the kid who threw the furniture

After a conversation with an old friend whom I got to visit last week (and who is also a writer), I've decided to start writing short stories/accounts, vignettes if you will, of crazy things that happened to me during my first year of teaching. This friend and I joke about living parallel lives; we are both only children, both writers with English degrees, both went on adventures far away from home, both worked as small town reporters, and now both teachers. She is about to begin her first year, so as I was regaling her with tales from my school that I only wish I had made up, she suggested I write them down. I changed all the names. Here goes.

The Kid Who Threw the Furniture

Let me preface this by saying that for the first few months of my (American) teaching career, I had no idea how to deal with noncompliant children. I saw these instances as times when I must assert my authority for fear of not being seen as someone any of the kids had to listen to. While I still think this is important, I handle it differently now. 

So around mid-October, when I had only been teaching third grade for a few weeks, we got a new student. He was a cute kid with huge eyes and these long, curly eyelashes. Let's call him Danny. He was quiet and polite at first. He participated in class and even the first day, it became apparent that he was easily one of the smartest kids in the class. 

So that afternoon, my homeroom switched with my partner's homeroom and went off to science while the other class came to me for writing. At this time, we switched back right before dismissal for the kids to gather their things, so my class came back a few minutes before the bell was supposed to ring. As the students were filing into the room, my partner - we'll call her Mrs. Campbell - called to me "I need to see Danny for minute," so I said ok, not thinking anything of it. She would often ask to see kids because they owed her work or sometimes she had a reward for them at the end of the day. As the kids were getting their backpacks, I went over to Danny and said, "Mrs. Campbell needs to see you." 

Nothing. No response. He just stared straight ahead, past Louie, across the table from him, at the wall. Chin propped in his hand, refusing to look at me. 

He had done so well in my class, I thought there was no way he was in trouble. But he was. For not doing something she had asked him to do, apparently. He finally went to her room, begrudgingly, after much coaxing from me, who was still thinking he was just nervous on his first day. Little did I know this was only the beginning.

Probably a month later, he was sitting in his desk, which was at one of the back tables at the time, and all of the kids were working on something. He was playing with his pencils, not doing anything, occasionally talking to or distracting the other students near him. After I had told him to get back on task a few times, each more sternly than the last, and tried to go all mean-teacher-who-means-business on him (this is what I meant by asserting my authority), I finally took his desk and turned it around to face the back of the room so that he couldn't see anyone else. 

He didn't take that so well. 

I simply turned the desk around and walked away, thus activating his hot and unpredictable temper (which I had yet to see in full force at this time). Next thing I knew, his chair went flying across the back of the room. Luckily, its trajectory did not include other students. 

At this point, he was standing at the back of the room fuming. There is little I can say to describe an elementary age boy literally fuming if you have never seen it. It involves a heavily furrowed brow, a pouted lip, lots of heavy breathing, and sometimes even sweating or growling. 

So I moved the kids who were anywhere near him (if this happened again, I would take all of the remaining students out into the hallway, but I didn't know to do that at the time). As I was in the process of doing this, his desk went flying, not as far as the chair, but it traveled a few feet. 

By this time, I'd hit the emergency call button to notify the office and have him physically removed from the room.  I was on my computer writing the official referral that we're required to put in the system when I heard my kidney bean table in the back corner rise and go "clunk!" back down to the floor. 

This kid was using every ounce of might and pure determination he had to flip that table over, but he just wasn't strong enough. He was grunting, you could actually see his little biceps flexing, and you could see in his eyes how intense his focus was on destroying anything he could get his hands on. It was pretty comical. Of course I didn't laugh in front of him or any of the kids, but I did say calmly, "That's ok. Mrs. Meadows is on her way. Keep throwing stuff." Maybe not my best reaction.

I hate power struggles.

A few lifts and flops later, the assistant principal came in and swiftly escorted him out (thankfully one of the few times they actually showed up... but I'll get into that another time). To the rest of the kids' credit, they just sat there gaping and gasping and didn't really escalate the situation. But I think all of our minds were changed about Danny that day and it was a downward spiral from then until he transferred schools after Christmas break. 

I'd be lying if I said I did anything other than run, not walk, to Mrs. Campbell's room and hug her with unmitigated joy when I found out he left.