Ok. So. Here's what's happening in my life so far:
- I teach high school students.
- I'm teaching lower-school English.
- One of my classes consists entirely of psychos, sociopaths and slow-learners.
AND - Every day thus far has been VERY entertaining.
Take Thursday. I have an all-boy class of Year 10s, about twenty of them (though generally no more than fourteen actually make an appearance; out tending to their crops I’d imagine). Said class has been quarantined from the rest of the herd to prevent behaviour contamination (Apparently, furniture destruction and Superbad-style penis graffiti are highly contagious). These are the type of kids that we address very slowly and very politely (“So, have you ever considered, you know, leaving school early and going into paid employment? It would really suit you!”) They aren’t academic, don’t see the point of school, and use each lesson as an excuse to piss around. Basically, I’m tasked with keeping them amused for an hour so they don’t run riot.
Lucky me, right?
Anyway, on Thursday, there was chaos as usual: Lots of calling each other “poofter” and “pussy”, and no work being done. Which was fine by me (I kept myself amused by wondering if their sexism and homophobia were the result of a latent same-sex attraction, or maybe a secret desire to cross-dress. Not that I’d ever say that to them; I don’t believe in using prejudice to get kids to behave. Plus, they’re toolheads and would respond as such.) So anyway, there I was trying to get them to behave like human beings, as opposed to, you know, crazed apes on crack, when a water bottle comes flying across the room and hits James*, this fight-prone British kid, square in the face. The owner of the water bottle was B.J.*, a cheeky little Indigenous kid with ADD (who’s perfectly sweet on the days he remembers to take his meds. Unfortunately, this wasn’t one of them).
“B.J.!” I yelled. “Outside! NOW!”
He gave me a mildly contrite look. “Aw, geeze Miss. That boy knows I’m only stuffing around. He can handle it—he’s used to it. See?”
Then he walked over and emptied the entire bottle over James’s head.
“That does it! B.J., APOLOGISE NOW. How would you feel if someone tipped a water bottle over your head?”
“I’d like it, Miss! This weather’s too bloody hot anyway.” (I really should’ve seen that one coming).
“OUTSIDE. NOW.”
He kicked a few desks and swore under his breath as he walked out, but I didn’t care—hey, he complied, right?
When I went outside to sort B.J. out (making sure I took my keys with me, so the little bastards wouldn’t lock me out), I heard James yell: “You f*#king c*#t! Come here and say that! I’ll F*#KING KILL YOU!” I raced back in. James had Ray, Shit-Stirrer Extraordinaire, by the collar and was slamming him up against the wall. “GET BACK IN YOUR SEATS RIGHT NOW!” I yelled. Of course, the other idiots were egging them on. Luckily, Ray was able to break loose from James and ran off to the other side of the room, which meant I was able to get between them. I’m not allowed to touch students (no teacher is), but I thought that at least positioning myself between them might break up the fight. It did. Initially.
So once I’d screamed them back into their seats (at opposite ends of the room), I tried to explain to everyone why these fights weren’t acceptable and how they’d be sent to the deputy if they tried to pull this shit in class again and so forth (all the while having to contend with Ray calling James “douchebag”, “fudgepacker”, etc.), and meanwhile, I could see that James had this brooding, intense look on his face. He looked about ready to burst a blood vessel. I wondered what it would take to tip this kid over the edge. So, to prevent another Who’s Got The Most Testosterone Competition, I sent Ray outside. As Ray was leaving the room, he turned to James. I heard the words, “Your mother”, and “c*#t.”
That did it.
“I’LL F*#KING KILL YOU, YOU BASTARD!”
James punched Ray fair in this face. Ray went down, and then James sat on top of him and grabbed at his throat.
Meanwhile, B.J., who had come back inside to see the first fight, was now outside again, running down the hall and banging on all the other class windows: “OI! EVERYONE! THERE’S A FIGHT GOING ON INSIDE MISS P’S CLASS! QUICK--COME SEE!”
And so, during the fight I had two-and-a-half other classes spectating from outside. Three teachers, one deputy and one security guard later, the fight ceased. The kids were a mess, the classroom looked like ground zero and I was in tears.
So, my dear private school teacher-friends: NEVER tell me how bad your class was because they talk too much, or because you caught a kid chewing gum, or because you had ONE rude tosspot who answered you back. Because, really:
YOU AIN’T SEEN NUTHIN.'
On the plus side: I think teaching has well and truly cured me of my social phobia. See, for a while there I was mildly terrified of interacting with people. I’m not now; I can communicate normally without wondering how the person I’m speaking to perceives me and freezing up. And that’s really liberating—I can focus on listening to the other person without fretting over how I’m coming across. At high school, and certainly at uni, I never would’ve been able to communicate in front of a class—I was simply too shy. Logically, I knew that the people I spoke to weren’t always scrutinising me or judging me; but emotionally, I still felt as though they were (kinda like how my vegetarianism hasn’t eradicated my desire to savour the taste of meat; it’s reduced it, but it’s still there.) Funny how logic can fail to change your feelings about something one iota. Anyway—I’m less awkward now, so yay.
Ok. Enough emotional exhibitionism. I’ll leave you with the words of a year ten student of one of my colleagues. When she told him that he wouldn’t think jail was so cool once he was getting it up the you-know-where, he replied indignantly:
“Miss, I’ll be the one giving it up the you-know-where!”
God, it’s hard not to laugh sometimes.
