Lousy Day In The Schools

Lest anyone get the idea I have all the answers or even the right questions, I present today's seventh period class, a fairly complete disaster for your amusement and edification. 

I was trying to teach a lesson ostensibly about a poem, but really about compassion and how we recover from the fight that broke out a few days ago after school. It was the same lesson that went perfectly fifth period. That should have given me pause, lightning not striking the same place twice, but I thought I had planned well enough to weather most anything. 

They came in riled up. The class is mostly seniors with a handful of eighth- through eleventh-graders. Several are challenging and I don't have enough desks so kids sit on the heater and at the back table. It's not ideal. Within the first minute I knew they were going to be difficult. This is how it goes sometimes. 

I reeled in some of them, but not many, not enough. Four were glued to phones. I mentioned that it would be good to put phones away. No dice. Two of them were messaging each other and dissolving into giggles. Within five minutes I asked one to leave, but knew it wouldn't really help. I was losing them. They were pretty much gone.  

I went through the lesson from fifth period, but it was no good. Our special ed teacher took two tough kids to a reading test. A senior came in from who knows where. Each interruption derailed us. Mostly I tried to keep people from talking about other things, arguing, and swearing. 

Pressing on, we read the poem and tried to discuss it, but I kept interrupting: "please put the phones aside," "don't touch her," "please watch your language," "yes, you can go to the bathroom," "come back together, folks," and a half dozen other ineffective things. I set up the writing prompt and asked, "are we ready to write?" A guy on the heater asked, "about what?!" I explained again just in time for a senior to ask, "what are we supposed to write about?" Before I could answer, a younger kid asked, "can we write about anything?" I pointed to the prompt on the board. Perhaps I should have texted this shit to them. 

Some of us wrote. Two never started. One stopped after two sentences. "I'm done." No, I explained. We write for the whole time (nine minutes today). I had explained this before we began. It has been S.O.P. since September. We write to get from the first idea into the second and third, to see where our pens and minds take us. "But I'm done," the kid said. I may have sighed. I kept my pen moving on the page, hoping it would be enough to keep some of them writing. 

Some did. Some listened to the poem and thought about it. Some even got the idea about compassion and empathy. But that's not what I took away from class. I was angry, frustrated, and wishing most of them would skip class from now on or maybe transfer. I didn't and don't hate them, but I didn't much like them today.  

Am I allowed to say this? 

I'm not a teacher who loves his students. When the school year is over, I move on. Their lives are up to them, not me. I'm happy if I see some of them (especially if I can remember their names). I shrug when the news says they've been arrested, arraigned, or sentenced, Oh well, I say. Who's next? 

I'll have to try and teach that group of students again and again this month and next. Who knows how it will go? It doesn't have as much to do with my preparation as some believe. I was prepared today, just not for them as they were. Success in schools is a lot about their moods (and mine), the weather, and luck. A crowded classroom often tumbles into chaos and disappointment. Today was chaotic. It was disappointing as hell and pissed me right off. 

I blame them. So there. 

To paraphrase Art Buchwald, I gave them a perfect lesson, and they screwed it up. Schools would work just great if not for the damn kids. That's the only real school reform to consider. I'm in favor of it. Today, I am. Tomorrow, I might feel otherwise. For now, I'm pouring a glass of bourbon, adding one ice cube, and going outside with the dog to watch the sun set. 

Understanding In The Schools

There’s this kid in my class—I’ll call him Frank—he doesn’t say much. Each day, I wait outside my classroom and greet each kid by name. Every time I say hello, Frank acts as though he has not heard me, stares at his phone, and passes by. I usually shake hands or bump fists, but Frank refuses. I’ve stopped extending my hand or fist so as not to annoy him, but I still nod and say hello to show him respect and teach him that this is how things are done. 

In class, Frank sits alone at a table he pulls over near the wall. He doesn’t interact with me and usually has to be asked twice to do things. I ask gently and ask too if there is anything I can do to be of use to him. He doesn’t respond.

