The kid who hates me or: Attempts at being a good teacher.

Lockers at school by Brett Levin

Image via Flickr – Lockers at school by Brett Levin

There’s this kid who hates me. I know because he tells me. Not directly. He mutters it. Under his breath. Rolling his eyes. Whispering to his friends. As he leaves the classroom and I stand by the door to say bye and thank you and good class today and I look forward to seeing you next week and you were great because that’s some tip I picked up somewhere. Welcomes and goodbyes. At the classroom door. They’re important. Teachers should do that. As much as they may prefer to be checking their emails or reading the news online. It helps. Helps build relationships and rapport and minimise behavioural issues.

He hates me. He hates Drama class.

And that’s OK.

See you next week, you were great today, thanks so much.

I tell him it’s OK to hate Drama class. I tell them all you don’t have to like it, you just have to try. I sound like a parent trying to make their kid eat broccoli. I say, I hated Drama, too, when I was your age which is not entirely true nor is it entirely false. Sometimes I hated it. When you had to be hilarious in improvisation games. I was thirteen. We were awkward. Boys would always do these scenes where they would act as if they were in labour. That was funny. Boys would pretend to be girls. That was funny. Boys would impersonate funny characters from movies or TV. That was funny. I’d put on a bad Russian accent and no one would laugh. We were thirteen.

I say to my class, as whole, to all of them, never singling anyone out, that it’s OK not to like Drama. Just give it a go. Try. It’s like broccoli. Some people like it, some people don’t but you don’t know until you try it. Plus, you should eat it, anyway, because it’s good for you. See? Drama and broccoli. I was losing them … and myself … And then, the kid who hates me complains loudly that the only reason anyone is listening to me is because I am an adult and it’s not fair that kids have to listen to adults, why should they listen to me, just cos I’m old and they’re young and it’s not fair because no one ever listens to him. No one. Ever. I listened and said, I’m listening but that just got his eyes rolling and I bit my tongue because I didn’t want to say the things I think my parents would have said all those decades ago when I probably said the exact same thing. Because we all say those things when we’re kids. Don’t we?

I wanted to say; Malala is a kid but adults listen to her because she actually has something to say. I wanted to say; Do you actually have something to say? I wanted to say; Say it. I wanted to say; Tell us something, go on, talk, talk, talk.

But I don’t.

I do say, yes, I know, it is hard being a kid sometimes but I don’t say “it sucks” because kids don’t say that so much anymore. I also don’t say “dude” after one kid commented on how sad it is when old people try to sound young and cool by using their words. I looked around but he was referring to me. I wanted to say, dude, dude is not your word, it’s not my word either but we were pretending to be a surfers in our little primary school in the middle of the bush before you were even born. But I didn’t. Instead I asked him, very politely, not to be so rude … dude …

Kids put their hands up and I say, do you have a question and they say, no, I have a comment.

Sometimes I say “shivers” because I sometimes nearly say the other word. You stub your toe, you hit your shin, your computer just closes down in the middle of a presentation, the kids just won’t shut up. Sometimes it is hard not to swear.

The kid who hates me doesn’t get it. He has decided: I am the enemy.

I tell the whole class (because I’d never embarrass or single anyone out) that Drama can be confronting, at times, but I’d never, ever make any of them do anything they made them feel anxious or too nervous or sick or whatever. I wouldn’t. I was the kid who’d get butterflies and a dry mouth and panic as the teacher got ever closer to my name on the roll and I knew I’d have to say here or yes or present or something in front of the whole class and how would I do that and what sort of voice would I use and how would I arrange my face … I don’t tell my class that. They don’t need to know that. But I do understand.

I explain that nervous is good. Nervous means you care. I explain that we only have three rules in this class: Be Kind. Listen. Try. I wish I’d had this class when I was at school. One of the kids who doesn’t hate me says that it seems like Drama class is all about feeling comfortable and I liked that. Another kid says I am like pretty much the nicest teacher at this school and I say can I have that in writing and he raises his eyebrows and says he doesn’t get it. Another says he is busting to go to the toilet and can he go and when I say yes he says he knew I’d say yes because I’m understanding. The kid who hates me says something about rape being funny.

