Teach This

When my ex-husband started getting paid in cocaine instead of cash for his tiling work, the decision was made to leave Sydney for a while and put a bit of space between us and the crowd we seemed to be in at the time. So I got a job in Darwin, in the Northern Territory. Four thousand kilometres away was a fair distance, with the added element of outback adventure and a never ending summer.

My ex-husband took to Darwin easily. The heavy drinking at any time of day culture, the fishing, the boating, the bogans.

I hadn’t long started at my school. As a teacher with many years experience, an executive in fact, I naively thought it would be easy. A smooth transition. How wrong I was.

The school felt like a prison, with big heavy metal doors and bars on the windows. Each door had a gigantic number painted on it in black against a bright background. My classroom screamed ‘Room 5’, it’s fire engine red setting it apart from the blue and obviously calmer ‘Room 4’, and the optimistically inclined yellow ‘Room 3’. I’d always taught classes that were named after their teacher, or cute animals, even fruit. One year, I taught a class called 3 Watermelon. Those children were, like watermelon, simply delightful. I couldn’t say the same about those I found in Room 5.

From the very first minute, they tested me with their misbehaviour. As if sensing my fear and dread, they did whatever pleased them. Leaving the room without permission, talking over me and each other, ignoring instructions, flinging pencils at each other, it was never ending. They took it upon themselves to constantly adjust the fans, lights, air conditioning, all in the name of getting the temperature right so we can learn Miss. Yes, it was searingly hot, but their antics only served to create an ongoing excuse to avoid work.

They did not care that I had all this experience They treated me as if I just graduated from university, knew nothing about real teaching. I began to think that this was actually true.

The clock was both enemy and my friend. We all looked at it often. It was the other big topic of conversation, second only to the room temperature. All students, regardless of their proficiency in any other subject, were experts in reading time in all it’s formats - analog, digital, 24 hour, and used this to loudly proclaim the facts around how long until recess, lunch, home time, sport. I shared with them my intense interest in 2:45pm. Home time. I tried not to look at the clock as much as they did, but I probably did, such was my despair. After they left - incredibly quickly, I always noticed, I would sit down at my desk, lower my head, and have a little cry. Sometimes it would pass quickly. Other times, it was more like sobbing, and I would slump forward, holding my head, the weight of my thoughts heavy with a headache looming.

The most terrifying part of the day (apart from playground duty) was maths groups. The students were from each of the rooms (4, 5 and 6) were be mixed according to their ability. As I wasn’t their regular teacher, they held me in even greater contempt. Nakiah was really struggling with a task on this particular day. I offered to help. “What do you know about maths, you dumb bitch?” he remarked, managing to ask and answer his own question. I simply got up and walked out. No student, in all my years of experience had even spoken to me like that before. I headed in the direction of the Principal’s Office, crying (again), dumbfounded and defeated.

“This is not what I signed up for Bill” was all I managed to get out of my mouth before I started crying again. Bill was very concerned and apologised profusely as if he was the one who called me that. He promised punishments and consequences. His face reddened as he wanted to know the who, the what. I just wanted to know the why. Why didn’t the kids like me? Why weren’t they treating me with respect? Why did none of the other teachers seem to be getting treated like this?

“I assure you this will NEVER happen again Sarah. I am appalled. Take all the time you need. Go home now, I’ll check in on you tomorrow.”

He managed to get someone to fetch my bag, and who knows what the class did in the absence of any adult in the room. Or who took my class for the rest of the day. I drove back to my apartment, a sense of failure settling into my thoughts. After a while this feeling settled into my body and I was overcome with fatigue. The only thing left to do was to lie down.

I spent the next day on the coach, ruminating on my life choices, and why things didn’t seem to be going so well. I couldn’t give up so easily, I’d made a commitment to work at this school for the next six months. When Bill finally called me, I knew what I had to do. I couldn’t walk away. I assured him I was fine, and I would be in the next day. He sounded relieved, upbeat. He told me that student had been dealt with, that nothing like that would ever happen again. He made me feel valued and important, that I belonged there.

I returned to an unexpected welcome. The students in my class were so happy to see me and told me they missed me. They were very concerned that I might not return. They made me promise I would see them to middle school at the end of the year. Nakiah wrote me a beautiful apology letter. I heard the whole maths group got a roasting, as did my own class. I heard on the grapevine that even the office secretary gave them a talking to.

So I stayed.