The Mob
Today I was finishing up teaching one of my classes when an assistant principal came in and asked me if I had work I could send home for one of my students. "Where is he?" I asked her. I expected her to tell me he'd gotten the flu or something, because sometimes kids whose parents are with it call in and report their kid is going to be out for a few days and ask us to send work so they can stay caught up. This boy is like that. He lives with his grandparents, whom I met at Open House. Actually, I met his grandmother, grandfather, little sister, little brother, and his father. His grandmother talked to me for fifteen full minutes about what she wanted for her grandson. I could tell in those fifteen minutes that this woman was serious and that this sixth grader had a stable situation at home, even if it wasn't with his dad or mom. Something wasn't quite right there, but I could tell that his grandmother was ruling that roost pretty well.
Another clue about this boy's life was his lunch pack. Not many other kids bring their lunch to school. Many qualify for the free or reduced lunch. Many have a buck or two to spend on the vending machine garbage and eat potato chips or Cheetos for lunch, and they throw away the "nutritious" cafeteria one that's provided. This boy had a velcro lunch pack that he brought with him every single day. I never knew what he brought with him, but in my years at the school, it was the first little lunch pack I saw. Someone, his grandmother I had learned, made sure he had a lunch with him every day.
I liked this kid. Anyone who teaches who tells you they don't have favorites is either a liar or a robot. It's just like anything in life - sometimes you click, sometimes you don't. Some kids you find endearing, others are annoying. This kid came in and I noticed right away that something was endearing about him. When I called out attendance, instead of saying the usual "Yeah" or "Huh" or "Here," he said, in a very clear voice, "Present." It was a slight difference, but it stood out to me.
He did his homework every night. He made sure that he was trying his best to do his work. When I read outloud, he was one of the kids that showed he was actively engaged - he would smile or laugh or get big eyes at exciting parts. In short, he was a pleasure to have in class. In fact, when I would tell people about the kids this year and say how they were a tough bunch, I would always come back to this one as one of the saving graces. He wasn't a teacher's pet - we have those - or a perfect student - we may have one or two of those a year - but he was just an all-around nice kid who wanted to be there and wanted to succeed.
Anyhow, so I thought that I'd hear that he was sick with the flu and his grandmother was sending for work. I was wrong.
"He's in the hospital," she told me. When I asked why, she shrugged. "He got jumped at the bus stop yesterday."
"And he's in the HOSPITAL? Is he okay?!"
"I don't really know. Can you get me some work to send for him?" She turned and left to go ask another teacher to send work and to tell them that one of their sixth graders was in the hospital because he'd gotten jumped at the bus stop. In that order.
I had been talking to his grandmother off and on for the past month, so I looked up her phone number. I had my twenty minute lunch in a few minutes, and I would call her to see what the story is. On my way to lunch though, I found out that his grandmother and grandfather had come up to the school and were in the conference room. I made my way there.
I was upset by the news initially, but I wasn't prepared for the conference room. His grandmother was in tears the whole time as she told us about how he'd been jumped by seven or eight other kids. She always walked him to and from the bus stop, every single day, but he had wanted to start going by himself. He was in middle school now. He was becoming a big kid. So she let him walk home alone on Monday. She kept saying over and over again that she would never forgive herself for that, after seeing him come home with his eyes swollen shut, his shirt covered in street dirt, blood all over the place. She would never forgive herself for having to take him to the emergency room and file a police report and have her younger grandchildren scared shitless by the sight of their big brother so badly beaten. As she talked, his grandfather's eyes were all watery too. He just kept shaking his head. "He's a nice boy," he kept saying, like he couldn't understand.
He's out of the hospital, but he's not talking too much. He won't talk to anyone about anything. He talked a little to the police, but that was it. His grandmother worries about getting counseling right away for him. I'm telling you, I knew that woman was on top of her stuff. So we talked about getting that set up, and then we talked about whether he should get a safety transfer. Basically this is what happens when you think your kid is unsafe at school: you get him transferred. We talked about the merits of this.
And here's where I have a major problem with what I am doing with my life: why are we transferring the victim? Why are we sending him away from our community rather than make our community safe for him by sending away the animals who did this to him?
