Blog Assignment: Describe Your Experience So Far

How can you ask me what my experience has been like so far? How can you expect me to put into words - 400 words - an experience that has literally transformed who I am as a person, as a woman, as a daughter, sister, friend? I wish I could. I really do... for my sake. I wish I could put it into a nice little package. I would tie a bow around it and let you send it out to Teacher Corps recruits, because as much as I’ve complained on Saturdays or awoken on Monday mornings wishing I had an easier job, I wouldn’t trade this “experience” for anything. I wish I could do it justice.

I’ve become more caring and empathetic. I’ve gone from judgmental to more judgmental to totally accepting. I’ve distanced myself from old ideals while passionately seeking out new ones.  I’ve nearly drowned myself in stress and worry but filled my oxygen tank with little victories and laughter. And that’s all in one day.

Friday, December 2nd... Part II

In going back and reading my last post, I became a little irritated with myself. The blog ended up reading more like a story centered around me, and that was not my intention. My true intention, which hopefully shone through towards the end, was to express my frustration with my school administration - or really the system at large - and their constant failure to show the kind of compassion necessary to serve our children... especially our troubled children... which should be the goal, right?

Sadly, the fight on Friday was not my only source of frustration and not the only example that illustrates why I get so angry. But for the story to completely make sense, I have to go back to a month ago when I found a folded sheet of paper lying on the floor after school. Even at first glance, it was clearly a student note. Most times I don't even read them, but my curiosity got the best of me on that day. I unfolded the paper and immediately my jaw dropped. There, in familiar handwriting complete with small tittle hearts, was a conversation between two girls. The conversation was of such explicit nature that simply typing it now would make me feel immensely uncomfortable. They talked of sexual desires, accomplishments, and ponderings. They congratulated each other in text message abbreviations that I couldn't follow. My stomach was in knots. I recognized the handwriting but I just couldn't place the girls who owned it. I had to figure out who they were. I had to talk to them and explain the harm in such actions.

My gut was telling me they were students of mine from last year, so I strode down to an eighth grade classroom and asked for writing samples for the girls who I suspected. None of the teachers were able to provide them. For a couple days I stayed on the trail, but as I got busier and the situation grew smaller in my rearview mirror, I forgot about it.

Fast forward to Thursday of this week. During the last few minutes of school, one of the eighth grade students in my yearbook class walked up and handed me a note. I have no idea why she gave it to me. I had simply been standing by my desk talking with a couple of students. I didn't immediately unfold the note, but when I did my heart sank. I recognized the handwriting immediately.

"Is this your handwriting?" I asked as casually as possible.

"Yes, ma'am. I'm in a fight with C right now. We wrote it during first period."

"So this other handwriting is C's?"

"Yes ma'am... ain't you gonna read it?"

"Why do you want me to read it?" The bell rang to dismiss the students and she was distracted. She followed the crowd out of my room, letting me off the hook.

Before going out to bus duty, I dug frantically through my desk to find the note from a month ago. The handwriting was a perfect match. Rereading the note, being able to put faces and personalities to the words, I again found my stomach in knots.

Now here is where I went wrong: I should have called the two girls into my room, maybe the next day during planning. Instead, I took the notes to my two female assistant principals, thinking they would be the best to handle it. I expressed my concern and explained that I was not hoping to get the girls in trouble, but that I felt it was a matter serious enough to be handled by the administration. I assumed it was the only way to really reach the girls.

After school on Friday, I asked one of the principals how their conversation had gone.

"They were embarrassed," she said in a dismissive, high-pitched tone.

I paused, waiting for her to elaborate. But she didn't.

"I'm sure," I said. "What did you say to them?"

She immediately snapped back. "We don't have to disclose everything to you. There are some things we just don't need to share."

Again, like I had earlier that day, I turned and walked away without saying a word.