Yesterday Frank hadn’t gotten out pen and paper and I mentioned it quietly to him for a third time: “If you can, please put down today’s date so we can get ready to write.” Frank was busy on Snapchat but responded softly, “next time that motherfucker say anything, I bust him up.” I said, “you can leave now.” He went. 

Later in the period, I stopped by the office. Frank was there. I stayed more than an arm’s-length away as I squatted so that I was below his level. I don’t want to be threatening or the victim of a right hook. I said, “I’ve been nothing but kind to you. I’ll continue to be kind. Do you know that you abuse me?” 

Frank said nothing. Frank refused to engage, but he heard me. I’m sure he took it as a challenge. I don’t want to challenge him to a fight, but I do want to challenge him to hear someone criticize him without it becoming a fight. I bet that’s rare in his life. I waited a few seconds in case he wanted to talk, saw that he didn’t, thanked him, and went back to class. 

Later yesterday, I asked the social worker to arrange a meeting for the three of us. Frank and I weren’t going to make progress without help. We had that meeting today. We didn’t make much progress. 

I kept quiet, letting the social worker speak first. Frank got his phone out and busied himself with it. The social worker talked. Then I said, “I was hoping we could talk about how you and I get along. I feel I’ve been kind to you but you’re pretty abusive to me.” Frank said he don’t do nothing to me. “Maybe you could put your phone aside so we can talk.” Frank said he was listening. I felt myself getting frustrated. “I wonder if you were trying to tell me something and I had my head in my phone how that would go.” Frank said he didn’t give a fuck. 

This isn’t unusual in my line of work. Still, it gets to me. In two decades I’ve run through most of the reactions to this sort of thing. Only two work well. The first is to nod and wait it out. When I’m at my best, I do just that. However, that also requires something of the kid. Today I wasn’t at my best and Frank wasn’t going to budge, so I got up and left. I told the social worker and Frank. “Please, excuse me” walked out, closed the door gently, and went back to class. 

Frank and the social worker talked without me likely making more progress than if I had stayed. I returned to class feeling frustrated, apologized to the students for having been gone, and said, “if I seem frustrated tell me to get over it.” One shouted, “Get over it!” I smiled. 

I don’t know that I’ve gotten over anything, but I’m not under much of anything either. It’s a thing that happened and I don’t yet understand it much. This is how it goes in schools. Things happen. We react or respond (maybe a little of both). Then more things happen and we don’t understand much of it right away. It reminds me of parenting. 

When I left the meeting with the social worker and Frank did I give up, surrender, choose discretion over valor, or something else? I don’t know. Ask me next October. By then I might have some idea. 
 

Rules Of The Game In The Schools

Let me tell you a sad story.

Frank, a student who has been out of school for months, came to see me. At first, I had no idea why. He asked for "anything that can get me at least an 80 in this class." Then I understood. Sadness came over me as it always does when this happens. And this always happens. 

My school, like almost every school I know, is primarily focused on kids passing classes and graduating. The lowest grade we are allowed to give for the first three quarters is a fifty. Thus Frank, when he misses an entire quarter, still receives a fifty. There’s also a mandatory final exam in each class weighted as a kind of fifth quarter. This is all designed so the Franks can pass. I know of no requirement for seat time in New York State. I will gather the work for the past quarter, give it to him, grade what he returns, and likely put a passing grade on his report card. This is the sad part of the story.

Frank is a good enough kid for someone whose home life is completely fucked. When he's bad, he's bad, but mostly he's more of a houseplant taking up some space, head down, phone out, waiting for the bell. Today, he was energetic, saying, "I can do this, I can do this." He probably can. 

The sad part is what he’s being asked to do which doesn’t have much to do with learning. It turns out that learning doesn’t have that much to do with grading. Grades, honest teachers will tell you, are mostly about work completed. (Really honest teachers admit that grades also have to do with race, gender, parents, and economics.) Frank is required to do the work but not to learn. 

In the past I would have blamed my school, but it's not my school’s fault. To quote Pacino in And Justice For All, "The whole system's out of order!" But it's largely okay. Kids who play the game do well either by learning or just doing the work. Kids who don't play, usually fail, but some like Frank wise up near the end and take a bus to the marathon's finish line because there’s no rule saying they can’t.  

