hear that my colleague thought the book should not be taught, ever. She went on to suggest that teachers should strive only to teach material that was life affirming. It is a premise that I find enticing – the thought of delving only into content that is ‘light’ – uplifting, and affirming – is a comforting one. Even if we were to forgo teaching some of the most challenging material, such as The Bell Jar, the reality of only ever teaching life-affirming content is potentially problematic if it means that we cannot confront some of the most pressing and urgent issues our society faces. Assuming that we cannot totally avoid content that is dark, traumatic, or upsetting, this article seeks to investigate what the growing body of literature says about traumatic and dark content in the classroom, and what practices teachers should be considering when dealing with such material.

I wish to consider the parameters of this discussion. While I have a background as an English teacher and teacher librarian, and I have a particular interest in how fiction with traumatic content can be managed, the theories and strategies discussed throughout are not specific to any one learning area. As well, this article refers to trauma, traumatic experiences, and traumatic content in terms that are relatively broad. While some terms relating to trauma have strict psychological criteria, this article attempts to include the broadest category of material and content that might be considered traumatic. This is, in part, because we might assume that the majority of people have histories of trauma. These trauma histories could be caused by a range of experiences ranging from the impact of bushfires, to the impact of the pandemic, to personal loss and grief. One metaanalysis suggests that the rate of PTSD in university students is 9 to 12 per cent, whereas 66 to 85 per cent have trauma histories (Carello and Butler, 2014, p. 153). The most common reported traumatic events young people are exposed to are life-threatening illness or the death of a loved one (Carello and Butler, 2014, p. 157). We would do well to consider that the majority of people have a history of trauma, and that the experiences and triggers for each will vary wildly. Even for those that do not have a personal history of trauma, studies have shown that highly empathetic people may also be at risk for secondary traumatic stress after being exposed to traumatic material (Cless and Nelson Goff, 2017, p. 25). The pervasiveness of trauma exposure means that it must always be a consideration for teachers in their practice and for the content they deliver.

In the existing body of literature that considers traumatic material in the classroom there are, broadly speaking, two schools of thought. The first includes some teachers of writing, literature, and social sciences, who believe that there is something intrinsically cathartic, healing, enlightening, or otherwise necessary about teaching traumatic material in the classroom. Also included in this group are teachers who believe that traumatic content is part of life, and therefore believe we are coddling adolescents by not exposing them to traumatic material.

There is an extensive body of literature about the efficacy of bibliotherapy in addressing anything from COVID-19 anxiety (Monroy-Fraustro et. al., 2021) to improving students’ confidence in studying STEM (Furner, 2017), to supporting and empowering LGBTQIA adolescents (Vare and Norton, 2004). However, extending the strategies of bibliotherapy and writing therapy to focus on deeply traumatic content in the classroom is problematic, especially for those without training in counselling or psychotherapy.

Some more concerning examples of those who seek to use traumatic material as a kind of therapy include university instructors who ask that their students write about personal experiences of sexual assault (Linder, 2004; Berman, 2001). While some individuals may find catharsis and therapy in writing about personal traumas, feeling compelled to do so by a lecturer is not safe or productive. While both authors acknowledge the problems inherent in assigning such a task, Berman suggests that such tasks are a form of exposure therapy

analogous to a vaccine, and that “some classroom assignments and texts may induce symptoms not unlike those experienced when receiving a flu vaccination” (Berman, 2001, p. 251). Another author describes an instance where he, not wanting to “numb” student engagement by “forecasting” difficult material, unwittingly triggered a severe reaction in one of his students by exposing the class to graphic and shocking scenes of a car crash (Wolfsdorf et. al., 2019, p. 201). The student, it turned out, had several recent adverse experiences and tragedies involving car accidents and had a panicked response when unwittingly exposed to such explicit material. Such practices are not limited to university classrooms, however. Amber Moore, a secondary school teacher, describes how a novel study, which included a specific focus on sexual assault narratives, generated “angry and aggressive responses” from her students which was evidence of the “personal impact literature had on them” (Moore and Begoray, 2017, p. 178). Such findings, she suggests, “demonstrate the value of teaching trauma literature” (Moore and Begoray, 2017, p. 179).

