More Than Just the Basics, Christopher

by Rebecca Thomas

There’s a phrase that resurfaces whenever education drifts back into political conversation.

“Just teach the basics.”

I’ve never known a day in my teaching career that felt “basic”.

Teaching is many things — joyful, exhausting, surprising — but simple has never been one of them.

Still, it’s the kind of sentence that reassures adults who haven’t stood in a classroom for a while. It suggests learning is mostly about content — facts delivered, knowledge transferred, boxes ticked — so progress can be measured, gains can be claimed, and success can be neatly announced.

But it rests on a quiet assumption.

That children arrive ready.

This time of year reminds me how far from true that is.

We know how long it takes us to get back into rhythm after a break. We name it gently — easing back in and finding our feet. Yet children are expected to switch overnight. New teachers. New rooms. New faces. New rules. Sometimes even a new school. And they’re meant to do it calmly, compliantly, and without fuss.

For some children, this isn’t a return at all.

It’s their very first arrival.

For others — particularly neurodivergent children and those carrying trauma — the shift isn’t just emotional. It’s neurological.

During the holidays, most of us regulate ourselves without really noticing we’re doing it. Chocolate. Movement. Swimming. Scrolling. Reading. Silence. Noise. Familiar routines that help our nervous systems settle.

Children do the same.

Their regulation might come from gaming, social media, films, park missions, snack food, headphones, staying close to people who feel safe. These aren’t just preferences. They’re ways of keeping their brains steady — small dopamine anchors that support focus, motivation, and emotional balance.

When school starts, many of those anchors disappear overnight.

Now picture stepping into a room full of unfamiliar people, some you don’t yet trust, some who don’t know your name, and being told that the things that helped you feel okay last week are no longer allowed.

It’s not defiance that shows up then.

It’s disorientation.

I often think about it like this.

Imagine leaving the beach in your togs. You stop at a café. Then the supermarket. Then a meeting. At what point do your togs become unacceptable? How far do you have to walk before people start questioning your choice?

For many children, the start of term feels exactly like that.

They’ve been living in a world that made sense to their bodies and brains, and suddenly that same way of being is labelled inappropriate, disruptive, wrong. The line has moved — but no one has clearly marked where it now sits.

Some children adjust quickly. Others don’t. Not because they don’t want to learn, but because the transition is sharp and the expectations are invisible.

This is where the idea of “just teaching the basics” starts to unravel.

Because the basics of content are not the same as the basics of learning.

Before reading, writing, and maths can take hold, children need something more fundamental: a body that feels safe, a brain that feels settled, and an environment that doesn’t require constant self-protection.

Teachers feel this tension too.

There are programmes to begin, books to issue, routines to establish, duties to remember, whānau to greet, expectations to meet. Pressure arrives early in the year, and when it does, patience can thin. Not from lack of care, but from systems that prioritise pace over people.

Children sense it immediately.

A clipped instruction.

A sigh.

An eye roll.

For us, it’s a moment.

For a child, it can become evidence.

I’ve watched children who can’t say “I need help” without their chest tightening. Sometimes what keeps them in the room is a quiet signal, a shared understanding, a way to ask without being exposed.

I’ve seen regulation return not through discipline, but through movement woven into routine, through music during pack-up, through permission to fidget without shame.

I’ve seen children open up when they’re invited to share a special interest rather than perform a version of themselves that feels safe for adults.

I’ve seen how three clear choices can calm a nervous system far more effectively than an open-ended demand.

And I’ve seen how sensory details — light, sound, smell, crowded walls — can make a child look “difficult” when what they’re actually experiencing is overload.

None of this replaces learning.

It makes learning possible.

I’ve also seen how all of this is happening at once.

While one child is unravelling, another is waiting for reassurance, another is bored, another is masking, another is about to cry, and another is testing where the edges are — all before the clock has reached 9:15.

In those moments, teachers are making dozens of decisions in seconds. Reading faces. Adjusting tone. Weighing whether to intervene or hold back. Choosing humour over correction. Movement over consequence. Connection over control.

Not because it’s written in a manual —and certainly not because it’s been orchestrated by a national politician in Wellington.

But because they’re managing thirty-plus nervous systems in one shared space, and trying to keep them from colliding.

It’s invisible work. Relational work. Skilled work. 

You can’t teach multiplication to a child who’s still wondering if they’re allowed to exist in the room as themselves.

You can’t “just teach reading” when a student’s brain is busy managing sensory overload, social uncertainty, or the fear of getting it wrong in front of others.

The basics matter. Of course they do.

But they don’t float in on their own.

They arrive carried by relationships.

The intermediate years add another layer again. Social identity shifts. Friendships become fragile and central. Embarrassment lurks everywhere. Children can be brave at the gate and unravel by lunchtime.

They don’t need adults who tighten control.

They need adults who stay steady.

Because children don’t decide to feel safe. Safety is something the environment gives them — through tone, timing, humour, patience, and the quiet message that they are not in trouble for needing time.

Slow down.

Take your time.

If teaching were just the basics, Christopher, this would be easy.

I'm glad that educators know that our children are people to be met.

And the basics of that work have never been simple.