To be honest, when Frank came to me today I rolled my eyes and felt myself getting upset. But I remembered the game we’re playing, gave him some work, and when he hands that in I’ll give him more. After Frank left, a kid asked, "doesn't it piss you off when a kid can blow off the whole year and you have to pass him?" I smiled and recited a line I have taped beside my desk: 

"I have no thoughts about that which I care to express at this time." 

This is the game we play in schools. It's a sad story for students, schools, and society, but that’s how schools are. As for me, I'm reminded of the scene in Bull Durham when they are going over cliches: "I'm just happy to be here, hope I can help the ball club." I don't make the rules; I just play the game. Sad story, but it's all true. 

FU In The Schools

I teach at-risk kids. It’s mostly a good job. The kids are mostly good. Even when they’re bad, they usually aren’t that bad to me. Had I written this in September when I had the worst class I’ve ever taught, I might have sounded different, but that’s why you should never listen to a teacher vent their spleen. It’s April and, as a friend used to say all year round, “it’s almost June!” I’m calmer now, have the classroom running well, and it might now be worth listening to me talk about what happens when a kid loses control in school. That’s what happened today. It didn’t happen to me or in my classroom, but I heard it and got to thinking.

The kid in question is volatile. That’s a nicer description of him than I’d have used in September. I’ve grown to enjoy the kid, whom I’ll call Frank, and we have found ways to work together. Frank says most of whatever is on his mind at any moment and has been taught that it’s endearing to be negative, nasty, and foul-mouthed. I’m not making fun of him or embellishing here. He really does think this is the way to be and he is very confused and upset when it goes poorly for him. An example from this morning’s class with him might help.

Frank came back to school after almost a week of skipping. I was genuinely happy to see him, but rather than squeal or carry on (you’d be surprised how many people do that to a kid already feeling weird about coming back to school and how destructive it is), I said, “hey, Frank, good to see you this morning.” I said it calmly and with only the hint of a smile and a nod of my head. I knew before he spoke how he would reply. Frank said, “well, it fucking sucks to be here.” This is Frank.

This is me. I nodded twice at him, paused, and said, “yeah, but I’m glad to see you and isn’t what I feel all that really matters here?” Frank smiled at that. “You’re a crackhead, Brian,” he said. I shrugged and we went from there. The hour went well. Frank really does believe that he’s being friendly or funny when he says these things. While it can be a bit of a drain, I’ve learned to take his comments and mannerisms as a kind of friendliness or at least an attempt at it. It turns out that calling me a crackhead and letting me get away with my joke about me being the one who matters is Frank showing me respect. It only took me five months to figure that out.

Three hours later I heard Frank telling another teacher to go fuck himself. The exact words were, “fuck you, fuck, you, fuck you; I don’t have to do a fucking thing you fucking tell me to, you fucking asshole piece of shit!” (semicolon mine). This was a whole other thing than mine and Frank’s morning greeting. He was screaming all this loud enough to be heard all the way down the hall. It’s important to remember all that yelling when I get around to thinking about what Frank was trying to do in all this, but before I go there, let’s hear from the teacher who said everything you would expect him to say. It turns out that everything you expect is all wrong.

The teacher said, “You can’t talk to me like that!” Frank kept right on talking how he wanted to. The teacher asked, “What did you say?” after Frank swore at him and so Frank swore at him even louder. The teacher moved on to saying, “Stop talking! Stop Talking! Stop Talking!” and “Stop shouting and calm down! You’re out of control!” It went on like that. I was in my room thinking of the last time someone yelled at me to calm down and remembering how well that went.

Since I’ve said these were the wrong responses, what are the right ones? I’ll get to those after answering a more pressing question which is why I didn’t go help calm the situation. There are two answers to that. One, I’ve tried to help these two before and it hasn’t gone well, for me or for them. They need to find some way through this. And two, I was curious how it would play out. I had my bet as to how it would go and would have put down most of my savings on that bet, but I wanted to see for sure. Would it be awful to admit that I also sometimes enjoy the show?

