Student assaults teacher

The Rebel, Part 1

Tom Carter sat in a chair outside my office. His long, black hair drooped over his face as he slumped over and played a little plastic game of “get the five silver balls in the holes.”

I peered at him through the window in my door. He was only in Grade 6 and he was my worst nightmare.

When I accepted my first position as principal of this particular elementary-junior secondary school, I remember having a nagging doubt about my ability to deal effectively with a student who was defiant. 

Up until that point, when I had a student that I couldn’t handle, I simply sent him to the office. 

He usually came back with the principal or vice principal, apologized then came back in my class. 

I never really knew what went on to make this change. But then the change was never permanent anyway. 

Now, I was the office. The buck stopped here and I was it.

Tom had been at my door several times already, and I’d had considerable practice convincing him to behave, but unfortunately the nature of the incidents were becoming more and more serious and I was unable to contact his father. 

There was no mother in the picture.

“Tom, come in, please,” I said as I opened my door.

Tom looked up and smiled. Not a pleasant smile nor a nervous one, but an evil little smile as if to say, “You can’t do anything to me.” 

He stood up and sauntered into my office, sneering as he walked by me. He was quite a large boy and could almost look me straight in the eye. 

He sat in the chair provided for him, slumped down and continued to play his little plastic game.

“Tom, Mrs. Sprague told me that you threw a pair of scissors at her.”

He looked up. 

“No, I didn’t. She’s a liar.”

“Why would she tell me that, if it weren’t true?”

Tom continued to play his game, hunched over in his chair.

He looked up at me, partially squinted his eyes and said, “Because she’s a liar!”

After a few more unsuccessful minutes of trying to get a confession, I said, “I’ll be right back.”

I walked down to Mrs. Sprague’s class and quietly knocked on the door.

“Yes,” she uttered shakily as she opened the door. She looked as white as a ghost.

“Are you alright?” I asked. “Can I talk to any of your kids who saw this incident?” 

I could feel myself slowly transforming into Sherlock Holmes.

“Yes, and yes you can. Come in.”

I addressed the class and about one third had seen what had happened. Indeed, Tom had thrown a pair of scissors at Mrs. Sprague. 

I had eye-witness accounts that were corroborated. The evidence was compelling. I took a puff on my imaginary pipe.

I walked quickly, and with purpose, back to my office. Tom was sitting in the same position as before.

“Tom, I’ve spoken to several people in Mrs. Sprague’s class. They said they saw you throw the scissors at Mrs. Sprague.”

“I’ll get them,” he said under his breath.

“I think you need to apologize to Mrs. Sprague.” 

Even as I said these words I could hear the ghosts of the past screaming, “That is going to be the consequence? Are you going to let him get away with assault?” 

And in my heart, I was agreeing with them. Certainly there should be stronger consequences for throwing a sharp object at a teacher. I paused and took a breathe.

“Tom, it turns out that you are the liar.” 

Suddenly, there was a terrible explosion right there in my office. 

Tom jumped up and screamed in my face, “You go @#$! yourself you stupid bearded ape!” 

The bearded ape part hurt the most. 

He motioned to strike me, so I seized both of his forearms and sat him down, forcefully, in the chair.

“I did not, I did not!” he screamed over and over again. 

I waited for him to regain his composure. I couldn’t remember getting any training on how to behave like a psychiatric nurse. Now the consequence seemed to be the natural thing to do.

I said, “Tom, I really need to speak to your dad.”

“My dad will never come here. He hates this &%$#_ing place.”

“Tom, I’m going to write a letter to your dad. When you get home today, please give it to him.”

“What does it say?”

It says that you can’t come back to school until I meet with him.

“You mean I don’t have to come back here?”

“No. Not until I can talk to your Dad.”

… to be continued.

This article is written by or on behalf of an outsourced columnist and does not necessarily reflect the views of Castanet.