The eighteenth kid I hated thought I had called her a racist.
She was so insistent and fierce in her accusation it was almost as though the word ‘racist’ was a racist term. Mind you, it’s fair enough to be angry about being called a racist when you are not a racist. The point was I had never called her a racist. At most I would have said, “What you have just said to your friend is racist”, which is quite different because it would have been done with the intent of raising the girl’s awareness to the fact others may perceive her misjudged humour as racism.
It is very hard to explain logical thought processes to an angry 13 year old girl. What she had originally said to her peer, I cannot remember because of the hysteria that followed. I do remember that whatever it was, she shouted it across the room. It happened in a notoriously difficult school to manage students. They had an entire room dedicated to time out during the day and telephones in every classroom for teachers to call the ‘time out’ room supervisor to retrieve various problem children.
As was the case with most of the students there, they would look for any opportunity to get out of working. Any slight against their name was the perfect excuse for going on strike. This is exactly what this child decided to do.
“You can’t call me a racist,” she screeched, throwing her chair to the floor and storming out of the classroom.
This was followed by the customary oohing and aahing from the peanut gallery. Promptly putting a kybosh on that, I continued on with the lesson. Surely the whole thing would blow over in a few minutes.
How wrong I was.
Never underestimate the stubbornness of a tantrum-prone teenager. They’ll hold the sort of grudge you may expect from the victims, of a heinous crime, against their perpetrator. Their little teenage mind will stew the matter over and over in their head, seeking out revenge at any opportune moment. They write melodramatic hate notes in their personal journals in the hope their woes will be uncovered by a nosey parent or sibling. Then they will be vindicated.
It first became evident the situation was unresolved when the young madam returned to class the following day.
“I’m not doing any work until you apologise,” she moaned for the whole class to hear.
“Apologise for what?” I responded, feigning ignorance about what she was talking about.
“You called me a racist,” she exclaimed. “Didn’t he everyone? He called me a racist. Didn’t he?”
“I didn’t call you a racist,” I said calmly. “Now, please get on with your work.”
She started scanning the room for support. The only back up she was provided with came from her fellow ‘mean girls’ producing a set of indignant scowls on their faces. They started conducting their own little sit-in at their desk, refusing en masse to complete any work. This of course did not differ greatly from their normal output, but now they had an explanation for their lack of productivity.
Again hoping the whole thing may blow over, I waited for improvement the following day. Things did not improve. She became even more demanding of an apology. And the next day the same. And the day after that.
It was now a standoff. I couldn’t apologise, even if I had done something wrong. She’d then turn it into an even bigger situation. She certainly wouldn’t get back to work.
Because of her defiance to work, she began having detention after detention. It was usually 20 minutes at the end of the day in the form classroom. She and any other punks who’d been caught out, would sit and squirm and moan for the majority of the 20 minutes before finally scampering out the door like imprisoned rats on the escape. The other students would come and go from detentions. But she was iron willed. She was not going to get back to work until there was an apology.
Finally she was taken to the Year group coordinator. He had a lengthy discussion with her about what had happened. He tried to talk her down. But just when there was a window of opportunity for her to compromise, she’d unleash into a full blown attack again lamenting how she had been defamed. It was a worthy effort at deflection and would have been award-winning if schools gave prizes for such things. Alas, they do not. But also alas, she was non-responsive to punishments or temporary removals from the room.
The term came to an end and only upon the start of the following term did she appear to have somewhat forgotten her stance. Yet within the first few lessons she was arcing up again. Probably she had been cast as Frankenstein’s monster instead of Elizabeth, in the class play; or some such oversight.
I only taught that class for a short term contract. But when it came to the end it was done. The Little Miss ‘I’m not a racist’, had been a major contributor to my distress and frustration. Never had I taught a class where I’d spent time developing rapport to then have children continue being un-cooperative.
I remember shouting at them on the last day, “I have never met such a rude and impolite group of people in all my years of teaching”. Albeit, I’d taught for less than three years at that stage – it was true they were the worst. “I’ve taught five year olds who do more work than you. I hope you’re proud that you’re dumb stupid idiots and that you can go rot in the fiery pits of hell.” (The end part may be an embellishment – I don’t think I said ‘fiery’).
I then marched out of the building, only to return two weeks later to work another day of supply teaching; thankfully covering a different class.
I’m pretty sure it was puberty that caused this girl to be so unamusing. I was assured she was quite pleasant before she turned 13. She may well be a successful something or the other by now. But if I met her again I doubt I’d give her a bar of chocolate; she’d probably misconstrue it.