Just Another Day in Paradise

Mrs.  McGrath, is he yours?”  “Well, that just depends on what he has done,” I respond warily.  I am not in the mood for this dance and I make it known.  “He hit a girl and threw her down the hill” the noon hour supervisor enunciates each syllable for emphasis.  “Oh dear”, I say out loud.  “Fuck”, I think,” not again.”  Before I can question the suspect, the victim appears on the scene, eyes wild and arms flailing. Jessie is a troubled girl with a propensity for drama and exaggeration.  I am further annoyed that he chose to hit her in particular, although not surprised.  Most of the kids in grade 5 would love to give her a smack.  

The crowd begins to gather around our informal courtroom.  “Blaze attacked me and threw me down the big hill; I have broken my arm in at least 5 places.”  She is wailing and sobbing intermittently, and I try to summon some degree of pity or at least the appearance of.  “Is this true, Blaze?” Head down, he nods softly.  That was easy, but this kid is honest to a fault.  He is intelligent and quick-witted and could think up a clever lie on the spot if he had a mind to.  I haven’t decided yet if he is truthful because it is right or if he has had enough experience in trouble to know that it will be considered a mitigating factor in his favour if his crime should reach the office door.
 

Just last week, I witnessed another teacher march up to him and demand that he admit if he had tripped another student on the stairs on purpose.  Her expression startled and confused at his forthright, “I did it.”  “Well, don’t do it again, then.  You get a strike for not respecting others.”  Catching my eye, she throws up her arms in “what do you do?” exasperation.  “What happened there”, I asked him as he walked past me, head down.  “I already ‘pologized.  It’s settled.”

``I didn’t do anything to him, and he tackled me and beat me up”  She is aware of the audience now and is building the tempo to a crescendo of gut wrenching sobs interspersed with gasps as if she is about  to draw her last breath.  I wonder if a Shakespearian play would offer her a more appropriate outlet.  MacBeth perhaps?   “What happened before he did that?” I inquire.  “Nothing”, she snaps back to life and to attention.  “I didn’t even talk to him at lunch”. 

She reminds me momentarily of my own daughter who would throw herself on the floor, kicking and screaming her desire to get her own way.  When I would walk into the other room, she would collect herself, march behind me, throw herself back down to the floor, and give a repeat performance.  Of course she was 2 years at the time.  

 I decide it is much cuter at two.  It is time to dispel the crowd of interested 5^th graders who are fortunately too young to have been recording it anywhere other than their memories.  They disperse reluctantly because this is ’’epic.”

“Blaze, why did you hit her if she didn’t do anything to you?”  I am losing patience now.  I see my afternoon of math center float out of reach.  To add insult to injury, I spent my lunch hour organizing them.  ”I was hired”, he states simply.   What could be more obvious?  “You were what... did you say?”

“I was hired by a kid in grade 3.  He needed a grade 5 and I needed some cash.”  What could be more perfect?  It`s like serendipity, I fume. “Well, I should get half the money”, Jessie howls, “I was the one who got beat up”.  “What did you do?”  Blaze demands, “You’re not even going to get suspended as long as you shut up.”  “Both of you.... be quiet!  We are taking this show to the office.”

 I collect the mafia boss of grade 3 and we make our way to the principal’s office.  I have to prevent Blaze and Al Capone from communicating to get their stories straight.  Grade 3 boy has no idea of Blaze’s history of singing like a canary in these situations, though, and I am confident that he will do so again.  He will not be worried about retribution from this young punk who looks to be about 60 pounds soaking wet. 

I brief the principal who tries not to react in front of the kids.  ``This is an unusual situation “, he says.  Indeed.  Our principal had just moved from a school in which a major infraction might look like not passing one’s homework in on time to our school where about a 1/4 of our population did not get themselves to school on time.  It was quite a culture shock for him, and I try to contain my amusement at his discomfiture.   I shift impatiently as the principal reviews the board discipline policy for “unusual” situations like this.  As phrases such as “disruption of operations” and “physical aggression and violence” are voiced like sharp verbal punches, Blaze and I both realize that we are talking a suspension.

“I want an in school,” Blaze cuts to the chase.  “When one is suspended, one does not have the privilege of deciding where,” he is admonished.  “Look, I got tons of work to catch up on, don’t I Ms. McGrath.  I haven’t done hardly anything in at least a week,” he adds for good measure.  The last suspension was in school the principal reminds him, and it didn’t seem to have much impact as we having this conversation right now.  Again.  “Please”, he sounds urgent now.  “My brothers will beat me up if they have to take care of me.” 

The stricken look is not contrived and I know he is sincere.  Unlike Jessie, he is not prone to exaggeration.  It is not necessary in his life.  His reality is dramatic enough.  The principal catches my eye and I nod almost imperceptibly.  Later, I will remind him that the police were called to Blaze’s house a few weeks ago to break up a fight between his teenaged brothers.  The younger of the two was hospitalized because his injuries were serious.  His crime was lowering the basketball net too low. 

“If you have a lot of work to catch up on, I suppose an in-school makes sense,” the principal informs him.  Blazes’ relief is so palatable that it hurts to look at him.  We dismiss him at the office, and I watch him skip down the hall.  After speaking with the principal about our “next steps”, I prepare a work package for next day.  At five o’clock, bleary eyed and more than a little disheartened, I make my way to the car.  Home will feel good. 

I notice him then, playing in the ditch at the side of the school.  “What are you still doing here?” I demand.    “I missed the bus, and I didn’t think it was a good time to bother you”, he informs me, deadpan.  “Your family is probably wondering where you are”, I scold.  We both know they probably aren’t.  I feel somehow ashamed that I have nothing better to say.  “It’s cold, get in and I’ll drive you home,” I tell him softly. 

We drive to his house in comfortable silence.   As we get closer, I can feel both of our moods shifting.  I force myself to indicate at the end of his driveway, trying not to notice the dilapidated conditions he lives in.  “Thank you for the in-school suspension,” he says as he opens the door.  “No problem, anytime,” I tell him.  We laugh at our absurdity together. I watch him walk away, smiling as he takes imaginary shots at a basketball net now risen far too high over his ten-year old head. 

The forty minute drive home is not far enough today.  Not far enough to forget where I just dropped him off, and not far enough to allow me the emotional buffer I need to go back and do it all again tomorrow.  I wonder what would happen if I took him home to the comfort and safety of a real home.  He’s already a pretty amazing kid. I wonder who he could become if he had a fair chance.

At home, I go through my nightly routine with my own kids.  I do the dance of guitar lessons, kids complaining they don’t like salmon, bubble baths, and bedtime stories.   I am giving Ian his nightly “kissing hand” when he asks me if I had a good day with my “other kids.”  Pretty good, I lie.