By Sandra Picklesimer Aldrich
Anger is short-lived madness.
~Horace
At the start of my ninth year of high school teaching, I walked into my fifth-hour class and faced angry blue eyes. The student slouched at his desk, arms folded, and glared at me.
Anger is short-lived madness.
~Horace
At the start of my ninth year of high school teaching, I walked into my fifth-hour class and faced angry blue eyes. The student slouched at his desk, arms folded, and glared at me.
Even a novice teacher wouldn't have misunderstood this silent challenge. I caught the implications and wondered what confrontations were ahead.
Sending up a silent prayer, I introduced myself to the class, explained what the course would cover and then called roll. Many of the students preferred a shortened version of their formal names, such as "Chris" instead of "Christopher." But when I read the name of the student with the angry blue eyes, he insisted I call him by his full name: Kenneth. He quickly added that only his friends called him Ken. Obviously, teachers didn't fit that category.
In the weeks that followed, the tension grew. Kenneth would meet even the simplest request with a penetrating stare and plain stubbornness. He would wait until the other students did as I asked before complying. And his compliance was always accompanied by a smirk.
Occasionally, he would nudge his textbook onto the floor when I was trying to make an important point. The noise would disrupt the class, and his sarcastic "oops" always would draw a chuckle from the rest of the students.
I tried all the normally successful teaching techniques in the hope of having Kenneth take an interest in some part of the course. But I couldn't penetrate the wall around him. Talking privately with him did no good; he merely shrugged, and the same critical eyes would greet me at the next class.
Finally, I decided I had to stop worrying about him. But, still, I continued to mentally replay each day's encounter and wonder what would take down the emotional wall.
One Monday evening, while thinking about Kenneth's sullen ways, I poured boiling water over tea bags in a pitcher I'd used hundreds of times. But this time, the tempered glass shattered, throwing the scalding kettleful onto my thighs. Even though I received immediate medical attention, the burned flesh formed painful blisters.
The doctor suggested I take the rest of the week off from work, but I didn't want to subject a substitute teacher to Kenneth. I assured the doctor I would arrange my lessons plans so I could remain at my desk. I appreciated his "suit yourself" shrug, but wondered if Kenneth would choose this time to cause more problems since I wouldn't be able to physically assert any authority.
The walk to my classroom the next morning was torturously slow, and I didn't arrive until all my students were seated. Upon limping in, I was greeted with cries of "What happened?"
I briefly explained the accident to the class. As I did, I thought I saw a flutter of compassion in Kenneth's eyes. I dismissed the thought and began the day's lesson.
The hour passed quickly, and I drew a deep breath, relieved the class had gone well. I dismissed the students and began to gather my books and papers for the walk across the courtyard to my next class. Then I realized Kenneth was standing by my desk.
"I thought you might like me to carry your stuff," he said. "I have study hall, and Mr. Kelly won't care if I'm late."
Surely Kenneth was teasing me. But he remained by my desk, quietly waiting.
I gratefully handed him my briefcase.
Kenneth carried my briefcase for the rest of the week. Slowly we began to talk about the weather, his job and his other classes.
On Friday, we arrived at my next class early since I was walking better. No one else was in the room. Kenneth placed my briefcase on the desk and stood, head lowered, with his hand still on the strap. Finally, he looked up.
"What degree are your burns?" he asked quietly.
"Only second degree, Kenneth," I answered.
"Oh," he said. "Mine were third."
So my burns were the reason for his change of attitude. "How awful," I said. "What happened?"
His words tumbled out about the model airplanes he'd loved working on when he was seven, the almost empty tube of glue he'd held over the candle in an attempt the soften the last drop for the delicate wing, the flash of flames, the long weeks in the hospital and the numerous cosmetic operations.
To emphasize his final point, Kenneth lifted his chin slightly and said, "See? They can't get this spot to heal right, even with the skin grafts. I still have this ugly scar. Everybody is always looking at it!"
"Kenneth, that is a bad scar," I said. "But I never noticed it until now."
He stared at me intently, wanting to believe me. "Really?"
"Yes, really. Your eyes are what people notice first."
"Really?" His unexpected smile erased the bad moments he'd given me in the previous weeks.
"Yes. And, Kenneth, you have a wonderful smile. You should show it more often."
His smile widened as he turned to go.
