So far I've only shared a bit of my poetry on this blog. This is a short story I wrote about the real events surrounding my first teaching experience. Names have been changed, but the events are true and for me...very powerful memories of a time that shaped who I am as a teacher today.
First Classroom
The feeling of utter panic standing in front of that class left me speechless. Panic doesn’t do justice to the fear that rippled through me threatening my whole being. Those moments stretched on. I had no words and the air in the room seemed to be crushing me. I wanted to run, but I had nowhere to go. It was time to face the fear. How did this happen to me? What am I doing?
I didn’t know fear had its own dimension. I remember standing in front of that classroom looking into the faces of the students assigned to me. As much as I wanted to know what they were thinking, I’m sure they were wondering about me. The entire wall on the right, from the door to the window in the back of the room, was a series of empty bookshelves. This class of emotionally disturbed teens, as they were called in 1980, contained throwaway kids. My first impression was that they weren’t even worth the cost of some books to learn from. I know that fact wasn’t lost on them. They knew who they were and what people thought of them and at this juncture, neither added up to much of anything.
These kids were beautiful to the eye, strong, and mean spirited. They stared at me and I at them until an introduction blurted out of me. Of course it was met with laughter and jeers. These students were not going to be easy.
The principal had given me a box of chalk and with the newspaper I’d brought from home, my teaching career began. I tried reading news to them, talking about the weather, even trying to engage them in the sporting news of the day, but they would not sit still or be quiet enough to even know I was talking.
After the first day, the principal asked me if I liked the class. What was I to say? No, I hated it. Those kids are a pain in the ass. Of course not, I needed this job. “The day went well,” I lied. “The kids are great. We’ll do well together.”
He smiled knowing I was bullshitting. It was then he said the class was mine. When I asked about the teacher assigned to the class, he told me how on the previous day, the class aid had been absent. The teacher’s guard was down and the kids put her head through the window. They pushed her up and down on the broken glass necessitating over eighty stitches to her face. She would not be returning. I thought I was scared before, but this news had me reeling. Walking to the car that day, I was numb. How could I return to that room with those kids knowing what I now knew about them? Yet, I knew I’d have to.
The next day came and they were all there waiting for me. It felt like punishment then, but in retrospect, it was a good thing. I had piqued their interest enough that they wanted to come back and toy with me another day. I had to teach all subjects since these students were too dangerous to be a part of the general school population. They wanted nothing to do with teaching and learning or the three R’s. The only person who appeared to be paying any attention to me was the classroom aid.
This stalemate went on day after day. Not wanting to burden my husband with my misery only intensified what I was feeling. In the morning, I’d decide if I was up to another day of the cat and mouse game we were playing. As a mouse, I was definitely losing the battle. My sick days were vanishing quickly. I was definitely hiding from this reality I hated.
On days I went in, I try to teach something, come up with something that would get their attention, but they weren’t biting. Everyday I’d have to break up fights, pulling furious, frothy felons off each other so we could resume the game. After a few incidents of embarrassing fight scenes with me in heels and skirts, being dragged around, ending up with my skirts up revealing far too much, I changed wardrobe to jeans and sneakers. I became much faster on my feet and quicker off the jump for each new daily war.
As the days passed, I got to know the personalities at work in that room. Louis was a tall, lean young man convicted of weapons charges. Louis had a hot and fiery temper. He brought handcuffs to school each day and locked himself onto his desk so it would slow him down if he were trying to seriously hurt someone. On several occasions, it gave me a few additional seconds to get him into active restraint before there were any injuries.
Morty was a chunky, street kid who grazed off other kids trays at lunch. He dared anyone to say no to him. He was round everywhere and as cute at fifteen as he probably was at five. He had a special ability in the fine art of torment, which usually resulted in him being on the bottom of any pile in a fight scene.
Carlo looked well fed, but he was starving emotionally. He was beautiful, but dangerous. His stony, cold, black eyes told a story of abuse, that done to him and that done by him. As with all these students, Carlo had a criminal record, which he wore like a badge of honor.