Ignore the fact that I felt embarrassed. Ignore the fact that I felt disrespected. Ignore the fact that it had been a short three hours prior that the same principal mocked my approach to the fight. Ignore the fact that I have approached her only a handful of times ever for requests concerning students. Ignore the fact that I was downright livid at her, at the situation, at my own poor judgement. The real issue is that we have students who deserve more than they're getting.

Mississippi is still one of the only states that does not teach sex education. Juxtapose that with our nation-leading teen pregnancy rate, and you get a puzzle so maddening it will make you want to throw something. Our kids have no idea how dangerous, how life-altering their actions can be, and on the few occasions when we, as teachers and administrators, actually get an opportunity to teach them something... we blow it.  What's perhaps even more disappointing is that those of us who actually wish to do something good, something different, are treated like lepers. And the only ones who truly suffer are the kids.

Fat Lip

I sat at the end of the lunch table talking to another teacher. The cafeteria was getting louder than I normally permit, but it's Friday. I decided to ignore it and let them enjoy their free time. Bad decision.

The just-a-little-too-loud volume quickly turned to shouting. I turned around to see fists flying, aimed at a boy curled up in a ball on the floor. In the time it took me to sprint the length of the lunch table and weave between spectators, the boy on the floor had gotten to his feet, bringing the flailing fists to eye level just as I arrived. Thinking only of ending the fight immediately, I flew face first into a barrage of aimless blows. I quickly grabbed one boy's arms, pinning him against the wall while another teacher tended to the other. I firmly directed my student to the corner, freeing some time for me to compose myself and calm the rest of my class down. Turning back to the boy in the corner, I noticed that his hands were still clenched in fists, his chest was heaving up and down, and tears were streaming down his face.

My anger was instantly replaced with empathy. It's starting to get ridiculous, honestly... the naivete of it all... how I always stand up for the bad kids. I'm probably crippling them.

I checked my lip for blood as I walked towards him, pointing to the exterior door through which I wanted him to exit. When we got outside I put my hand on his shoulder.

"Breathe... you're alright... slower... just breathe. Walk with me and tell me what happened." He looked me square in the eye.

"I'm sorry, Ms. B. He just started talking about my mama. She has problems, you know. He started it this morning and I tried to ignore it, but finally I just had to do something. She's kind of overweight. Everyone knows that. But he didn't have to keep talking about it."

I was heartbroken. I was looking at a kid who had really been trying hard this year. He's always had a bad reputation, but this year we've been making strides. I fought my colleagues to get him nominated for October Student of the Month and eventually I had to convince the principal. The look on his face was priceless when they announced his nomination over the loud speaker. Now it was ruined. Fighting is an automatic nine day suspension from school. I'm praying that today doesn't propel him back into the kid he was last year.

When we arrived at the office, I told him to stand outside while I debriefed the assistant principals.

"You love those bad kids, don't you!" one of them said mockingly.

I chewed on my bottom lip, considering how to respond. "I guess I do. I just don't want his reputation to affect his punishment. He's been doing really well"

They laughed and looked away. "Eventually you'll learn, Buccilla. These kids don't change. They've got you fooled."

I walked out without saying a word. I looked at my student standing against the wall and coached him on how to handle himself when he got called in. I of course reminded him that he was wrong. He should have brought the issue to me instead of resorting to violence. But I also told him to handle himself like a man when he went in the office. "Be sure to apologize before you say anything else. Say 'yes ma'am' and 'no ma'am.' Tell them exactly what happened. Take all emotion out of your tone."

Walking away I wondered if the principals were right. I've certainly questioned whether I'm naive in my approach to "the bad kids." Maybe I'm not doing them any favors. Maybe it means nothing that they behave in my class if they still misbehave everywhere else. Maybe the dysfunction runs too deep for one teacher to break it. But among all those 'maybes' there is one surety: I'd rather try to help them and get a million fat lips along the way than watch them fall victim to a complacent system that's clearly failing them.