We found out a few of the kids who did this to this boy. A few of them, I taught last year and the year back. One of them is a current sixth grader. When we rounded them up, they started to talk about choices and being leaders. It was outrageous to me. Here we are, talking to them with respect like they're actual little adults. All the administrators and teachers went around in a circle sharing what they had to say with them, saying that they were old enough to know better and that they were setting examples for the younger children on the bus. When they got to me, I didn't have it in me to give a constructive talk. I didn't have it in me to see the good in them. Maybe I just liked this kid too much. Or maybe I was too upset by seeing the grandmother, distraught over what had happened to her grandson. But whatever it was, it made me sick to have to sit in front of these kids - and I hate even using that word - and have to speak to them.
So I told them that. "It makes me sick to be here," I told them. "It makes me sick to have to think about a scenario where six kids gang up on one kid and beat him senseless. It makes me sick to look at you right now."
I've never said that to a kid before. I've said I've been surprised, shocked, angry, embarrassed, and disappointed by behavior. I've told kids that they were good kids who were making very bad choices. I've told them that they should be ashamed of their behavior. But all of those comments leave a slight sign of redemption for them, like they should know better than to do this because they are better than what they just did. That's pretty much what I base my entire professional life on: that there's some redeeming quality in every kid, and I just have to be patient and determined enough to find it. Find and love the good in everyone. That's what I try to do. I really do.
And yet, as I sat at that table, the very same one where I'd sat across from the kid's grandparents who were bleary-eyed from a sleepless night of crying and fear and guilt, I couldn't find anything redeeming in any of them.
"What can you do to fix this?" one of the administrators asked.
"Apologize," one of them answered.
I don't remember the next few minutes of the meeting, because I was going insane in my head. Apologize?!?! APOLOGIZE?! For what? What, exactly, are they planning on apologizing for? For beating up a kid who just wanted to get off the bus and go home? For ganging up on him - six versus one - so he wouldn't even stand a chance? For not just punching him a few times but beating him so badly that he needed to go to the hospital to make sure he wasn't going to die from bleeding in his brain? Because needed seven stitches in the side of his face? Because he has to stay home for a week until he gets physically strong enough to come back to school? Because it's going to be a whole lot longer before he isn't afraid every stupid second of his day? Because he might not want to take a school bus for the rest of the fucking year? Because every time he walks by that spot on the street, he's going to think of this? Because he's going to have a scar on his face that will be a permanent reminder of him being beaten?
And who, exactly, are they going to apologize to? Just to him? Or are they also going to apologize to his little brother and sister who had to see their big brother stagger home with his eyes swollen shut? Or his grandmother who broke down when she came to the door and saw him? Or his grandfather, who wants to know why such a nice kid would have this happen to him? Or to his parents who had to go to the emergency room to get medical tests done on their son so they could be sure that the beating he took on his skull didn't cause internal bleeding in his brain that could be fatal?
Or are they going to apologize to us, the adults sitting there around the table with them, who are supposed to be invested in making sure they become productive members of society? Are they going to apologize to us for wasting our time?
The thing is, I can't say all of this to them because they're kids and I'm the adult. They have to go through procedures. You can't just expel six kids, even if that's what I want to do. They do have redeeming qualities, even if I can't find them right now. At least that's what they told me, when we debriefed the conversation and I was still visibly upset.
A few hours later, after school, one of the kids saw me again and I couldn't look at him. "You gonna hold it against me forever?" he asked me.
He wasn't being nonchalant or anything, but he also didn't get it. How could I get over something in a matter of hours that is going to take this little kid possibly forever to get past? I was tired though, and I couldn't really explain it to him. What was the point anyhow?
I shrugged.
"You seemed real mad," he said. "Madder than I ever seen you. All of us was saying how you kept glaring and your eyebrow didn't even move, but you seemed madder than ever."
I looked up at him. He's thirteen. "I keep picturing him. I keep picturing him, knowing what a nice kid he is, and I keep seeing him be real afraid of you guys, because you're bigger and older and there are a lot of you. And I keep seeing him being so afraid and then I get this awful feeling in my stomach, like this dread when I think about how afraid and hurt he must have been when you kept beating him. I just keep thinking that."
Maybe it was mean to tell him that, but it's what I did. Because that was the truth. Even now, I keep thinking about it and I get really upset.
