Kid #33 and #34 – kicking, pushing, punching and lies

The thirty-third kid I hated was a pathological liar and the thirty-fourth kid I hated was also a pathological liar.

The thirty-third child had perfected his pathological lying by being sociopathic. He once so emphatically denied having stolen another student’s Lego bricks, despite me having seem him steal them, that I chastised the other student until she cried, to see if he’d be overcome by guilt. He stood there watching the whole thing. No guilt. Just good ole’ fashioned sociopathy. No empathy in the eyes. Just empty behind the eyes. (NB – I explained to the girl later the psychological mind games I’d attempted, and she seemed ok with everything.)

The thirty-fourth child left his finger prints everywhere. Yet, he would still gormlessly claim innocence. He literally left his finger prints everywhere, on one occasion placing his finger-paint smothered hands on all variety of surfaces. One of those surfaces was his face. He had the body of a nine-year-old and the mind of a three-year-old (I can’t back this up medically. I just based it on observations). I stared at him as he stood there covered head-to-toe in paint. I was in such disbelief I sent him holus-bolus to the ‘inclusion’ room (a room ironically for students excluded from normal class). He was their problem now.

Both students were in the same class, and while the infantile artist continued acting like a baby, the sociopath evolved more and more into a bully. Almost without fail, when I would return to the playground at the end of breaktimes and lunchtimes to collect the class, I would be set upon by both children claiming that the other had started a fight with them. If I was lucky, they would be mid-slap, mid-punch or mid-kick – it was easier to identify the perpetrator that way. Then it was a case of indignant high-moral ground from the former or grumbly baby-sulks from the latter. Either way, both would deny culpability, despite how the cookie had crumbled on that occasion. Sometimes it would defy logic and science, like the time the bully-one wrote the phrase “I am dumb” in the baby-one’s journal and claimed the baby-one had written it themselves. Now even if you were in the presence of the dumbest dummy out of the dum-dums, you’d be hard pressed to find a dumb-brain dumb enough to acknowledge their dumbness. The situation didn’t make sense.

What did make sense, was both were classic cases of the apple not falling far from the decaying apple tree.

The parents of the sociopathic bully had a chip on their collective shoulder. They blew their money on Masaratis, designer children’s clothes from Harrods and Waitrose sandwiches. Unsurprisingly, they had run short on money to provide their children with a quality education and had defaulted to sending them to an undersubscribed central London government primary school. It is my opinion that schools in central London which are undersubscribed, are bad schools. There are many schools busting at the seems and over-subscribed, there is little other reason for being ten or more children short per class than the fact a school is a little bit rubbish.

My favourite line from these over-cashed under-sensed parents came from the father who once said, “I run a business with more than thirty people, so I know what it would be like to run a classroom”. Sure, I thought. Let’s just do swapsies for a day and see what happens then. If I run your business into the ground, you can stop telling me how to do my job.

The parent of the baby-child was his mother. Much of the dialogue I had was with uncles and a grandmother, as the mother spoke little English and appeared to be off with the fairies. By all accounts, the rest of the extended family were quite switched on. Many of the cousins attended the school and were lovely children who were reasonably intelligent. Something was a bit awry here. It was a sad case I’m sure. The child was being failed and allowed to maintain this persona of ‘baby’ of the family, and seemingly ‘baby’ of the school. The uncles would insist the older cousins were helping with the child’s homework, but nothing was sticking, bar a few tame expletives (e.g. ‘poobum’).

On and on the bickering, lies and fighting went between these two buffoons. The parents of the sociopath would continually make complaints and maintain their son’s innocence in every matter. The Golden Child Syndrome they were suffering from brought them much stress, misconstruing every word that was said by adult and child alike to their son. The mother appeared to genuinely believe he could do no wrong. The father would intimidate staff and children by standing over them – probably where his young ‘prodigy’ learnt his bully tactics from.

The situation became untenable when the parents began asking for spoilt-britches to be moved into the safety of the other class. In a classic case of complying by path-of-least-resistance, the management allowed the child to be moved away from baby-face. The parents had one with the sociopath of their loins being taught the valuable lesson to “run away and hide from your problems as a means of dealing with them”.

And that was that. I didn’t see him again. If I were to see him, I doubt I’d ask which designer his latest jacket was from. Nor would I ask the other child, whether his finger-painting techniques had made him a world-renowned modern artist. They’d probably just lie about it anyway.

The DUFF – Film Review

It feels like it could be a film from the late 90s. Surely every American (and for that matter non-American) teenager knows what a DUFF (Designated Ugly Fat Friend) is now days.

There are plenty of films they could make with more modern acronyms like BAE (before anyone else) – a teen friendship movie starring Maisie Williams, Shailene Woodley, Chloe Grace Moretz and a pair of used overalls; OTP (one true pairing) – a romantic comedy where Justin Bieber runs a zoo; TBT (throwback Thursday) – a body swap movie with Kim Kardashian and Paris Hilton, where no one notices the difference; or YOLO (you only live once) – a road trip where Jennifer Love Hewitt and Molly Ringwald travel the world doing extreme sports.

The DUFF feels like a massive attempt to modernise Mean Girls. It ends up being a mere template of the teen movie genre with all the usual archetypes including Ken Jeong as the mild mannered mentor, a bunch of stick thin young models as the school bullies and chiselled-jawed Robbie Amell as the school jock – despite the opening narration stating “for generations of high-schoolers you could only be a jock, a geek, a princess, a bully or a basket-case; but times have changed”. Apparently the producers didn’t get their own memo.