"Kenneth," I called. "Thank you for telling me this."
"That's okay." He paused. "You know, Mrs. A., you can call me 'Ken' if you want."
I smiled. "I'd like that very much, Ken."
The following Monday, he greeted me with a smile. And his eyes were no longer angry.
Sending up a silent prayer, I introduced myself to the class, explained what the course would cover and then called roll. Many of the students preferred a shortened version of their formal names, such as "Chris" instead of "Christopher." But when I read the name of the student with the angry blue eyes, he insisted I call him by his full name: Kenneth. He quickly added that only his friends called him Ken. Obviously, teachers didn't fit that category.
In the weeks that followed, the tension grew. Kenneth would meet even the simplest request with a penetrating stare and plain stubbornness. He would wait until the other students did as I asked before complying. And his compliance was always accompanied by a smirk.
Occasionally, he would nudge his textbook onto the floor when I was trying to make an important point. The noise would disrupt the class, and his sarcastic "oops" always would draw a chuckle from the rest of the students.
I tried all the normally successful teaching techniques in the hope of having Kenneth take an interest in some part of the course. But I couldn't penetrate the wall around him. Talking privately with him did no good; he merely shrugged, and the same critical eyes would greet me at the next class.
Finally, I decided I had to stop worrying about him. But, still, I continued to mentally replay each day's encounter and wonder what would take down the emotional wall.
One Monday evening, while thinking about Kenneth's sullen ways, I poured boiling water over tea bags in a pitcher I'd used hundreds of times. But this time, the tempered glass shattered, throwing the scalding kettleful onto my thighs. Even though I received immediate medical attention, the burned flesh formed painful blisters.
The doctor suggested I take the rest of the week off from work, but I didn't want to subject a substitute teacher to Kenneth. I assured the doctor I would arrange my lessons plans so I could remain at my desk. I appreciated his "suit yourself" shrug, but wondered if Kenneth would choose this time to cause more problems since I wouldn't be able to physically assert any authority.
The walk to my classroom the next morning was torturously slow, and I didn't arrive until all my students were seated. Upon limping in, I was greeted with cries of "What happened?"
I briefly explained the accident to the class. As I did, I thought I saw a flutter of compassion in Kenneth's eyes. I dismissed the thought and began the day's lesson.
The hour passed quickly, and I drew a deep breath, relieved the class had gone well. I dismissed the students and began to gather my books and papers for the walk across the courtyard to my next class. Then I realized Kenneth was standing by my desk.
"I thought you might like me to carry your stuff," he said. "I have study hall, and Mr. Kelly won't care if I'm late."
Surely Kenneth was teasing me. But he remained by my desk, quietly waiting.
I gratefully handed him my briefcase.
Kenneth carried my briefcase for the rest of the week. Slowly we began to talk about the weather, his job and his other classes.
On Friday, we arrived at my next class early since I was walking better. No one else was in the room. Kenneth placed my briefcase on the desk and stood, head lowered, with his hand still on the strap. Finally, he looked up.
"What degree are your burns?" he asked quietly.
"Only second degree, Kenneth," I answered.
"Oh," he said. "Mine were third."
So my burns were the reason for his change of attitude. "How awful," I said. "What happened?"
His words tumbled out about the model airplanes he'd loved working on when he was seven, the almost empty tube of glue he'd held over the candle in an attempt the soften the last drop for the delicate wing, the flash of flames, the long weeks in the hospital and the numerous cosmetic operations.
To emphasize his final point, Kenneth lifted his chin slightly and said, "See? They can't get this spot to heal right, even with the skin grafts. I still have this ugly scar. Everybody is always looking at it!"
"Kenneth, that is a bad scar," I said. "But I never noticed it until now."
He stared at me intently, wanting to believe me. "Really?"
"Yes, really. Your eyes are what people notice first."
"Really?" His unexpected smile erased the bad moments he'd given me in the previous weeks.
"Yes. And, Kenneth, you have a wonderful smile. You should show it more often."
His smile widened as he turned to go.
"Kenneth," I called. "Thank you for telling me this."
"That's okay." He paused. "You know, Mrs. A., you can call me 'Ken' if you want."
I smiled. "I'd like that very much, Ken."
The following Monday, he greeted me with a smile. And his eyes were no longer angry.
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