The Worst Day in the History of Education

Believe it or not, A1 Language school entrusts me with a fleet of small children. Fifty-two children in four classes, to be exact. I've come to the conclusion that teaching is like eating a poop-sandwich. Some days I have more bread, some days I have less bread. But every day I eat poop.

Let me tell you about the worst day in the history of education. It happened to me on Friday.

I was beginning to introduce a spelling test to my last class of the day, Neptune. The class is roughly a fourth grade English class, but children range in age from seven to thirteen. There was some commotion over 9-year old Eli's missing spelling packet. Everybody searched for it. Eli even looked out on the playground. After three minutes of nonsense, 12-year old Kevin plopped the spelling packet on Eli's desk. He had stolen it, then huddled with 10-year old Willy and 13-year old Sam. I called the three felons to the front of the room, verbally reamed them, then announced that they each had received an "F" for the week's behavior grade.

Perhaps I overreacted, but I run a tight ship.

Kevin and Sam beamed hate at me. Willy, the youngest and softest of the three, sat down at his desk, buried his face in a book, and burst into uncontrollable tears. He was beyond help. I have a strict policy when it comes to crying students: I ignore them. We began our grammar lesson on "a," "an," and "the." The class was silent except for Willy's weeping. It didn't stop. I asked him if he wanted to step into the hall, drink some water, visit the bathroom, and come back to class when he was ready. No response. He just choked on his tears.

And then he vomited. He vomited on the floor, on his chair, and all down the front of his baby-blue jersey-knit Chinese School uniform.

Pandemonium erupted. I blotted some of the liquid vomit with Kleenex, and convinced hysterical Willy to go to the bathroom and clean himself. Alice and Grandma Rose, the school's custodians/cooks/playground monitors, came into class and wiped away the remaining puke.

I sat at the head of class and stared out at the room. Willy's vomit-strewn desk was against the wall, half the students were in the wrong seats, the other half were shouting at me for being a bad teacher. There were seven minutes left in the day. It was too early to let everyone go, but too little time to regain control of my class.

I heard Willy sniffling in the hall. I told him to stay outside while I gathered his backpack, books, and pencils. No need to take away his last gram of dignity. I brought out his things, and told him to not worry about the "F." I wished him a good weekend and said that the next week would be better for everybody.

I stepped back into utter chaos. While I was in the hall 12-year old Luke had wrapped his hands around 7-year old Jensen's head and drove it into a table. Jensen's cried as a goose-egg grew out of his forehead. Alice walked back into the second fiasco. She shouted at Luke in Chinese, then began to treat Jensen's skull with ointment that smelled like Vick's vapor rub. Alice and I made eye-contact just long enough to confirm that I was the most pathetic teacher she had ever seen.

I told everyone to go home. No homework this weekend.

The room emptied except for Sam and Kevin, the original two spelling-packet thieves. They begged for mercy, but I had none of it. I felt like a home plate umpire who knows he made a bad call. I said some junk they didn't understand about morality and honesty. Kevin left, as sullen as ever.

Then Sam started crying.

There was almost no bread that day.