I have encounters with students sometimes that leave me wondering whether there is any good left in the word. I know there is; I see it all around me. But some interactions make me realize that some don’t see that, and so for them, it doesn’t exist. There is no good; it’s all bad. Even what they see as good is in fact probably bad.
Suzanna is a young lady who makes an impression immediately: she is, in a word, strikingly beautiful. All the teachers on the eighth-grade hall willingly admit it: she’s probably one of the most physically attractive young ladies we’ve had in the eighth grade in a long time. With a perfect dark complexion and hair that’s always in lovely curls, she’s striking. When she grows up, she’ll be the time of woman that commands everyone’s attention and admiration the moment she walks into a room.
Until she opens her mouth, for she is as unattractive on the inside as she is beautiful on the outside. Case in point: the first day of school, one of her teachers was taking roll. He called out her name, Suzanna Smith-Jones.
“Don’t call me ‘Smith.’ That’s my daddy’s name. I don’t like him. And I don’t like you.”
The first words out of her mouth. Her first impression.
“She said it with such anger, with such hatred,” the teacher explained to me later as I was checking up on her — I don’t teach her — after she and I had had a run-in one morning in the hallway.
“What kind of life has she lived to get that messed up in only thirteen years?” I asked. “What kind of a future does she have?”
The encounter I’d had with her was instructive as well. It was in the morning, before the actual school day started when students who arrive early are to sit outside their homeroom teacher’s door and wait quietly and patiently. I’d noted early in the week that she was sitting at the top of the hall, so I assumed that was where her homeroom was. I was stationed at the middle of the hall, so when she came to my area and plopped down with some friends, I politely said, “You need to go back up there to your homeroom, please.”
“I ain’t goin’ up there,” she said, her voice instantly on edge with anger.
These types of reactions — instant and unqualified disrespect when I’ve made a conscious effort to be respectful — constitute my one big button. I don’t lose my temper with students often, but this does it. Still, I’ve been conscious of it for some time now, and I’ve largely managed to get that under control. So instead of responding like some teachers would, with instant anger and disrespect in return, I simply restated my instructions: “I’m afraid I’m not asking you. I really need you to go back up the hall, please.”
“I’m just gonna sit here like I do every day.”
“Don’t do this, please. Make a better choice.”
At this point, her friends began encouraging her: “Come on, Suzanne, just do what he says.” I find that when I’m polite at all times, I earn a reputation among students for just that, and in such encounters, they often respond by suggesting that their friend is making a mistake. I was glad to see it happening then, and I really hoped she would comply. That would be the end of it. But she wasn’t giving in.
“I ain’t doin’ nothing. I’m just sittin’ here.”
It occurred to me that perhaps her homeroom was in fact in the middle of the hall, and I realized that this was going nowhere: I couldn’t force her to move, and she wasn’t complying, so I simply stated, “Well, I’m afraid you’ll just have to talk to Mr. M when I refer the matter to him.”
“I guess I will.”
After some checking later in the morning, I learned that her homeroom was not at the top of the hall, not in the middle of the hall, but at the far end of the hall.
Often, with such kids, I make a special effort: I actively try to cultivate a new relationship after such an encounter. These relationships sometimes turn into some of the closest, warmest relationships I have with students. I become something of a coach to them, something of a mentor. Such students often seek me out when they’re having a conflict with another student or a teacher because they know they can vent their frustration safely with me and that the only thing they’ll get in return is a little coaching and a lot of encouragement.
I tried to cultivate such a relationship with Suzanna. She was not simply ambivolent; she was openly hostile to the idea. I waited, tried again. Still the same reaction.
A girl trapped in her own frustration, feeding off her own anger, as such a dismal future in my eyes that it makes it difficult to watch that person move through her day. She’s a pinball, batted about by the whims and accidents of the people around her.