Little Wally, ‘Yellow Boy’, had multiple strikes against him. He was short, skinny, and had very pale yellow skin. According to his peers, he was a half-breed, a denomination of skin color, which fell short of being acceptable. What made it hard for him was that he wore all his emotions on his sleeve for everyone to latch onto and abuse. His response to life was not unlike that of a small dog tormented by a long stick. He was always ready to fight.
Dwayne’s emotional disturbance was directly related to a very obvious physical defect he was unfortunate enough to be gifted with at birth. Dwayne was born without ears. His parent kept his head shaved so there was no way of hiding it. Dwayne wore a headset that took environmental sound and vibrated it against his skull. With that support, Dwayne could speak somewhat understandably, but he could hear very little. His convictions came as a result of fights, which had their origins in self-defense.
James T. was a sad and lonely, young man. When push came to shove, James’ rather withdrawn personality exploded into flashes of violence. He was unpredictable and pushing his buttons was not unlike playing Russian roulette.
Daryl, the tallest ex-con in my class, was well over six feet tall. He had delusions that he was, in fact, a famous basketball star. God bless anyone who challenged his belief. Many fights were started with, “Yeah, right – sure you are…”
Lastly, there was Carlita. A diamond in the ruff or perhaps she was a rough diamond. My girl had six brothers and if that wasn’t enough to toughen her up, she spent her days with thirteen certified emotionally disturbed male classmates. I believe this was the student that evoked the most fear from the others. The boys didn’t quite know how to cope with Carlita when she had her moments.
There were others in this class but the cast of characters mentioned really were the leaders who impacted the dynamics of the class, both positively and negatively.
When I had exhausted my ten sick days and the additional personal leave, I came to a realization. I had no choice but to do the job. I needed to go in there every day and find a way to reach these kids or I’d have to quit. I’ve never quit anything in my life and I remember feeling I’d be damned if I’d start now. I needed this job and the day-to-day bullshit was beating me down. I would not let them do it any longer. The game was up.
I look back now and can see that the ongoing battle was a challenge. They were testing me. Was I tough enough? Committed enough? Did I care enough to stay? Was I real or just bullshitting them like nearly everyone else had in their pasts?
The final battle for classroom control was waged over a three-day period. I wasn’t sure of anything I was doing, but instinctively it felt right. When the day began as usual with me talking and the class laughing at me, I quietly walked to the back of the room, past those empty shelves, sat at my empty desk, in front of that broken window and read the newspaper. When I finished the paper, I took out a book I had brought from home. I read and they played. The aid looked confused. This was a new game with shifting rules. Day two of the battle for control went almost exactly like the first day. By day three when I went back to the desk a few of the kids began to look at me as they played. I kept an outward appearance of absolute calm, but inside I was terrified. If my battle strategy failed, I had nothing else. After lunch on the third day of the standoff, they began getting agitated by my lack of participation in their game. Carlita challenged me first, “Hey, what you think you doin’?”
I replied very calmly, “Reading.”
“What the hell? You supposed to teach? What the fuck? Crazy bitch.”
Inside I felt a slight glimmer of hope. They were finally seeing me and wanted more from me than a proctor.
“I’ll teach when you are all ready to learn. You have to decide when that will be.” I went on to tell them I got paid whether I sat here and read all day or if I stood up and tried to teach them something. Since I wasn’t going anywhere, I was just going to take it easy until they were ready.
I saw them look at each other and a few quiet, somewhat reticent voices said, “Alright.” I went back to the book, and again Carlita spoke up.
“Hey, didn’t you hear. We ready. Shit.”
Somehow those three days of reading tipped the balance of power my way. By allowing them the choice, I probably gave them more respect then they had ever been given before. I wasn’t there to jam information down their throat that they didn’t want or need. They choose a positive direction and we were on our way.