I get cross. I feel my temperature rise and my voice lowers and I say no, no, no. I say, you know what that word means. You know. You know that I am a woman. You know what that means to say that to your teacher, your female teacher, in an all-boy school. You know how those words hurt and upset me. They know because we went through this last year when they all created a game gleefully called rape-tiggy. They chased down boys and jumped on them and held them down and shouted rape. It was just a bit of fun. A bit of playground silliness. I look at them and see these young men with more-than-considerable wealth and opportunity and the chance to be the difference. I say, boys, you are all so fortunate – this is your world and you can change it. You are the future. You are the difference. Be the difference, I say, make the change and create a better world.

And I think, now, this is your chance. Say something. But he has nothing to say. And I try to speak in general terms and not single him out or make him feel uncomfortable or get confrontational and I speak to the whole class, all of them, and he smiles a sideways smile and giggles and giggles and giggles and I wonder … will you ever have anything to say?

We move on and I praise his efforts. Not too much. Not too much. Quietly. Subtly. Good work. I like the way you … That’s great how you … Thank you for … That sort of thing. I try not to snap up the bait he lays out like a professional fisherman.

I look for the positive. Because he is a kid. And he deserves that. They all do.

I smile as they leave. I always smile and say thank you and see you next week and great class. And some of them say, thank you and see you next week and I had fun and some don’t say anything at all.

He says I hate you. He says I hate this class. And I smile and say thank you.

 

I think we’re making progress.

 

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One thought on “The kid who hates me or: Attempts at being a good teacher.

  1. Katy,

    That’s a tough one. I feel for you — you’ve chosen a very tough profession. I once worked as a substitute teacher in the public schools for one semester, filling in when a teacher got sick or had to go out of town, and that was all I needed to know I wanted no part of being a public school teacher. (College, maybe?) The experience did help me to craft a tired one-liner that I broke out now and again when someone asked me how I liked teaching. “Teaching would be great,” I said, “if it wasn’t for the goddamn kids.” Hahahahahahaha!

    Well, it’s true, isn’t it? Having raised three children (my youngest, age 18, graduated from high school a few weeks ago.), I know how difficult it is to simply ignore a kid who says to your face that he hates you. In my early parenting that would always get reaction out of me, and in my (current) late parenting it might not get much of a rise, or maybe none at all.

    The other kids know you’re the nicest teacher at the school–it’s obvious even to me here in Texas. So the kid has handpicked you to hate because you care, you want to be liked and so he can get maximum effect from his manipulation. Why go after the nastiest teacher, who’ll never take anything the kid says to heart, when he can go after the best teacher, for the very reason that he can make you feel bad because you’re a decent person. The kid is obviously a wanker, but this is where, at the end of the school year, the music is supposed to swell because your good and righteous ways have made a difference.

    Maybe it won’t be so dramatic, but know this: Your ways have made a difference. He may never let you know it. Or he might. But not letting him get away with making rape jokes is absolutely the right thing to have done. Smiling and telling him he did good job is absolutely the right thing. Smiling and saying thank you when he says he hates you is the right thing. Being human and allowing him to get under your skin and caring enough to get upset by his behavior–this means he has an adult in his life who listens to him and takes him seriously. He will never forget that. I don’t know if he has another adult in his life who does these things, too, but there’s a reason he chose you. He needs your attention and your exasperation and your “can’t stand another minute of this kid.”

    Who knows? In a couple of years he may come to visit you and tell you some of these things himself. If he’s like me, though, he won’t. He’ll just remember you and think about you now and then. While I certainly would not have told a teacher that I hated her — corporal punishment was still the order of the day — I was nevertheless hell on teachers. So is my youngest son, who just graduated. Kids know what’s real and what’s bullshit. By the way, go ahead and single him out once in class, ask him what it is he’s been wanting to say, that you and the others in the class are all ears and would love the benefit of the thing he’s been keeping inside this whole school year. Maybe not this time, maybe not next time, but maybe sometime he’ll actually tell you.

    By the way, you’re doing the Lord’s work here. Keep it up. Don’t let any of them get you down because the rest of them need you.

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