FOUR DAYS.

That's how long I have until break. And were it any longer, I might start punching children in the face.

Now. I am not a violent person. In the words of Michael Jackson, "I'm a lover, not a fighter." But these students push me far beyond my limits. I think they get pleasure from watching me have mini anxiety attacks at the front of the classroom. The fact that I have not already physically lashed out against some students is by God's grace alone.

I suppose this kind of confession could get me in a lot of trouble, and it is important to note that I have never actually harmed a child. I'm sure the way I feel is no different than the rage even the most patient of parents experiences at some point. My own mother in fact declared that she never understood how any parent could abuse their child until my sister Davis Ann was born.

My children will have it easy; the patience I am being forced to cultivate in the classroom will cover a multitude of their grievances. After all, what's a little back-talk compared to the discipline issues I deal with on a day-to-day basis?

*Warning: Bobbie, please stop reading here.

Bobbie is my grandmother. And she's still reading.

In order to understand the following, you'll need to know that my school has been dubbed a watch school for violent incidences. If we have one more reported act of violence, we will be audited by the state. In addition to this, our new administration is being paid a bonus to reduce the amount of suspensions at RMS. If you factor both of these things into account, you'll see why harsh punishments are doled out very sparingly and major behavioral offenses are brushed under the mat instead of dealt with properly. I am trying to be understanding of the decisions made by our administration; I really respect the work they do and the renewed effort they've brought to RMS, but I am extremely frustrated with how discipline is handled. Read: Reduced suspensions DO NOT indicate a reduction of behavioral issues. On the contrary, I'd like to argue that it leads to an increase in problems; kids can get away with anything. AND THEY KNOW IT.

Da'Juan skipped my class Tuesday to play outside. Administration caught him, and the only consequence he received was to spend the remaining half hour in In-School-Suspension. If I were his classmate, I'd think, "Hell, I'm playing outside tomorrow!" Fast-forward to Thursday. Da'Juan wanted to leave class to go call his mom. Again, due to heightened measures to keep violent incidences from occuring, we cannot let any child leave the classroom unattended. I told him no. He argued. I told him no again. He argued. I told him no again.

"FUCK YOU!" he yelled in front of the class before leaving and slamming the door behind him. The assistant principal walked in a few minutes later and I told him what had happened. Is Da'Juan suspended for screaming profanity at a teacher AND walking out of class? Actually, he is escorted back to my classroom, where he is permitted to stay for the rest of the block. If I were his classmate, I'd think, "Hell, I can curse at the teacher AND leave class without consequence. I wonder what else I can get away with."

Friday. Da'Juan has not been in class for fifteen minutes when he's found another reason to leave. "No."

"YES."

"No."

"I hate it when people tell me no."

"Sorry. And NO."

"You a female, so I might can't beat you, but I'll call my mama up here and she'll beat your ass!"

"What was that?"

"MY MOM WILL BEAT YOUR ASS."

That's what I thought he'd said. I walked out into the hall, where the assistant principal was standing. "Take him." I said, pointing down the hallway to Da'Juan, who was now sauntering into another classroom like he owned the school. "I don't care what you do with him. But he can't be in here now."

What the hell kind of place is this where incidences like these are not only acceptable, they're NORMAL?? After Da'Juan was gone, I tried to get the class back in some sort of order. I say "back," like they were in order to begin with. Ha. Anyways, thirty minutes before the bell, I was still at the beginning of my guided notes. Jose, the quiet Hispanic kid who arrived at RMS only last week got up and crossed the room. I watched him warily as he picked up Jermaine's notebook and threw it in the trash. I was surprised; even though Jose's hands, backpack and papers are covered in gang signs, he doesn't ever seem to instigate things. He just kind of keeps to himself. Jermaine immediately got up and pushed Jose against the wall.

Little tussles always happen in my classroom. The boys are never really fighting, just messing with each other and driving me crazy. This was different, and I could tell immediately. Jose regained his balance and gave Jermaine a forceful shove, and Jermaine responded by twisting Jose in a headlock. Profanity and threats were being spewed from both sides as I darted a glance to the phone in my classroom--someone had clipped its wires a week ago. Now punches were being thrown. I ran out into the hallway, where luckily Mr. A was peeking out of his classroom.

"Um. They're fighting in there."

At this point, I really didn't even care anymore. I certainly didn't care enough to try to do something about it myself and get MY face beat in. I just wanted to go home and get rid of my splitting headache. I wanted to get as much distance between myself and those kids as possible. Instead, I had to collect myself and walk back in room 525 aka the pit of hell.

Trying to teach after the fight was futile. Everyone was so wound up, I couldn't hear my own voice as I tried to get everyone's attention. It wasn't until the tears actually started falling that people began to get quiet. By the time I started choking on my words, my 4th block--for the first time--was dead silent to witness my emotional breakdown.

"I. have. nothing. left. I can't give anything more. I can't say anything else to you, I've tried everything I know how. I can't make you want this. I can't make you care. I can't make you behave, and I certainly can't force you to learn. This--me crying--is not about the fight. It's not because I'm 'weak,' although I know that will be the story as soon as you leave this classroom. This is me past my limit. You've pushed me to that point and I'm at my end. This is my heart breaking for YOU, because you're going to realize one day that you're making a mistake, and unfortunately that day is going to come too late. I already have my education, I already have a job. These tears are not for me. So go ahead and leave when the bell rings. Tell the whole school that Ms. M broke down again and cried in front of the class. Tell them that I'm weak and can't control my class and can't handle RMS. I know what you say about me. If that makes you feel better about the way you treat me--if that's what you need to do to clear your conscious (because I know you have one somewhere) about the way you act in here, go ahead. But nowhere in my job description say I am here to make you behave. That's your mama's job--and if she did it, you are not representing her very well. MY job is to teach you, and at the end of the day I've done that. If I were a weak person, I would have quit a long time ago. But I'll be back Monday. And I'm through for the day."

Exhausted, I sat down at my desk and let my eyes glaze over as I pretended to do something on the computer. The class's silence gradually gave way to casual conversation, until soon it was at its usual level of chaos. I didn't move until after they had all left at the bell, pushing each other, throwing paper balls, and yelling the whole way. In their wake, they left behind a mess of enormous magnitude for someone else to clean up. Not me. I took off my tool belt, trudged to my car, and drove home.