Teacher Log – 2002

It was August, 2001, and I was fortunate to land a position in a little primary school in the eastern suburbs of Melbourne. My assignment was to take over a Year 2 class of 20 students, as their regular teacher was running off to Hong Kong to get married. This gig would last the entire semester, ending a week before Christmas. I met with the home teacher, and she passed over the lesson plans for the remainder of the year.

Any teacher will tell you, as far as productive learning is concerned, the year level is key. During my career, I've taught all grades from 1-12, and have found the younger students and older one's, both ends of the spectrum, are the best. This year 2 class was a pleasure to teach. The semester really ended without a hitch. Except, of course, the morning after 9/11.

After the world witnessed the planes crash into the Twin towers, we realised our lives would never be the same. The morning after, I walked into the school depressed, and wondering how my class was going to respond. The children were devastated. We had a school assembly, and a separate one for the lower grades. I was too devastated to run the meeting, but Ms. Kirkpatrick, a smart and pretty, young teacher, handled the meeting well. Honestly, I don't remember exactly what she said, but the students seemed to be settled for the moment.

I usually started the day with a maths lesson, but thought wise to give them construction paper and pencils, and let their creative minds flow, a kind of therapy, after seeing a traumatic event. This worked, as they went straight to task, drawing air-planes crashing into buildings and dead people falling from the skies. At first recess, I had yard duty, and my students all wanted to hold my hand, as I patrolled the playground. This reveals that 7 year old children can be very kind and caring.

Do you have family in New York, Mr. Middleton?

“No, Kayla, my kid's live in California, on the other side of the country.”

“That's good.” she said. As we walked by the swings, and the children waved at us and shouted, “Hey, Mr. Middleton!”

At the end of the year, I was given a bottle of wine from the principal, thanking me for my stay at his school. Despite outside circumstances, this semester was a success. I wanted to point this out because my next assignment in 2002, was in a inner city high school, teaching year 9 and 10. A drastically different experience.

This school was the end of the line for students with behavioural and academic problems. Many wealthy private schools would send their failures to us as a last resort. And, as I said, and many teachers will tell you, year 9 and 10 can be the most difficult to teach. In this case, the teaching and learning situation is problematic – a problem on steroids.

From the beginning, in a certain year 10 class, my problems started with a particular student, who I will call, Caroline.

Caroline had a rough childhood and a terrible record. She came from a single parent home, and recently was busted for a small drug charge. That said, she was very popular in the school, as she looked like a woman in her early 20's; pretty, though jagged around the edges and, above all, street smart.

At first we seemed to get off on the right foot. She read the text we were studying, and was not too disruptive in class. After a few weeks, now that the students knew how far they could take me, her behaviour changed.

The boy's in class would fall all over her with adolescent acts to impress: throwing paper at her from across the room, yelling out obscenities, and passing her notes right in front of me. She enjoyed the attention. I would discipline the boy's with detention, but these actions would work for a few days, and the old behaviour would return. By the third week into the semester, Caroline's behaviour became bizarre.

Rather than sitting in the middle row desk, close to the back, Caroline decides to sit in front of the class . On that day, while writing on the board, and attempting to teach a lesson, looking back of the class, Caroline had her legs spread, no underwear, smiling at me with a grimace of insanity. I pretended not to notice, but she knew what she intended me to see. When the bell rang, I would make this class line up, and leave the classroom in a civil manner. (it would be mayhem if left to themselves) Standing in front of the door, Caroline brushed passed me, rubbing her breasts against my chest. She then laughed, and ran passed the rest of the students. This kind of thing had never happened before. Sure, of course, the occasional “teacher's crush”, but never anything like this blatant behaviour.

I walked into my office and immediately wrote a report on the incident. This type of situation, if not handled at once, could end my career, my life. I handed the report to the principal's secretary. Driving home, I blasted the radio, trying to come to grips with what occurred, going over my report in my mind, hoping it was accurate.

After a glass of wine, I told my wife, and she seemed not surprised. “You did the right thing. You have nothing to worry about.” she said.

The next morning after a few meetings with the top brass, Caroline was transferred out of my class. But the background story for me, answered my questions.

As it turns out, Caroline's mother was a heroine addict, and recently had fallen from a two year bout of being clean. Imagine walking into your house after school to see your mother back on the stuff? The girl was calling out for help as only some teenagers can. From this incident, Caroline was put into the system. Well, as a 16 year old, this wouldn't last long. She later quit school, and I never saw her again.

I could rant on about a system that is flawed, and a flawed government, who only takes care of their own. But in the end, this doesn't matter.

It's what we can do, one person at a time.