The sixteenth kid I hated told me London had kebab shops, just before I moved to the UK.
I told him there were kebab shops in Perth, Western Australia. Perhaps he’d never been to the Australian ones because the best were only available past his bedtime.
To be honest, I didn’t really hate this kid at all. He was just a massive handful. If anything, I feared him. Feared how he might lead to my undoing as a qualified professional.
He was the ringleader of his 16 year old counterparts and their horseplay. I was left to babysit them under the guise of teaching them remedial English. The content of the coursework needed heavy dressing up to provide any engagement. Mostly it was a battle of wits between myself and the wannabe gangsters with their varied attempts to twist situations to their advantage.
One such win on their part involved the screening of a film about football fan violence in a West Ham football firm. The kid, in my class, had recently moved to Australia from Manchester. He had a thick accent and would regale his comrades with stories about the rough streets where he’d grown up – hence his referencing of kebab shops I suspect. In reality he probably grew up in a respectable suburb where his mother wouldn’t have allowed him out the house after 4pm. Lucky for him the rest of the cohort had not been further than the nearest Shopping Centre since birth; and their only experiences of gang culture would have been standing dopily in large groups inside Big W during Thursday late night shopping. So the rest of the class hung on his every word.
When he proclaimed the movies I was asking the class to study as ‘boring’, he raised the suggestion of Green Street Hooligans. This was a clear attempt to fool the other students into thinking he’d been part of a violent football firm himself, despite this anarchic culture having being at its height in the 1970s and 80s, well before his birth; and for that matter mine. Nevertheless I found a copy of the film in the bargain bin at the local DVD store and showed it to the students. They thoroughly enjoyed it and then bam I gave them a series of tasks and tests relating to the film. Seemingly unexhausted from the analysis I forced them into, they requested to watch Green Street Hooligans 2 and Green Street Hooligans 3. I refused on the grounds that Elijah Wood did not appear in the sequels. Even if he had, I had frankly seen enough of Frodo Baggins falling in with the wrong crowd to put me off any non-hobbit related outings by Mr Wood.
As if this student’s penchant for screen violence wasn’t bad enough – he also wanted us to watch Gran Torino, a film full of racial violence and Clint Eastwood – the student also insisted on pestering young staff members about their marital status. The less he was told, the more speculative the pestering became. On one occasion a young female staff member entered the classroom, at which point the kid I hated claimed I was blushing. This was awkward for the other staff member also. I told the child to stop projecting his infantile mating rituals onto his teachers. He did not take my advice.
About a month later he began concocting an elaborate conspiracy about myself and another male teacher being in a relationship (conspiracies had become all the rage again. It was around the time of the tenth anniversary of 9/11 so the media was whipping up a new frenzy of conspiracies at the time). Accusations of homosexuality were water off a ducks back to me, in comparison to the persecution I’d been subjected to as Harry Potter’s long lost brother. My colleague, however, was getting the interrogating questions and relentless earbashing worse than me. A curious fact, considering he didn’t even teach this imbecile of a person. So after weeks of wearing down our heterosexual standing with aspersions of doubt cast upon it, my colleague finally snapped, stating publicly that both he and I were dating separate female people and were most definitely not gay.
This of course opened a whole new line of questioning in regards to the nature of our dating partners. So the oppression never really ended.
This student was going too far. He was getting more and more obnoxious. He’d convinced me to show the class films that psychopaths may watch during their leisure time. All of a sudden I was thinking it normal to include episodes of Australian true-crime series Underbelly or the Will Ferrell and Mark Walberg buddy cop comedy film The Other Guys in my teaching of the English Curriculum. In addition, he now knew various sordid details of the fabricated events in my non-existent romantic relationship. Knowledge was power, and his file on me was getting bigger.
To aggravate matters further, the back wall of the classroom adjoined the room my head of department taught classes in. The student drew great pleasure from rocking his chair back to slam into the wall and disturb the other class. Luckily his reputation preceded him and the head of department was on him like a rash to stop it. His persistence with the chair banging charade, encouraged his flock of buffoon disciples to follow suit, eventually forcing me to move the entire set of desks two metres forward from the back wall. At this point, I was then forced up against the whiteboard with barely enough room to rotate my body and press the playback button on whatever crime thriller we were about to watch next.
It wasn’t just myself he caused grief for. He also clearly didn’t realise how annoying he was. Even after he had been told in no uncertain terms. He’d begun an apprenticeship two days a week at a local cabinet makers. Each week, when he returned to the classroom, he’d blather on about how he’d spent most of the time relaxing in the corner and passing his boss the wrong tools. He was learning little or nothing about work ethic from this apprenticeship. It also turned out that when he was at the worksite he blathered even more than in the classroom. I know this, because he proudly announced to us one day how his boss had become so agitated by the incessant babbling, he had grabbed the student and pushed him to the floor and given him a stern talking to. I remember thinking at the time, how nice it would be if we could do the same thing to our students every once in a while; albeit I don’t have the upper body strength. Nevertheless, the student learnt nothing from the dressing down. His quest in life was not to make cabinets but to make headaches for the grownups that surrounded him.
Despite the nonsense, there were times when the young lad was certainly an entertaining fellow. If you weren’t in a position of authority, I’m sure he’d have made a loyal friend.
When I finally left the school, I did not tell any of the students until the final week. This was due in most part to my fear of the delinquent class this child belonged to. If they knew I was about to leave, they would have gone from doing stuff all to doing whatever comes below that. So it was to my surprise that upon hearing of my departure on the final day of term, the student exclaimed that I should have told him earlier so he could have organised a proper farewell. In true cavalier style he jumped from his chair and rushed down to the English office to request some card. There was none. He returned with an A3 piece of paper which was neatly folded in half and passed around the room in front of me for the worst kept secret signing of a card I’ve witnessed. But it is always the sentiment. Even if that sentiment comes from a place of avoiding more essay writing. The kind words of well wishing, demands for Facebook friend requests, and usual misspellings of my name are still kept in that prided card now sitting on my bookshelf (or in the trash. I can’t remember exactly). There may even have been mention in the card of a recommended kebab shop
So if I ever meet this child again on a high street somewhere, at 2am in the morning, with a craving for E coli in a wrap, I know I’ll chip in a couple of pounds so he can get extra topping on his shredded lamb and salad snack; because sometimes there are kids I tolerated.