This begs the question about what exactly the “value” of teaching trauma literature (or traumatic content) is. If, like Wolfsdorf, we have a belief in the Aristotelian theory of emotional shock and catharsis derived through literature (Wolfsdorf et al., 2019, p. 201), and we believe that the truest, most insightful learning and analysis will come from material that shocks, confronts and confounds, then perhaps there is true value in teaching traumatic content. However, if we believe that the value of teaching traumatic content is to express pain and foster healing (Moore and Begoray, 2017, p. 175), we are entering perilous territory and the risk of retraumatisation is high. While ignoring and suppressing any content relating to trauma in the classroom could possibly risk perpetuating shame, stigma and secrecy relating to trauma histories (Carello and Butler, 2014, p. 155), forcing students to contend with their deepest traumas in an attempt to ‘heal’ them is reckless, to say the least. We need to be extremely cautious and prepared if we are to introduce traumatic content.

The second of the two schools of thought regarding traumatic content in the classroom encompasses what we could broadly refer to as advocates for trauma-informed theory. To be trauma-informed “is to understand how violence, victimisation, and other traumatic experiences may have figured in the lives of the individuals involved and to apply that understanding to the provision of services and the design of systems so that they accommodate the needs and vulnerabilities of trauma survivors” (Carello and Butler, 2014, p. 156). In the available literature, advocates for trauma-informed practice include psychologists and social workers and, as a result, tend to take more nuanced views on the utility of traumatic content in the classroom than the educators discussed above. There is some literature that talks about the utility of traumatic material in higher education social work programs, or university level creative writing programs. There is very little empirical research and literature from psychologists regarding the utility or value of traumatic material in the secondary school classroom. Instead, they remind us that some of those in our classes have histories of trauma, and some content will inevitably be traumatic, so it is incumbent on us to be prepared with trauma-informed practices and knowledge.

There is a growing body of literature about what trauma-informed pedagogies and practices may look like in our classrooms. Perry and Daniels (2016) examine the implementation of trauma-informed practices in a pilot school in New Haven and provide recommendations for the implementation of such practices in other schools. Sarah Herzog, responding to the practices of Wolfsdorf (discussed above) suggests ways in which potentially traumatic content can be managed with content and trigger warnings (Wolfsdorf et. al., 2019). Cless and Nelson Goff (2017) introduce a trauma-informed model for covering traumatic content in the classroom, albeit in the context of a trauma studies program where traumatic material is not only expected, but a fundamental component of learning. Brunzell, Waters and Stokes (2015) discuss a combined model of trauma-informed practices working in tandem with a Positive Education model (practices including “mindfulness, character strengths, positive emotion, resilience, hope, and growth mindset” [Brunzell et. al., 2015, p. 601), and how this model was implemented in a pilot school in Victoria, Australia. Brunzell and Norrish (2021) develop this model more fully in a recently published book which takes lessons from case studies and provides strategies for introducing traumainformed and strengths-based strategies into schools.

Carello and Butler (2014, p. 163-164) offer a number of steps that we might consider when we think about what trauma-informed practice might mean for our classrooms. The following excerpts are taken from their article (p. 163-4):

a) Identify learning as the primary goal, and student emotional safety as a necessary condition for it;

b) Recognise that many students have trauma histories that may make them vulnerable;

c) Be prepared to provide referrals to your institution’s counselling service;

d) Appreciate how a trauma history may impact your students’ academic performance, even without trauma being a topic in the classroom;

e) Become familiar with the scientific research on trauma;

f) Become familiar with the clinical literature on traumatic transference … to better understand your students’ and your own reactions to traumatic material;

g) Understand the limitations and potential pitfalls of generalising laboratory research to other contexts; and,

h) Check any assumptions that trauma is good (or even romantic).

