I wondered why everyone gave me a smirk and sigh when I agreed to work in the Emotionally Disturbed classroom today at school. I really had no idea what I was getting myself into and from the moment I walked into the classroom noticing the many holes in the dry wall, I was a roller coaster of my own emotions in my mind. Some events I will never forget.
I have some experience with troubled kids and pulling on my experience from London inner-city teaching was beneficial but this really was a new and more trying experience.
Here are some of the moments that I recall:
Mr. Quick was his name and he definitely had control over his classroom. Now this control wasn’t an overt kind of control, I’m pretty sure if he took a proactive approach, he might have been killed (no joke)
He had a very steady approach, one that didn’t require many words and emotions. He wore a blank stare and was extremely intimidating; not many words, which I found later to be a real asset to his personality. He didn’t speak much, but when he spoke, they sometimes listened. Yes, I said sometimes, and those “sometimes listening” happenings were a victory in themselves.
These were “hard” kids. When I say “hard”, I don’t mean divorced parents and act out sometimes kids; these were kids who were one step away from jail. The very next step to any deviant behavior in the “ED” classroom at McCulloch Middle School was a police escort to jail. Mr. Quick realized the severity of these fifteen or so “boys” situations, even though they didn’t and he did everything he could to protect them and keep them in the school. Despite his efforts, they launched rebellious and retaliatory words and actions so fierce, it caused my heart to race and believe it or not, when it comes to the classroom, I’ve always felt pretty much in control; not today.
“You f__ing b__tch” was what they routinely referred to the woman teaching in the classroom as. One would think the result of such actions by students would result in a dismissal or at least a verbal reprimand; I thought this as well but after hearing “sh__t, and f__ck” for the twentieth time, I figured cursing was just allowed here; and it was. That was not a battle that was worth fighting; little did I know that was only the beginning.
Routinely the boys would find themselves in a fit of rage. I quickly learned that we just let them go. We let them throw things (that were not sharp) across the room. They were allowed to walk away from anything they needed to and they were encouraged to yell at a wall or some other non-living thing.
About the second hour into the day, a fight broke out, one of several that day. This fight was a “big” fight by anyone’s definitions. I’m talking like a real swinging fight with curse words being launched at the top of their little lungs. We, Mr. Quick and I, grabbed on tightly to the little bundles of flesh and bone; I could feel this kids heart going a million miles a second and his face red with anger. Before anyone could react, one bigger kid hauled off and hit the wooden board in the back of the room; yeah, he definitely broke his hand; I took him to the nurse. He cursed all the way down the hall, I let him vent, what else do you do?
I learned that the only way to diffuse a situation in this room was to be calm. I learned how Mr. Quick operated and I found it very effective. He definitely used physical force to restrain and occasionally yelled very loudly, but for the most part, he was calm as to calm tensions and ease the already fragile emotional states of these troubled boys.
I could speak forever of the ridiculously crude sexual comments that these boys made to one another. The only way these boys knew much of what they said was from experience and that broke my heart. The amount of abuse that undoubtedly occurred in some of their lives gave me more than a bit of understanding and sympathy for their situations. I guess it was just a sad reality that I had come face to face with and maybe one that we should all face at one time or another. It’s easy to forget that this stuff exists.
Today I worked with the worst of the worst in Marion City Schools, and even there, some bright spots of tenderness and laughter occurred. Jayson and I really connected and for the last hour or so, we painted together. But, the bigger kids in the class took his work and crumpled it up; I was so mad but nothing could be done, I just had to sit with him as he became enraged and teared up. “Life’s not fair Jayson,” I said, “I’m so sorry man” and that was all I could say. That’s all I can think of to say to these boys who come from poverty and abuse and look for answers as to why. Secretly my heart broke for him and I really wanted to hurt Juleous for crumbling his art; I really mean it, I wanted to slam him up against the wall and knock him out. Oops, probably shouldn’t say that but it’s very true and how I really felt at the moment.
It’s not all a loss and we definitely need compassionate people in those types of jobs. I’m thankful for men like Mr. Quick and Mr. Isaac; they care, but not in a way that the World would understand. Their caring looks like toughness with a small smile and a steady “I’m in this for the long haul” hand, maybe this World could use more men like this.
I was changed forever by this experience, and I will not quickly forget the “ED” classroom at McCulloch Middle School~