The only markers suggesting it is any different from older teen movies is the heavy handed use of handheld mobile devices, social media and Duckface – a phrase Allison Janney uses in this film, proving she is the most hip character in a film that already looks dated.

Mae Whitman (a wonderful comedic actress from Arrested Development, Scott Pilgrim Vs the World and television series Parenthood) stars in the title role of designated ugly fat friend. Not since America Ferrera was cast as Ugly Betty, has such an attractive young starlet been dressed in ill-fitting clothes and deemed to be not only fat and ugly, but completely devoid of social skills (oh, and of course the only asset is they are highly intelligent, because there’s a direct correlation between deformity and intellect).

Where are the real ugly fat people? The people whose self-esteem is left in tatters after twelve years of institutionalised education. The victims of school bullying who are haunted throughout their adult life by their childhood persecution. The people so fat their school uniform needs to be altered. The people whose stomach is continually spilling over their trouser bottoms. The person with a lazy eye. The people who have panic attacks talking to the opposite sex and never end up kissing anyone, let alone the school pin-up. The people who cry themselves to sleep. The person whose hair is full of split-ends. The people who come last in everything. The invisible people. Where are they? Why aren’t they the protagonists in these films?

If you want a film full of neat happy endings with a romanticised moral message about cyber-bullying then this is your film. It certainly has its moments and the highly predictable plot makes for good veg-out viewing, with a heart-felt message about being yourself. However, if you want the real fall-out of teenage years watch the documentary American Teen.

Kid #14 – The Wizard in the Hallway

The fourteenth kid I hated yelled “expelliarmus!” at me from the corridor. Not to be outdone I yelled “alohomora!” which only unlocked a filing cabinet. So then I yelled “crucio!” which unleashed intense pain on my victim. I later double checked the spell in my spell book (and on Wikipedia) to realise using this spell leads to a life sentence in Azkaban prison. But I don’t think anyone saw me.

These are the trials and tribulations of being a white middle class male who wears black rimmed spectacles. I don’t have a scar on my forehead, but I do have a scar on my chin from when I fell on a limestone wall in Pre Primary. When I first started teaching, students would question my age, claiming I looked as though I’d gone straight from Year 12 into the classroom as a teacher; without having been to University in between. Being told you look younger than you are may be a compliment in any other circumstance, but when you’re trying to wrangle teenagers, you want them to at least think you’ve got ten years more life experience than them. A wise colleague once told me to grow a beard as a method for stretching the age gap. It worked for a while, but by the time my beard had grown properly it was 2010, and Daniel Radcliffe was already collecting the Deathly Hallows while sporting his own grubby stubble. Thus my attempts to distance myself from this fictional prodigy wizard had backfired and I was one golden snitch away from becoming Harry Potter himself.

It became an ongoing whisper in every new classroom I entered. “He looks like Harry Potter”; “OMG it’s Harry Potter”; “Harry Potter”.

Had it not been my supposed resemblance to Harry Potter, it would presumably have been something else the children would cause me grief over. Students are always looking for something. I remember when we were students it would be everything from mimicking our teachers’ accents and nervous ticks, to critiquing their choice of fashion or poking fun at the volume of hair on their chest. Teenagers find a way to be cruel no matter the attempts to neutralise.

Despite being an adult, when a teenager pokes fun at you to your face or from a distance, you revert to similar defences you had as a child. Mine was usually to ignore the bullies. As an adult you tell yourself that children don’t mean anything personally and they’re just bored or trying to distract you.

This works for a while until you begin to take it personally. Like the time a student asked why the tongues of my shoes were sitting over the bottom of my trouser legs, instead of vice versa. There’s nothing worse than getting fashion advice from fashionable teenagers. Even if your fashion is fashionable those judging staring all-knowing eyes of the youth will cut through your soul, because they are fashion. The attempts to ‘ignore the bully’ turn to anger. Their remarks are met with “Be quiet and get on with your work”.

Other times you may fight their abuse with logic, “Well if you’ve seen the latest Russell and Bromley range you’ll know they’re worn in this way”. This of course will be met with, “Russell Who?”, a smirk and a snigger.

Trying to make a game of it lasts for a short while. Embracing the Harry Potter persona by raising my pen as a wand often garnered some attention and cooperation. The unknowing nature of the intellectually challenged students, meant that they saw me as unpredictable. They questioned whether the fountain pens in my top drawer really could leave them with a mutilated limb or a head replaced by that of an animal. However, soon enough the intrigue turns to disappointment and they realised the only sparks flying from the nib of the wand pen would be congealed lumps of blue ink.

The last resort worked the best. I got contact lenses (A different pair of less rounded brown framed glasses did not work – apparently all glasses look like Harry Potter glasses on a short haired male in his early twenties). Removing the glasses altogether did nothing for me in the school where I was already working. The kiddily-winks saw straight through it. But entering new schools in the years to follow meant they would know me only as the short-haired white middle-class male who did not resemble Daniel Radcliffe in the slightest. They of course found a new feature to pick upon. I think it was my vague resemblance to a famous footballer I’d never heard of. Probably the weedy one who never goes to the gym and watches American sitcom DVD boxsets.

There is no winning.

In regards to the child who cast his spell through the doorway of my Year 11 English classroom, I never saw him again after that. He was not one of my students. But the fits of hysterics, he sent my students into, haunt me every time I wear my spectacles upon my face.

So although he was probably joking as he lumbered down the hallway that fateful day, if we met again I doubt I’d offer him any of my chocolate frogs.