On of the first lessons was a ‘circle.’ I had remembered someone talking about doing counseling circles and that they were effective. I jumped in without any counseling training or a plan. What I took to that circle was absolute honesty and something happened. The kids got honest too. The circles took up most of every afternoon and sometimes the open exchanges led to restraint of one or more duelers but as time went on, the fights diminished in frequency. I asked the kids what they wanted to learn. No one had ever consulted them before. Most of the time they looked at me like I was a freak with three heads but these times were forging a relationship that deepened their trust in me and that was the ticket.
Authentically revealing myself to them made me very vulnerable. I was giving them the ammunition they needed to rip me apart, but I trusted my instincts. I saw in them many of the things I, too, grew up with. I shared my personal history of abuse and neglect, admitted I was a bastard child. As different as our appearance and choices were, we shared history. They began to open up to me and to each other.
The days began to have a positive feel and appeared much more like a real classroom. We had focused lessons throughout the morning using books I begged, borrowed, and stole. We studied things that the kids wanted to know. The majority of these students had lived their whole lives in the Germantown area of Philadelphia and none had ever seen the Liberty Bell or knew its significance in our nation’s history. They didn’t know Philadelphia was a city in the state of Pennsylvania. They needed to be taught everything and now, at last, they were listening.
We played basketball every day before lunch so no one would have the energy to fight at lunch and the afternoons were spent in the safety and security of our circle.
There were still many fights to break up and events that made my blood run cold. I saved a life, saved my own, and witnessed a murder. All three occasions taught me more about myself, and showed the students more about who I was and who they were becoming. However, with the new balance of power, I realized it wasn’t just me teaching them, but we were teaching each other.
Dwayne sat quietly as Morty snuck up behind him. Not able to hear his attacker coming, he was caught completely off guard as Morty pulled out Dwayne’s headset and let it snap back against his head. Dwayne exploded in a wail and within seconds had our School District of Philadelphia Intramural Basketball Championship trophy in his hand. He pulled back his arm and released the trophy in a direct flight toward Morty’s back. Thanking God for my sneakers and jeans, I was able to dive from my position in the room, diverting the flight of the trophy from Morty into the wall. Both boys had to go to the office after that incident. Even though I saved Morty’s life, I supported Dwayne through the process with authority. We talked about what happened in the group. The students also supported Dwayne. They were seeing that their old idea of fun was really dangerous and destructive. Giving Dwayne the heads up from the group made him feel some measure of acceptance. A tragedy diverted became a positive for everyone, except Morty.
The day I saved my own life was far enough into the year that I really can’t be sure if I truly had something to worry about or if in fact, it was just fun, in an emotionally disturbed kind of way.
The class aid was absent this day. Deja vue to the day the last teacher was forcibly retired from this position. Sitting at my desk next to the still broken window, I was chatting with a few of the boys before the day began. Louis was there with his handcuffs. I reached out my right arm and jokingly asked Louis if I might see them. In a lightning flash, I felt the cold steel wrap around my wrist and almost instantly heard the click of the partner cuff on the upper drawer of my big, metal desk. I was in a perfect position for a repeat of the last teacher’s fate. Louis looked at me, his face broadening into a flat smile. I couldn’t read his intentions and that’s what scared me. I knew I couldn’t let him sense my fear. He said menacingly, “Whatcha gonna do if I drop this key down the heating vent?”
I looked at him squarely in the eyes and said as coolly as I could, “Well, I suppose I’ll have to pull out this drawer and start swinging it. I don’t think I’ll be too careful about what I hit with it.”
He looked back directly into my eyes and after what seemed like a long minute of silence, his face broke into a silly smile and he said, “Be cool, Ms. E. I’m jus playin’.” He immediately unlocked my arm and gave me the cuffs. I made a point of playing with them for a few minutes before handing them back. I didn’t want him to see my hands shaking. I remember feeling this same fear at the hands of my childhood abuser, but you could never show your terror. That admission only fed their anger. This knowledge served me well.
