A deep sigh emanated from the other end of the telephone receiver. "Someone be right up," a voice said after a pause.
Click.
I looked down at the lifeless receiver I was clutching in my hand with resigned dismay. I let it slide back into the cradle and turned my gaze out the window. It was a beautiful day in the South Bronx. Fluffy clouds speckled a perfect blue sky that hung over a collage of brown and gray rooftops. Somewhere a couple blocks away, a car alarm sang faintly, insistently. I heard - felt, rather - the bass from a passing car. I tried very hard - very consciously - to absorb whatever peace this tableau offered for a brief moment. Outside, all was quiet.
I took a deep breath and turned my attention back to my reality: My classroom, inside which the sky was falling. The inmates had taken over the asylum. Or, to be more accurate, the kindergartners had taken over.
"Someone be right up."
On the feeble strength of that promise (broken in the past many times over), I gathered what was left of my strength and sanity and made one final attempt at restoring order.
I gazed around the room, dully assessing the situation. Chairs were overturned, crayons were strewn haphazardly around, and children were running amok. I absently ducked a marker whizzing by my ear as I tried to prioritize: Do I first break up the fight, or pluck the dancing kid from the top of the table? As these thoughts went through my mind, I was already in motion, gently swooping the dancer from the table, placing him on the floor with a chastising look as I raced toward the fight.
"Someone be right up."
On the feeble strength of that promise (broken in the past many times over), I gathered what was left of my strength and sanity and made one final attempt at restoring order.
I gazed around the room, dully assessing the situation. Chairs were overturned, crayons were strewn haphazardly around, and children were running amok. I absently ducked a marker whizzing by my ear as I tried to prioritize: Do I first break up the fight, or pluck the dancing kid from the top of the table? As these thoughts went through my mind, I was already in motion, gently swooping the dancer from the table, placing him on the floor with a chastising look as I raced toward the fight.
"Someone be right up."
I felt the ping of a crayon hitting me in the back as a tiny student ran past me, giggling devilishly in the midst of a lap around the classroom. I managed to break up the fight with minimal resistance (I was bigger than the 5 year olds - a nice change of pace) but it still smacked of breaking up a gladiatorial match in the coliseum. Spectators booed, opponents cursed each other (and their opponent's mother) as they were physically dragged from each other. They were unharmed, but their 5-year-old natures surfaced once they were apart. Crying for mommies ensued.
"Kayden," I said with as much gentleness as possible to one of the brawlers, "why were you guys fighting?"
"He -- he -- he -- he said," he gasped between sobs, "-- he said I was -- said I was a dummyyyyyyyyyyy!!" The remembrance renewed his uncontrollable sobbing.
A dummy? Most five-year-olds would have tattled. They would have found their teacher, and tattled their little brains out. The matter have been treated gravely by the Adult in Charge, and everyone would now be making Play-Dough spaghetti together. This was the South Bronx, though. These five-year-olds threw down.
I looked up from Kayden and saw that the dancer was back on the table for a reprise, the sprinter was still going strong, and - - "YOU!" I spotted the crayon sniper, perched on a counter, whipping crayons and markers at unsuspecting targets. She was grinning like the Cheshire Cat.
I sighed, ruffled Kayden's hair, and secure in the knowledge that both fighters were now separate, and enveloped in groups of concerned peers counseling them ("don't cry, he's a dum-dum!"), headed towards the sniper. She was nearest at the moment.
. . . . . . .
It took five adults to subdue the kindergartners that day. Five grown adults - myself, the principal, the literacy coach, a nearby teacher on her planning period, and eventually, their classroom teacher, plucked from her lunch break. All of them cast accusatory looks at me. All of them wanted to know what happened here. All of them wanted to know I lost control to such an incredible degree.
I was asking the same question myself.
. . . . . . .
Our culture is filled with inspiring teacher stories ("Lean on Me", "Mr. Holland's Opus", "Stand and Deliver", "Dangerous Minds", "Half Nelson", I could go on, but I won't). They usually involve some noble soul striding in from a hazy prior life to inspire students to greatness - beyond greatness, even. We wipe away tears hearing these stories, moved past the point of admiration. It fills us to the brim, these huge stories of selflessness and determination in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds. Tales of regular people reaching so far past themselves in the pursuit of making other people better, of making kids matter - kids who otherwise wouldn't. Matter, that is.
This is not that story. This is not a heartwarming story of overcoming odds and breaking through boundaries. This is the opposite of those stories. This is a story of my attempt to be like those other stories and my subsequent miserable, utter failure. This is not a tale for the feint of heart. This is a story about losing - losing hope, losing faith, nearly losing sanity. And also, it's a story about poop. And dead pigeons. And stolen cars.
