The seventh kid I hated stormed off at the end of the day and told me to “go fuck myself”. When we called her mother to raise our concern about the language, the mother responded by saying “You’re shitting me!”
I didn’t always hate this child. She was one of the ones on the brink of puberty who entered her first year of secondary as a somewhat academically challenged girl, sitting quietly and allowing the desert winds to swirl pleasantly through the vacant cavity beneath her cranium. She had a couple of friends, but went mostly unnoticed by the other students.
Under the surface her hormones were bubbling away ready to kick into overdrive. When it finally happened she became the most nasty, most disliked, most distrusted member of her cohort. She wasn’t a bully. She was just extremely frustrated.
It didn’t help that Kid #6 would continually remind her of her obesity problem. Nor did it help that other students would regularly take her special chocolate scented stationery. Nor did it help that the other little maggots in the room would use that stationery to write notes about her obesity problem and how this had led to the purchase (and near consumption) of the chocolate scented stationery with which they were writing.
She would get her own back by pushing and shoving the other students; calling them names; and avoiding school all together with heaven knows how many sick days.
It was one of these “sick day” that led to a single event which would change my whole perspective on the psychopathic tendencies of children.
The sick day fell on the same day there was a class essay. So when the young lass and a couple of her compatriots returned to the classroom the following day, they were asked to complete the essay. In an attempt to give them a fair go at completing it I placed the three of them in the adjoining classroom so it would be quieter and less distracting for them. There was a door joining the two classrooms and I hovered between the two classrooms making sure that both sets of students were on task; and for the most part trusting that the three who were completing the essay would get on with things.
The class finished, the students handed me their essays and everyone went home for the day as it was the last period.
The following morning the teacher who usually taught in the adjoining room was raging in the English office that all of her lollies had been taken from the top drawer of her desk. Further to that she had a few blades in her bottom drawer that had fallen out of pencil sharpeners. And these had been used to slash the interactive whiteboard. At first I didn’t realise what had happened. But then it dawned on me that it was this child (the one I hated) and I hadn’t realised because obviously the drawers were shut each time I returned to the room. But more importantly the board was always behind me as I entered the classroom, and when I exited the room I was too preoccupied making sure the students in the next room were on task to notice. Additionally the interactive whiteboard had never been used because no one in the school knew how to use it anyway. In hindsight I think there was probably more concern over the lollies and the girl’s ever-expanding waistline.
What surprised me the most was one of the deputy’s reaction that it was somehow my fault. That I shouldn’t have trusted the child to work independently on their work. I assumed that at the worst she might have eaten some crayons. But mostly I assumed that she’d be too busy writing the essay to have performed such an attention seeking stunt. More the fool me. I now don’t trust most students as far as I can throw them. And in her case I’d be lucky to lift her off the ground in the first place.
So although it was probably a cry for help that went somewhat un-addressed by the school counselling services, if we met again I doubt I’d offer her a piece of cake.