In considering the point that student emotional safety is necessary for learning, we might think about the value of content warnings before any traumatic material. While warnings might be content-specific (i.e., “this material depicts sexual violence”) such specificity could isolate those who don’t want to ‘out’ themselves as being affected or overwhelmed by a particular issue (Wolfsdorf et. al., 2019, p. 212). Instead, a trauma-informed approach could mean that students have advance warnings about potentially traumatic material (that is to say, not immediately before the material is presented), and they are empowered to make choices that help them to manage their reactions, even if this means that they temporarily step out of a lesson (Wolfsdorf et. al., 2019, p. 213). We must ensure that students have a sense of agency and empowerment, and that they feel a sense of control about when they are exposed to traumatic content.

It is pleasing to see the proliferation of workshops that aim to equip practitioners with the skills and knowledge of traumainformed practice. Organisations such as the Blue Knot Foundation offer workshops for those wishing to learn more about trauma-informed theory, and, as of 2019, the NSW Department of Education has been delivering a pilot program for professional development of trauma-informed practice in education. Trauma-informed practice has been significant for social workers, refugee support workers and those supporting victims of sexual and domestic violence. It is positive that this work is being undertaken by the NSW Department of Education to increase the knowledge and skills of teachers in this area. In parallel to this, it would be intriguing to see further research done on teachers’ beliefs and practices regarding traumatic content in the classroom. There is a lack of empirical research regarding the extent and effects (positive or negative) of traumatic material in secondary school classrooms (Carello and Butler, 2014, p. 155). While there are ethnographic studies focusing on teacher practice (Moore and Beogray, 2017; Walters and Anderson, 2021; Linder, 2004), it is important that empirical research is done to understand the impact and utility of traumatic material in secondary schools.

In the years since I taught The Bell Jar, I have grappled with the suggestion that it should not be taught in schools. I am under no illusion that depictions of suicidality, self-harm and gendered violence make reading novels such as The Bell Jar difficult for some, and impossible for others. Considering the unique place it holds in the canon of women’s literature, and the feminist discourse central to the novel, it would be unfortunate if it no longer had any place in schools. Women and girls are more likely to be victims of sexual and domestic violence, and victim-centred depictions of sexual and domestic violence are often found in women’s literature. Removing representations of sexual and domestic violence (under the guise of removing trauma-stories) risks silencing the voices of those impacted by gendered violence. Indeed, it does seem that many examples of great women’s literature commonly taught in secondary schools (Beloved, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, The Handmaid’s Tale, The Color Purple, Black Water) contain traumatic material, particularly depictions of sexual and domestic violence. In turn, we ought to consider whether any attempt to do away with traumatic literature might disproportionally affect literature telling stories of women’s lives. This is concerning when there is already so little attention on women’s literature in

Australian classrooms; only two of the 15 most commonly taught novels in Australian schools are written by women (Davies, 2019). When women’s literature is perilously under-represented in many Australian classrooms, it is a shame to think of what stories and voices may be lost.

It is also true that young people are exposed to a wide range of traumatic content in the media that they consume outside of school. The same year that I taught The Bell Jar, one of the more popular shows viewed by younger audiences was 13 Reasons Why (rated MA15+ in Australia). Arguably, this show had far more problematic depictions of suicidality than The Bell Jar, and yet many young people who viewed the series would do so without adult guidance or space to talk through the ideas that the show presented. When students told me that the experiences of Esther Greenwood resonated strongly with them, I could empathise with the feelings that had while also offering suggestions for further support services they may want to consider. If we completely evade difficult topics in the classroom, we may inadvertently perpetuate the silencing and repression of some trauma (Wolfsdorf et. al., 2019, p. 213). However, if we are incautious in how we approach traumatic material we risk doing significant harm. Whether we accept the invitation to only teach that which is life-affirming, or if we believe that teaching traumatic content is essential if we are to confront the most significant problems in our society, we still must acknowledge that the safety and empowerment of our students is paramount. While studying traumatic material may be important for learning, no learning can take place if someone feels traumatised.

References

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