The Dark Side

I have never written a single blog that was not mandatory. I can even go a little further and admit that until yesterday, I had approached every single blog with contempt for its compulsory and unnatural nature. Usually the prompts are dry and unimaginative, so unless I choose to put forth serious effort (the kind of effort for which I never have time) my writing is also dry and unimaginative.

That fact never bothered me until yesterday. I have certainly had plenty to worry about besides blogging, but as I sat down to write about my favorite student - another potentially cliche and awful prompt - I realized that I have so many memories, so many stories that have shaped who I am as a teacher, as a person, over the last year. These stories deserve to be told. So with a little guilt trip from myself, a little inspiration from a fellow blogger, and a lot of need for an emotional outlet, I've decided to do my best to record some of my experiences... at the very least so I have something to look back on when this crazy ride is over.

It hasn't been all sunshine and butterflies. Here goes.

Lately I've been thinking a lot about a student I had last year. He was two years behind so he should have been in the ninth grade. Physically he looked like he should have been a senior. He was tall, he shaved, his voice had changed, he wore size 12 shoes. At the beginning of the year, among his 7th grade classmates, John stood out.

As is my habit, I immediately found myself drifting towards John. I tend to have a soft spot for the "troubled" kids. I tend to see good in them that my fellow teachers don't. I am fully aware that this tendency often lends itself to frustration, disappointment, and even guilt... this case is no exception.

From the jump John was a behavior problem. He usually walked into my room laughing, joking around, kicking someone's heels. It became a daily occurrence for me to send him back out of the room and have him "Come in the right way." He carried a black and gold faux Gucci backpack that literally had not one binder, pen, pencil, or unused sheet of notebook paper inside it. Eventually I got so fed up that I made him a classwork folder that was never allowed to leave my room. He was to put his classwork in that folder every day... even if it wasn't finished. Homework was a losing battle. 

As the first couple months of school dragged by, John began getting in trouble more and more. He was never involved in fights. There was nothing malicious about him... he just joked around a lot and, because of his mature appearance and previous record, teachers automatically assumed the worst. He steadily began to accumulate referrals for things like doing backflips on the way back from lunch or flicking mashed potatoes. He was crying for attention.

As a naive and completely inexperienced teacher, I was at a loss for how to help him. He wasn't a dumb kid. In fact he was quite the opposite. He wrote with fluency and perspective equal to some of my honors kids. None of his friends knew he was smart and he did everything he could to keep it that way. I did everything I could to force him out from behind that facade. I knew I could cold call on him in class and, amid snickers of anticipated humiliation from his classmates, he always mumbled the correct answer... as if he was ashamed to betray his reputation. I would grin and move on, delighting in the shocked expressions on his classmates' faces.

When I began offering after-school tutoring I always made sure he stayed. No one was ever willing to come pick him up, so another teacher and I would drive him home or he would just walk. As I got to know him better, I found out that his mom was never home. She usually stayed at her boyfriend's house. His dad was in jail. His older sister dropped out of school after ninth grade, pregnant. He had a younger sister and it was usually his job to make her dinner in the evenings. To say the cards were stacked against him would be a gross understatement and to steal a phrase I used last night, John was devastatingly aware of his own reality. He didn't complain about it, he was more than willing to talk about it openly - in fact he did so with such unabashed candor that it sometimes made me feel uncomfortable.

By the time January rolled around, he had compiled so many referrals that the principal was at his wit's end. The 7th grade teachers received several emails about interventions we were supposed to make, strategies for curbing his behavior, and ultimatums John had been offered. Honestly, I began ignoring most of these suggestions.

One morning as I was standing on hallway duty before homeroom, I glanced into my classroom just in time to see a black and gold backpack fly full speed across my room. It smacked the wall with such force that a couple of girls screamed, including the one at whom it was aimed. My eyes locked with John's. He showed no remorse. He was laughing. I was livid.

Employing my best teacher voice, I demanded that he see me in the hall. Still smirking, he sauntered across the front of the room. Without even pausing for conversation, I motioned for him to follow me to the office. When we got there I pointed at a chair indicating the place for him sit and I began furiously scribbling the situation down on a referral. I left him and the referral with the secretary and went back to my room.

During my planning period I finally had time to read my email. As per usual, there was one from the principal. Subject: John. It was sent the previous afternoon.

Teachers,

John has officially been warned that he has one more strike. There are no spaces left in the alternative school, so the next time he is sent to the office, it will result in automatic expulsion for one calendar year. This has already been board approved.

I cannot adequately articulate the emotions I felt at that moment. To say I felt guilty doesn't even scratch the surface. I was instantly nauseated. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream... then I calmed myself. I knew I could undo this.

I half walked, half jogged to the office. The only person I could find was the assistant principal.

"I already know what you're going to say, Buccilla. And no... there's nothing you can do about it."

"But I didn't know he was on his last strike! It wasn't even that bad, he just threw a backpack... that's not grounds for expulsion... this will ruin his life."

The words sank between us. Silence.

"He had plenty of chances. It's not your fault. This was bound to happen."

I tried to plead my case for another couple of minutes. I was getting nowhere. Dejected, I walked back to my classroom, racking my brain for options. I could see none. I had ruined this kid's life.

I haven't seen John since that day. I have his younger sister in class this year. She is bright. She's above grade level. She wants to be different and we've talked about that. After a couple weeks of school I finally worked up the courage to ask what her brother had been up to.

"Nothing," she said.

"Well what does he do during the day? He didn't try to get into another school?"

"Nope. He just walks the streets."

All I could muster was, "Will you ask him to come see me after school one day?"

I don't know what I would say to him. The most I can offer is to tutor him so that he can stay caught up. If we look at the statistics, kids like him rarely graduate. I still can't help but to feel guilty but I also know that harping on it will do no good. For now all I can do is learn from that mistake. That huge mistake that changed his life forever. I can make sure I don't repeat it. I can make sure I give his little sister every opportunity she deserves. It's on days like that one that I question whether I can do this job forever.