"We're gonna apologize," he told me. He shrugged, like that was all he could do. And it probably is, at this point. I don't think anybody's going to learn any huge lesson. These kids will probably beat up another kid soon. This kid will probably transfer because it's going to be safer, or so they hope.
It just breaks my heart. I hope - I really really really hope - that somehow, he's okay in the end. But I just don't know how he could be.
Another clue about this boy's life was his lunch pack. Not many other kids bring their lunch to school. Many qualify for the free or reduced lunch. Many have a buck or two to spend on the vending machine garbage and eat potato chips or Cheetos for lunch, and they throw away the "nutritious" cafeteria one that's provided. This boy had a velcro lunch pack that he brought with him every single day. I never knew what he brought with him, but in my years at the school, it was the first little lunch pack I saw. Someone, his grandmother I had learned, made sure he had a lunch with him every day.
I liked this kid. Anyone who teaches who tells you they don't have favorites is either a liar or a robot. It's just like anything in life - sometimes you click, sometimes you don't. Some kids you find endearing, others are annoying. This kid came in and I noticed right away that something was endearing about him. When I called out attendance, instead of saying the usual "Yeah" or "Huh" or "Here," he said, in a very clear voice, "Present." It was a slight difference, but it stood out to me.
He did his homework every night. He made sure that he was trying his best to do his work. When I read outloud, he was one of the kids that showed he was actively engaged - he would smile or laugh or get big eyes at exciting parts. In short, he was a pleasure to have in class. In fact, when I would tell people about the kids this year and say how they were a tough bunch, I would always come back to this one as one of the saving graces. He wasn't a teacher's pet - we have those - or a perfect student - we may have one or two of those a year - but he was just an all-around nice kid who wanted to be there and wanted to succeed.
Anyhow, so I thought that I'd hear that he was sick with the flu and his grandmother was sending for work. I was wrong.
"He's in the hospital," she told me. When I asked why, she shrugged. "He got jumped at the bus stop yesterday."
"And he's in the HOSPITAL? Is he okay?!"
"I don't really know. Can you get me some work to send for him?" She turned and left to go ask another teacher to send work and to tell them that one of their sixth graders was in the hospital because he'd gotten jumped at the bus stop. In that order.
I had been talking to his grandmother off and on for the past month, so I looked up her phone number. I had my twenty minute lunch in a few minutes, and I would call her to see what the story is. On my way to lunch though, I found out that his grandmother and grandfather had come up to the school and were in the conference room. I made my way there.
I was upset by the news initially, but I wasn't prepared for the conference room. His grandmother was in tears the whole time as she told us about how he'd been jumped by seven or eight other kids. She always walked him to and from the bus stop, every single day, but he had wanted to start going by himself. He was in middle school now. He was becoming a big kid. So she let him walk home alone on Monday. She kept saying over and over again that she would never forgive herself for that, after seeing him come home with his eyes swollen shut, his shirt covered in street dirt, blood all over the place. She would never forgive herself for having to take him to the emergency room and file a police report and have her younger grandchildren scared shitless by the sight of their big brother so badly beaten. As she talked, his grandfather's eyes were all watery too. He just kept shaking his head. "He's a nice boy," he kept saying, like he couldn't understand.
He's out of the hospital, but he's not talking too much. He won't talk to anyone about anything. He talked a little to the police, but that was it. His grandmother worries about getting counseling right away for him. I'm telling you, I knew that woman was on top of her stuff. So we talked about getting that set up, and then we talked about whether he should get a safety transfer. Basically this is what happens when you think your kid is unsafe at school: you get him transferred. We talked about the merits of this.
And here's where I have a major problem with what I am doing with my life: why are we transferring the victim? Why are we sending him away from our community rather than make our community safe for him by sending away the animals who did this to him?
We found out a few of the kids who did this to this boy. A few of them, I taught last year and the year back. One of them is a current sixth grader. When we rounded them up, they started to talk about choices and being leaders. It was outrageous to me. Here we are, talking to them with respect like they're actual little adults. All the administrators and teachers went around in a circle sharing what they had to say with them, saying that they were old enough to know better and that they were setting examples for the younger children on the bus. When they got to me, I didn't have it in me to give a constructive talk. I didn't have it in me to see the good in them. Maybe I just liked this kid too much. Or maybe I was too upset by seeing the grandmother, distraught over what had happened to her grandson. But whatever it was, it made me sick to have to sit in front of these kids - and I hate even using that word - and have to speak to them.
