How About That?

I was teaching my weekly poetry class at a local school downtown, a charter school known for its focus on social-emotional skills. The hallways are colorfully decorated, with playful grade demarcations above each room, creating a warm, cheerful atmosphere.

That afternoon in my fourth grade class, a boy with long hair falling into his face slouched in his chair, looking miserable. As I was setting up for the poetry activity, he snapped at the classroom teacher when she told him to get his notebook out for poetry. When she said it again, in a calm voice, he blurted, “I don’t care!” 

My attention zeroed in on him. As I tried to pull him into the lesson and settle his mood, I asked him what he loved, love being the topic for the day. 

“My brother, tacos and ju-jitsu,” he said, seeming surprised to be called on. I wrote that on the board and then added what the other kids called out.

As I continued the lesson, and the students began writing their love poems, I spent more time with him than the others, as he still seemed to be fuming about something. In spite of his mood, he completed the task and volunteered to read out his poem, along with several other students.

After class, I asked him to come outside. He looked scared through his aggressive stance while the teacher raised an eyebrow at me, a what’s-going-on?

He turned away as we stood across from each other in the narrow space outside the classroom. 

“Do you ever say pissed off?” I began, knowing I was crossing a line between teacher and student. Let’s just go for it, I thought, maybe this will help him open up.

He nodded, glanced up for a second, then back at his feet, shuffling awkwardly as if he wanted to get away.

“You seem really pissed off,” I said. “What’s going on?”

He shrugged.

“You did so great in the poetry class, but you just look so unhappy, like you don’t want to be here.” 

“I don’t,” he said loudly. 

“Where would you rather be?”

“At ju-jitsu. But I can’t go.” He looked utterly miserable.

“Why not?”

“It takes me ten minutes to get home, and it starts ten minutes before I can get there.”

“Oh, that’s a drag,” I said. “Are there other times you can go?”

“There’s only three, and they’re all at the same time.” Then he growled, “School is getting in the way of ju-jitsu.”

I laughed inside, what a way to express it, for a nine-year-old. 

On my way home, still tickled by his response, I thought of all that might be getting in my way. How about laundry? Or heart disease? Or death?

Please feel free to write your own in the comments.