two stories

I. Bad Ari

When I first started teaching, I never used the word "bad" to describe kids. I had one of those ivory tower philosophies about human development, children, and teaching, and self-righteously looked down on anyone who even jokingly referred to their kids as "bad apples," "bad seeds," or even "baddies." There were of course those teachers who used the word "bad" liberally and seriously, and I really hated working with them. Five, six, seven years later, I laugh at "baddies" and will casually or jokingly say that a kid is so bad! ... but never seriously. God just does not make bad children.

But I got a surprise visitor today - and when she left, I told my partner, "The devil was just here."

Ari was the worst kid I've ever had. I know I'm supposed to insert "behaved" after the word "worst," but she's simply, well, the worst kid I've ever had. Now I know every teacher who works in the inner city with seriously impoverished children and who have metal detectors in their schools would scoff at my definition of "worst kid ever," but for this general community, Ari won and still holds the title. She was funny, smart, and creative, but she also lied, cheated, stole, bullied, connived, contrived, hit, spit, talked a lot of shit, kicked, threw, sneaked, destroyed, vandalized - you name it, she did it. She was monumentally sarcastic, moody, and cruel. It took the full first half of the school year to understand her. The second half I spent learning to duck - and finally catch - the curveballs.

I heard she made teachers cry; I heard she made a teacher quit. I heard I was the best teacher she'd ever had, but maybe that was just because I didn't cry or quit. No, I did cry. I cried with her when she told me her dog died after being attacked by a pit bull and she felt responsible. So that morning we cried together, because that happened to me too - I let something bad happen to my dog once, and he died, and I never forgave myself. If you think our bond was cemented by this cry-fest, though, think again. We pushed and pulled and grappled the entire year, and finally she graduated, and today was the first time seeing her since she left the school.

I didn't even recognize her.

Her face is the face of an adult; her hair is long and calm. She spoke demurely and sweetly, and I had to ask the kids who she was as she walked away with her little sister. "It's Bad Ari," they whispered.

Bad Ari!

I ran out the door and called her name, and she turned around laughing, and I said, "I'm so sorry, but I had to check with the kids, I didn't recognize you!" We laughed and hugged, and I'm not fooled for a minute - I know she's the bane of her middle school and still gives her parents hell - but I was so, so happy to see her. I wonder how many times I've seen her and not known her grown up face. Her sneer is gone but so is the look of wonder ten-year-olds (even Bad Ari) display. It's a very calm, even face - I can't stop marveling at how grown up.

I think she was happy to see me, too.

II. Good Lena

And then there's this year's girl.

She is the one I want to adopt. Or, wanted to, before The Grandma Debacle - where her grandmother came crashing through the office calling everyone "you f'ing this, you f'ing that!" Now, hearing about such a grandma should make me want to take this child home even more, right? El wrongo. After she attacked everyone in the office for my "misdeeds," and after it emerged that the granddaughter, Good Lena, was letting all and sundry believe that I made her tell me unsavory things about her fractured family against her will, I was through. I had spent so much time and energy trying to make up for her parents' mistreatment of her at home that I let slide the other kids' needs, and my own need for an occasional unfettered lunch period.

I was beyond over it, actually - I was mad at this kid. At myself for forgetting my boundaries, no doubt, but mad - really mad - at her. It was unjustified but I felt it snowball until I found myself cutting her off any time she wanted to share anything with me. At first I told myself it was a defense mechanism but then I realized, I was angry because I had given her the best of me and most of my energy, and she had thrown it back in my face.

Of course this is not what she did, not intentionally. She did everything right to preserve her own sanity. Her family is an epic mess, and they do mistreat her, but she felt a burning loyalty toward them that she couldn't shake. So every time she told me something they did to her, she cried inside for betraying them. Telling me was like a salve and a knife at the same time. How could I not understand this complex inner dynamic?

We had the "clarification" meeting today - weeks ex post facto it was still important to everyone involved to sit down and talk. Irate Grandma, Dad, silent stepmom, the good old boss, and me.

I opened the discussion, calmly and openly stating everything that I knew to be true. I stated facts, what I had perceived, and that I was sorry for causing Good Lena any anxiety. It was never my intention to pressure her, but to provide support. Dad suggested I call the house in the future if I am ever "curious about home stuff," and I readily agreed, and I did point out that I was not "curious about home stuff" beyond what Good Lena told me every day she came and had lunch. "Well," he said, "that's not your job. Your job is to teach the kids."

I handled this remark with curiously zen calm. It is my job to teach the kids, after all. I did what I did because they weren't doing it. I could have pointed out that it's his job to get his kid to school on time, or to stop his wife from threatening her, or to give her breakfast in the morning so she doesn't have to wheel and deal with me for snacks beyond what I already give her every morning. But despite everything that is his job, despite everything that is not in my contract but is still my job (e.g. love thy children), it is also my job to teach the kids. I accepted his remark.

And the thing is, I am finally not mad at her anymore. I was denying it for such a long time, the anger, but now that I'm no longer angry, I can see just how angry I was. And now it's all gone. I had treated her like an adult in need when she's been a child all along, of course. She needed the socks, cereal, and compliments. She did not need the daily bleed of emotions. Our relationship, at any rate, seems to have survived the Grandma Debacle. I can't talk to or listen to her talk about home anymore, and I'll probably throw away the letter she wrote me where she said I was her Miss Honey (like Roald Dahl's Matilda) ... but not out of anger, just out of closure. I no longer feel secretly vindicated that she shot herself in the foot. Instead I'll just pray that she finds someone - hopefully it'll be one of her parents - who will come through for her, so maybe one day she'll come back and visit, and I won't recognize the person she's become.