So I told them that. "It makes me sick to be here," I told them. "It makes me sick to have to think about a scenario where six kids gang up on one kid and beat him senseless. It makes me sick to look at you right now."
I've never said that to a kid before. I've said I've been surprised, shocked, angry, embarrassed, and disappointed by behavior. I've told kids that they were good kids who were making very bad choices. I've told them that they should be ashamed of their behavior. But all of those comments leave a slight sign of redemption for them, like they should know better than to do this because they are better than what they just did. That's pretty much what I base my entire professional life on: that there's some redeeming quality in every kid, and I just have to be patient and determined enough to find it. Find and love the good in everyone. That's what I try to do. I really do.
And yet, as I sat at that table, the very same one where I'd sat across from the kid's grandparents who were bleary-eyed from a sleepless night of crying and fear and guilt, I couldn't find anything redeeming in any of them.
"What can you do to fix this?" one of the administrators asked.
"Apologize," one of them answered.
I don't remember the next few minutes of the meeting, because I was going insane in my head. Apologize?!?! APOLOGIZE?! For what? What, exactly, are they planning on apologizing for? For beating up a kid who just wanted to get off the bus and go home? For ganging up on him - six versus one - so he wouldn't even stand a chance? For not just punching him a few times but beating him so badly that he needed to go to the hospital to make sure he wasn't going to die from bleeding in his brain? Because needed seven stitches in the side of his face? Because he has to stay home for a week until he gets physically strong enough to come back to school? Because it's going to be a whole lot longer before he isn't afraid every stupid second of his day? Because he might not want to take a school bus for the rest of the fucking year? Because every time he walks by that spot on the street, he's going to think of this? Because he's going to have a scar on his face that will be a permanent reminder of him being beaten?
And who, exactly, are they going to apologize to? Just to him? Or are they also going to apologize to his little brother and sister who had to see their big brother stagger home with his eyes swollen shut? Or his grandmother who broke down when she came to the door and saw him? Or his grandfather, who wants to know why such a nice kid would have this happen to him? Or to his parents who had to go to the emergency room to get medical tests done on their son so they could be sure that the beating he took on his skull didn't cause internal bleeding in his brain that could be fatal?
Or are they going to apologize to us, the adults sitting there around the table with them, who are supposed to be invested in making sure they become productive members of society? Are they going to apologize to us for wasting our time?
The thing is, I can't say all of this to them because they're kids and I'm the adult. They have to go through procedures. You can't just expel six kids, even if that's what I want to do. They do have redeeming qualities, even if I can't find them right now. At least that's what they told me, when we debriefed the conversation and I was still visibly upset.
A few hours later, after school, one of the kids saw me again and I couldn't look at him. "You gonna hold it against me forever?" he asked me.
He wasn't being nonchalant or anything, but he also didn't get it. How could I get over something in a matter of hours that is going to take this little kid possibly forever to get past? I was tired though, and I couldn't really explain it to him. What was the point anyhow?
I shrugged.
"You seemed real mad," he said. "Madder than I ever seen you. All of us was saying how you kept glaring and your eyebrow didn't even move, but you seemed madder than ever."
I looked up at him. He's thirteen. "I keep picturing him. I keep picturing him, knowing what a nice kid he is, and I keep seeing him be real afraid of you guys, because you're bigger and older and there are a lot of you. And I keep seeing him being so afraid and then I get this awful feeling in my stomach, like this dread when I think about how afraid and hurt he must have been when you kept beating him. I just keep thinking that."
Maybe it was mean to tell him that, but it's what I did. Because that was the truth. Even now, I keep thinking about it and I get really upset.
"We're gonna apologize," he told me. He shrugged, like that was all he could do. And it probably is, at this point. I don't think anybody's going to learn any huge lesson. These kids will probably beat up another kid soon. This kid will probably transfer because it's going to be safer, or so they hope.
It just breaks my heart. I hope - I really really really hope - that somehow, he's okay in the end. But I just don't know how he could be.
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