Compassionate Anger?

I have been crazy tired this week, so I have not had time to talk about everything that happened; however, there are a few events I will highlight before I discuss my reflections on today’s events and the week as a whole.

• On Wednesday, the power in my school went out for about 45 minutes. The power outage began while the students were in the hallway going from their 3rd period to their 4th period classes. Needless to say, it was quite the mess. I felt like a real adult as I sifted through the hallway barking orders at students, telling them to slow down, stop running, and get to class.
• I have implemented a new strategy in my classroom consequences. Between being isolated and having a phone call home, students now have to write a one-page essay for me. I give them the topic. I explained to them that it is not punishment. Instead, their inappropriate behavior would be turned into a learning experience. So far, three people have essays. Their topics are Nat Turner, Sojourner Truth, and Benjamin Banneker. They do not know this yet, but I plan on discussing their essays with them afterward. Hopefully, learning about their history will help them to see beyond their own circumstances and have a different outlook on their own behavior.
• We had our first mock trial meeting! It seemed like the students were interested, and I am really excited about moving forward.

So, let’s talk about today. First, I was giving a test to some students. In the middle of a test, a student blurted out, “f*ck this.” Wow. So, I said, “excuse me, you need to come here.” Then other students—the ones around him who had laughed after it happened—said that he was asleep and that it was somebody else. Now, I was about 90% sure that he had done it; however, the students around him were trying to cover for him. So I asked, “well, who said that?” Then one student, trying to be brave, I guess, said that he had done it.

Let’s pause for a second. This class was one of my inclusion classes, and the general education teacher was not there today; therefore, there was another teacher—a sub—in the room at the same time.

Back to the story. So, I asked him again, knowing that I had an adult witness, if he had done it. He said yes. I took him outside, and asked him yet again. “Yes.” “Okay, let’s go,” I told him. So, we went down to the “infraction room,” and immediately he got nervous. Why? Because within two minutes of us being there, another kid was getting handcuffed in front of him. Yep.

Now, I knew he was not going to get handcuffed, but I was pretty sure that he was going to get suspended. When it was his turn to talk to the administrator, I described what happened. Then, he decided he wanted to say that he did not do it. I reminded him that he told me he did it, and I had an adult witness to back me up. “You told me you did it, so you are going to take the blame for it,” I coldly asserted. “Tell me who did it, and you can go back upstairs.” After the administrator actually started completing the form, he finally stated, “It was who you originally said it was.” I went back to the classroom, got the other student, brought him down, explained the situation, and he got suspended.

The student who originally was going to take the blame told him, “I can’t do this man; I’m already on probation.”

I appeared resolute at the moment, but in my mind and my gut I was terribly torn. I felt bad for him. I could tell he did not want to get into more trouble. The kids called him a snitch when he came back in the room. On the other hand, though, small behaviors like that (blurting out and cursing in class) with no consequence, lead to the type of behavior that got that other kid in handcuffs. I had to be firm.

I go back and forward—sometimes feeling angry at the actions of the students, and other times feeling sympathy for many of the trials they must endure. But I guess I can be hard on them and still care. Tough love, right? I am not always so sure. Sometimes, I get really angry. I just cannot believe some of the things students say to teachers, let alone each other.

When it comes down to it, I cannot choose between anger and compassion—both have a place. These students, like many other poor kids of color in urban communities, live in a reality plagued with ills both internal and external. They are afflicted by ills stemming from unforgivable elements of our own culture (the Black community) as well as entrenched disparities caused by persisting structural inequalities from the broader society.

I guess I get so angry because it is personal. I could have easily been in their shoes.