Teaching is Existing in Crisis Mode
Positioned outside my classroom door, I take a breath as deeply and subtly as I can manage. Believing that my warm greeting is important to my students is the only thing that pulled me here after the bell rang.
My body is tense, unconsciously braced for those volatile few, never knowing if my class, or I, will feel safe that day. While my body is overriding the fear of a potential threat, I consciously try to pull my mind away from the planning I just dropped.
The hallway is boisterous; it always is during class change. “Hi, good morning! Good to see you, Angel. I’m glad you’re here. Hi, I’ll see you later Tre! Good morning, welcome! Good morning.” Poking my head in the room, I scan and prompt students to check out the bell work as they settle in. I catch a glimpse of my co-teacher at his desk, almost visibly wishing three more minutes into existence like students weren’t already filling our room.
“Hi Layla, good to--” and a blur knocks me back slightly. James pushes a smaller student out of his way and into a desk as he rushes into the classroom. He has a bag in his arms - one I’ve never seen him carry before.The desk screeches and my chest tightens. The desk gets to move away from the threat; I move towards it.
I’ve learned a few things by now about James (that make good universal rules): Don’t accuse, ask questions. Pay attention but don’t hover. Address misbehavior, but don’t come on too strong. James is a natural leader. He sets the tone and he knows it. While I hate the ways he wields this ability in my classroom, I’m committed to doing my best to call him higher into his gifts, confident they can be a gift to our class.
It’s been just seconds, but James’ high energy about whatever is happening has captured the attention of every student already inside the classroom. I immediately know two things: I cannot teach until this is resolved, and this is unfair to the majority of students who want a safe enough environment to learn.
For just a moment, I put a hand on the student who was pushed - trying hard to communicate that I saw what happened and hoping he can hear my thoughts and commitment to address it. I know a strong reaction from me at this moment will only be fuel for this game, so I try to keep one ear on what James is saying to his peers while scanning the hallway in the direction James came for the probable owner of the bag.
The next twenty minutes are absorbed by this incident. The highlights, to me, included:
My effort to connect with James to de-escalate my classroom and restore safety was met with the silent treatment; it was as if I didn’t exist and in that moment he lived to get a laugh from his friends. It was a show of the power dynamics.
How that moment triggered embarrassment, helplessness, and anger - which I felt in my body as a tingling in my arms and legs, heat in my face, and restricted breathing.
When I called the dean of students who worked with James for support, it rang and rang, but there was no answer. When I called the other dean, it also rang and rang, and there was no answer. When I called the front office, the secretary radioed for security to report to my room. Not the support James or I needed.
How walking to the corner of my room to dial the phone was a very calculated choice, and how hypervigilant I was for however long it took to make three calls, hoping I would not begin to see a fight break out, and questioning if this was even the right choice.
The waiting. Waiting for support while the tension in my room built. I felt so guilty, so ashamed that I could not make my room safe.
Eventually the dean made it. He pulled out James privately, and within 5 minutes he dropped him off at my door with only a wave in my direction, as if to say “It’s all good now.” I could assume they resolved the issue by the way they were both smiling. But as for myself and the rest of the room, we were left with residue of unresolved conflict.
So here we are now, James has found his way to a desk, still a little giddy off of the attention this incident gave him. I weave my way all over the room, trying to take back what’s left of this class period. Directing students to follow the bell work prompt on the board buys me a few seconds to jot down the gist of what happened with James. If I don’t do it now, twelve other things will happen before lunch and I won’t be able to clearly sort out any of them if I have to speak with an administrator or parent.
I look up and over the room - it appears only three students are writing down anything at all. If history were to repeat itself, then they’re only copying the question and will wait for the answer from us. Other students have their heads down, are on their phones, singing along to whatever is playing through their headphones, having a conversation, or sharing Youtube videos among friends.
I feel heavy and at a loss. I breathe in, taking a moment to regulate before addressing what I see. I know yelling is about as effective as raking with a fork. Before I can even exhale, my co-teacher takes over, pressing on with his lesson as if he has the class’ full attention. This is not my style, as we’ve talked about many times, but apparently no number of conversations with him can make him expect and demand more from our students.
So I watch, feeling so defeated, complicit, even angry. I watch my students’ off-task, escape-driven, and disrespectful behaviors be reinforced. But back towards the crisis I go. I can reach some of them today.
