The week ended with a bang in my humble schoolroom. One little darling lost the glow-in-the-dark superball she earned for her behavior last week. She was in tears and angrily accused everyone nearby of stealing it. This wasn’t likely as she dropped it two steps from the treasure chest and it probably super-bounced across the room and under something. I told her to go or she’d miss the bus and I’d look for it. I’d straighten it out on Monday, I assured her. She stumbled out to her locker, tears streaming down her face, folders slipping out of her hands, shedding papers,pencils, lip gloss and god knows what else in her wake like a New Jersey trash barge headed into a hurricane. The other kids screaming that they didn’t take that bald-headed girl’s superball and other less than helpful comments was a perfect complement to the drama that only a wronged eight-year old can suffer.

After she went to her locker and I had squelched the howls of indignation from the falsely accused, I went to my secret goody stash and slipped another superball into my pocket. I told the class to clean up their tables and be in their seats, ready for dismissal, when I returned. Unfortunately, my high speed race to catch the bus missed, and I saw it pull away. Kenya was sitting toward the back by a window, folded arms cushioning her face, her body jerking back and forth in her patented full-body crying jag. Several girls were crowded around her, patting her shoulders and stoking her hair, alternately feeding and being fed at the emotional feast. She didn’t see me as I held up the ball that she’d get on Monday.

I went back upstairs to see if the class had kept it together for the four-or-five minutes I was out of the room. I should have known better.

(so much more below)
DeRay, the biggest boy in the class who is only two merit badges away from making Eagle Bully, was pounding on Darvin, the smallest boy, who has more mouth per pound than Don King. Darvin has yet to learn the Chris Rock rule of the ghetto. If you’re small and you have a big mouth, you better be smart, funny, or fast. Darvin is none of these. When I walked in, he was the practicing catching punches with his body while scrambling to his feet and being knocked down again. The class was in a frenzy, first the drama of the lost (or was it stolen?) superball and the flight of wounded Kenya, followed hard on its heels by a real, punches-thrown-in-anger pounding. The little ones were on an emotional joyride not seen in my room since our much despised principal had broken a heel and fallen flat on her back as she entered the classroom.

I grabbed DeRay and, in Serious Teacher Voice, barked, “Seats, now!” Strangely, unexpectedly, it worked. There was a mass diving for seats. One hand firmly on DeRay’s shoulder to keep him from going after Darvin yet again, the other on Darvin’s back to direct him to his seat, eyes flashing, head turning rapidly to make Serious Eye Contact with the Usual Suspects, I ordered the kids to follow me out the door and go to their lockers. I must have looked like Robo-Cop without the arsenal. I had to take DeRay to the office to get him suspended. We definitely need another meeting with Mom and GranDad.

     “In line, ready for dismissal, when I get back,” I whispered, in my best “Uh-oh, he’s getting quiet, he must be really angry” voice. I picked up this technique at a professional development session entitled, “Classroom Management Tips from Clint Eastwood.” It’s a show stopper.

Or so I thought. I whipped into the office with DeRay still in my grip, zoomed into the principal’s office, demanded DeRay be suspended so that his family would have come to a meeting, told the principal that, no, I didn’t have time to fill in the forms because my class was unsupervised, and whipped back upstairs in no more than one-and-a-half, maybe two minutes. Too long by thirty seconds.

I heard the distinctive sound of another fight as I took the stairs four at a time. I dodged some overdressed stragglers from first grade whose huge winter coats with oversized, fuzzy hoods made walking and seeing a major challenge.

I rounded the corner to my room a bit too fast. Kouri and Te’ Aandrik slammed into me, Kouri’s shoulder dealing me a particularly unfortunate blow. He is a small boy and his head is no higher than my navel. Te’Aanrik’s poorly aimed kicks were as likely to hit any of the many kids who had swarmed to the excitement as to hit Kouri, his intended target. Innocent victims were howling in indignation, Kouri was yelling,”What’d I do? I didn’t do nothing?,” Te’Aandrik was trying to organize his legs to go where he was aiming, and I was trying to catch my breath and avoid grabbing my injury.

“TWO LINES –  RIGHT NOW,” I roared, as much as you can roar while doubled-up and trying not to swear. “LINE LEADERS – GET THE CLASS OUT THE DOOR.” LaTaya and Thomas jumped like they been shocked and took off down the stairs. The class raced after them. Kouri and Te’Aandrik tried to lose themselves in the crush of the noisy, mass exodus.
 

“Te’Aandrik and Kouri – FREEZE.” I used the top-drawer Teacher Voice. The voice that has been used by teachers since the spitball was invented. The voice that has famously turned aside cattle stampedes and rogue elephant charges. They froze.

“Monday, during Gym time, we’ll discuss this,” I whispered. I wasn’t reverting to Clint, I could barely speak. “Monday.”

They turned and walked slowly toward the door, Spiderman backpacks dragging behind them, chins on their chest, muttering softly, the mantra of the Elementary student caught red handed, “I didn’t do nothing. He hit me first. What I do?”

I watched them go and slid slowly down the wall into a sitting position.Two of my kids came back up the stairs. “We’ll be good Monday,” they said with the purest earnestness they could muster. It was pretty impressive.

“I hope so, ” I muttered,” God knows, I hope so.” They turned and slowly walked away.

 I looked at the cracked hall clock. Ten minutes had passed since Kenya lost the superball. Ten minutes in the life a child can feel like ten hours. And sometimes they help their teachers re-experience time’s elasticity.