A Lamb to the Slaughter

Getting the class started was no easier for Ms. Kalin than the climb getting to it. When the second bell rang for the start of classes, only half the students were in the room. It took two school safety officers to corral the other half like a reluctant herd. She sensed that the few who came on time and had begun to work were somewhat annoyed with the latecomers because they arrived in no mood to cooperate with anyone. On most days, it took ten to fifteen minutes to scuffle through the din before she could make herself be heard. Sometimes she would just stand, wait, and hope. She waited for a ray of light to strike some latent sensibility as to the purpose they were there, hoping that someone would break from the mob and cry, “Enough!” At times when no amount of cajoling worked, she would seize a yardstick and strike the top of her desk with such vehemence that most were jolted into silence. But the hard-won quiet gave no joy. She often wondered why violence rather than reason evoked the desired response. Her tenuous hold on the class’s attention was often exploited by those who showed little interest in an orderly classroom. Following a brief explanation, she would write instructions on chart paper in sufficient detail to clearly describe the task and the desired response. Instead of reading the instructions, most used the transition to trigger another explosion of incoherent chatter. Too often, Leon gave one cursory glance, then announced his intention with customary indelicate crassness. “I’m not going to do this shit.” Having thrown down the gauntlet, he would get up and proceed to patrol the room. Bewildered and frustrated, she would implore, “Leon, please return to your seat and finish your work.” Sometimes he would shout, “I don’t have to listen to you! You’re not my mother.” At that point, the class would stop what they were doing and turn to see the outcome of the ensuing battle. Anything she said from then on would be fodder for recriminations he could hurl back at her. In fact, she was often at a loss to know what to say to Leon. Whatever she said, he would twist the meaning and accuse her of attacking him. He had told her many times that she was not his mother, so on one occasion she ventured to ask, “Does that mean you listen to your mother, Leon?” “What the hell do you know about me and my mother, you white trash? Don’t get me started!” shouted Leon. There was a roar of laughter. All of a sudden the class was in Leon’s corner. “Who give you the right to talk about people’s mother?” accused Daquan. “I was not talking about Leon’s mother. I addressed my question to Leon,” replied Ms. Kalin nervously. “I don’t see why we have to do this stupid work anyway,” complained Rouben. She sensed that he was trying to change the subject. “Who give you the right to talk about people’s mother?” accused Daquan again . Realizing that he and others were determined to prolong the confrontation, she demanded with as much authority as she could muster, “Everyone get back to work!” Yet she knew, as she surveyed her class through glistening eyes, that the crackle in her voice betrayed her frustration and helplessness. It looked like I would get something done, she thought. I was prepared to teach something important. If only they would give me a chance, I could help them. Suddenly, the rear classroom door flew open and Steven, a student from Ms. Shepard’s class across the hall, burst into the room, chased by Kendal. The custodian had not locked the old door after cleaning the night before. The two intruders chased each other up and down the rows of desks, pushing aside the empty ones, knocking over a few chairs, shouting wildly at each other and spreading pandemonium and confusion in the classroom. In normal circumstances, such an interruption would elicit an angry response from the students in the class and the intruders would be roundly scolded for violating their space and wasting their time. But normalcy at Fort Green Academy High was turned upon its head. Disruptions were so common that the intrusion that now evolved into general chaos was just another perverse incentive to quit working. “Steven!” Ms. Kalin shouted. No answer. “Steven, please leave the room!” she called again. “If you don’t leave immediately, I’ll call the principal,” she threatened. Realizing that no amount of threats was going to dissuade the intruders, she reached toward Steven, who eluded her. A second attempt to block the two was equally futile. She reached for her pocketbook, fumbled through it, found her cell phone, and called security. There was no telephone in the classroom to use in case of emergency. Because the building was old, the administration determined that the cost of upgrading the telephone system was too high. After a long minute, two safety officers showed up. By that time, the intruders had escaped the way they entered, into a throng of students crowding the narrow hallway. The period had ended and she had gotten nothing done. Interruptions to the order of the class were frequent. Whether they came from outside the class or were caused by a classmate, Ms. Kalin was painfully aware that the results were the same. She saw the few who tried to do some work struggle every day. It was like climbing a slippery slope. They remained at the same place no matter how hard they tried to get ahead. If reading, students had the impossible task of filtering out the incessant buzz. She knew that they read over and over but just couldn’t make sense of it. When they were writing, it was just as futile to get going with any degree of success. Minutes would pass and all that appeared on their paper was white space. She knew that for most kids, academic success in high school was hard to come by, but the situational crosscurrents in Room 301 made it much more elusive. Sometimes, when she had done all she could to bring the class to order without success, she was forced to exercise a most painful option. She would call on Rochelle to go get the principal. Of the bad choices available to her, that was the most awful. She wanted so much to demonstrate that she could control the class on her own. Calling the principal to help her impose order was an admission of having failed to do what was expected. Each time the principal came to bring order to the classroom, some of her will drained away; and when he left, it went with him, leaving her less able to cope and more vulnerable to those who would exploit every opportunity to challenge her authority. This classroom had a revolving door. Too often she had to choose between letting the disruptive students stay and tolerating their antics and kicking them out of the room, only to have them sent back, emboldened, knowing that the administration had no effective alternative to produce a change in their behavior. So she did her best to manage, struggling to cope with competing centers of interest. It was not an auspicious place to teach and learn, but she, with the few who would support the effort, trudged along, tuning out the horseplay, the sporadic bursts of laughter, the constant chattering and noise, the incessant call for quiet and respect, and all the other perpetual distractions that made each day an arduous climb from ignorance.