Carlita was a huge presence the day I witnessed a murder. Since Carlita was ‘my girl’ and we had established a relationship beyond that of a teacher/student, she felt comfortable sharing things with me that she couldn’t trust to anyone else. In the past she introduced me to her best friend, a fourteen-year-old mother of a three-year-old daughter. Even raised in a small town where pregnancy at an early age wasn’t that unusual, I was unprepared for this. When this girl was twenty-one, my age, her child would be starting middle school. I enjoyed Carlita’s friend and the baby. She was also troubled but without the benefit of an IEP, she was an emotionally disturbed class wannabe. By this time, many needy kids had found their way to my classroom both before school and after. The day of the murder was a warm day in May. Carlita was very edgy and confided in me that she was worried about her friend. She said some girl was ‘talking’ to her friend’s latest boyfriend and she was pissed off. During the end of circle time, we heard shouts from outside. We were on the third floor and could see clearly the scene developing just under our still shattered window. A crowd of students formed a cohesive circle around the two girls who were obviously engaged in a heated, verbal exchange. Teachers on duty sent out an alert and before long there were several leaping around the tightly knit crowd. The verbal assault quickly became a very violent physical battering. I recognized one of the girls as Carlita’s friend. Carlita was becoming hysterical knowing there was nothing she could do to help from our window. She was screaming to her friend to stop, but the beating continued. At last, Carlita’s friend had beaten the other girl to the ground. The girl lay on her side, obviously seriously injured. Carlita’s friend continued to scream at the girl, kicking her sides, her back and her head. The crowd of students was encouraging her. Finally, in one last assault, she stomped on the girl’s skull with her wooden Dr. Scholl’s sandals. They were advertised to be soothing to the soles, but on this day they were used to shatter skulls. As the bloodstain spread around the girl’s head in a crimson halo, the crowd began to ease back allowing the teachers access to the dead or dying girl. The next thing I remember was Carlita’s arms around my neck, her cries of anguish in my ear, and her tears washing down my neck. I also felt gentle hands from the male students moving Carlita and I away from the window. We sat in that embrace in our circle, so much different than the one below, with Carlita crying and the boys surrounding us, protecting us from this new ‘thing’ we needed to get through. This tragedy was something we would handle together. Somehow, we had become one.
We talked many weeks about the senselessness of violence and how prevalent it was in all our lives. We talked about alternatives, and they were listening. We still had many glitches like the drinking party the boys had for my twenty-second birthday, but overall, the rest of my time spent in this classroom was good. I was their teacher, and their friend, and finally they were mine.
James T. began to write songs, Dwayne and I learned sign language and had our own personal communication that was special just to him, and Daryl gave up his fantasy of being in the NBA, went to a vocational school, became a plumber, and was earning more than me after two years. I protected Carlo from an abusive encounter with his father at school. Dad was removed from the home and Carlo finally found some peace. Little Wally found out he was really very intelligent and worked hard at his schoolwork. Carlita suffered the loss of her friend to the prison system, but tried to spend time with her friend’s family so the baby would at least grow up knowing someone her Mom’s age.
My class baked a cake, brought chips, and soda to school so that they could surprise me on my birthday. These kids who had nothing did that for me. I trusted them and they trusted me. I hosted a dinner for them at my home. People thought I was crazy for showing these criminal kids where I lived, but I knew something they didn’t know. I had the privilege of knowing their pain, their stories, and their hearts, and I knew I could trust them.
The following year I was returned to that class in September. I had ten more sick days but I didn’t use them. We were all very upset when teaching staff was again shifted and I was moved to a spot that needed a Caucasian teacher. We talked in circle about holding onto what has been learned and moving forward. Taking my own advice was difficult. I didn’t want to leave ‘my kids’ and they didn’t want me to go. The time had come to move on. There were new students who needed me. I took the lessons I learned and reluctantly left my first class of ‘teachers.’
We kept in contact for several years. Most of my kids survived; remained tough through the adversity they faced and made something better of their lives. A few didn’t make it. I learned you can’t save them all but you have to stay engaged in the battle to save those you can.
Chickapea