Back to the right responses. The teacher could have begun with silence. It’s a good start but might be the hardest thing to do. When Frank came at me this morning, I nodded but otherwise held still. I stayed silent for a moment and let his comment be there. I didn’t address it as good or bad. I didn’t react to it because I’ve had enough experience with him to know better. I gave it a moment. I gave him a moment. I gave me a moment. Then I came back with a stupid joke that wasn’t made at his expense. If I make fun of him in that moment, then he should tell me to go fuck off. I would deserve it. But my joke was just a light thing made at my expense in which I claim that I’m the most important (sometimes the most beautiful or talented or whatever) person in the room. It’s mocking me, not him. Everything I did and said was meant to take all the heat out of his comment and move us into a different space. His comments are pushes. The decision that teacher and I have to make is whether or not to push back. It’s hard not to push back, but it’s worth it to become a ghost.

That’s what I call it: becoming a ghost, because it’s really tough to push a ghost around. Mostly when someone tries, they go right through. After a time they give up. Also, ghosts are strong and take care of themselves (except maybe on Scooby Doo). They can haunt someone long enough to have an influence. Kids challenge me pretty regularly and I’m not always able to become a ghost, but each time I do, the conflict ends fast. I don’t win the conflict or lose it. Instead, the conflict loses us.

Being a ghost could go like this: Frank is out in the hall screaming at the teacher: “fuck you, fuck, you, fuck you; I don’t have to do a fucking thing you fucking tell me to, you fucking asshole piece of shit!” This time, the teacher says nothing for a moment. He counts to four. He nods. “Okay,” he says. And here’s where it could get interesting. The teacher could say, quietly, “you know what? You’re right. You don’t have to do anything I tell you.” If I’m that teacher, I wait another moment to set up one of these two jokes:

Aren’t all pieces of shit asshole pieces?

Mom was going to name me Fucking Asshole Piece Of Shit, but couldn’t fit it on the birth certificate.

Though both of those jokes are pure gold, it’s probably best I wasn’t in the hall and just whispered them to my amused self. I’m ever so clever.

If Frank calms down even just a little, the teacher can say, “I’m going to step away for a minute, okay? Because you don’t want to be looking at or listening to me right now, right?” Phrased as questions, these give Frank the power to choose. He’s been after that power all along. That’s why he has been yelling loud enough to hear it up and down the hall. Frank is just a kid. He comes from a tough family, a tough history. He’s used to being ignored until he sets his hair on fire and breaks every window. He wants a modicum of control in this life and giving it to him feels impossible when he’s screaming, but it works almost every time.

I imagine you’re thinking, “but he gets away with all this swearing and screaming without any consequence!” Maybe he does, but maybe getting away with it isn’t an accurate picture of what’s happening. Why not? Because he wasn’t the only one who started the conflict. That takes two. Frank was being Frank, a teenage kid in a school for at-risk students, with whatever problems he brought with him from home (or wherever else he is living) this morning. Getting away with this would mean the teacher has to lose something. I”m suggesting that the teacher take losing entirely out of the situation and become a ghost. When that happens, there’s nothing to get away with, no win (or loss) to be had. The ghost teacher loses nothing and gains some peace, the kid gets to have some control and calms down. and we all move forward with the day a lot easier than after a battle.

It’s that or the teacher has to tell the kid to fuck off. I mean, that’s basically what we’re saying when we engage in conflict. Fuck you, kid, you’re suspended! Fuck you, I’m in charge! Fuck you, fuck you, and fuck you until you stop telling me to fuck off!

The Almost-June friend I quoted at the top used to say, “the kid isn’t mad at you, he’s mad near you.” Frank was mad today and something set off the anger he had built up. When a bomb goes off, it doesn’t target certain people. It just blows away anyone in range. Frank does too. Bombs though don’t have to go off. Even if the fuse is lit, it can be snuffed out or deprived of its oxygen. It’s no fun to be told to fuck off. It’s no fun to be yelled at. And when these things happen, the natural reaction is to fight back. I’ve been at this teaching thing for almost twenty five years and I’m just learning to go against that natural inclination. I come out of it a crackhead, but my jokes at least make me laugh. And we go on with our days.