A student got arrested in the Independent schoolteacher/ diarist’s classroom on Tuesday.
Dec. 20, 2005
Brinn got arrested today. In my classroom. Before 8 o’clock this morning. She had gotten into a fight just outside of my classroom door and was ushered into the room by the principal. I caught just a little bit of the fight because I was coming from the faculty room where I was making copies for today’s lesson. And I heard yelling down the hallway, so I went running toward the group to make sure no one was getting hurt.
What I came upon was Brinn attempting to go after another girl with whom she’s had big problems all year. The two girls were yelling back and forth at each other and Brinn made some very real threats. Our principal was the guard between Brinn and this other girl and at times, Brinn was so aggressive, she had to be physically restrained by the principal.
Eventually she was brought into my classroom, while the other girl was isolated too. I walked in to find Brinn pacing back and forth, breathing heavy, while the principal was on his cell phone calling the cops. Other students were there, too — “my 9th graders and some of my advisees. I didn’t want them to see this. I didn’t want Brinn to be the center of this kind of attention.
I got the kids out the room and eventually it was just me and Brinn. It was silent. I didn’t know what to say to her; I knew that she didn’t want to be approached, nor did I know how to talk her down from whatever emotion she was feeling. I was at a loss. So I rearranged the chairs.
And then a cop came in. And the principal invited my advisees in because class was starting. So suddenly I was there with a cop, the principal, and my advisees, one of whom was about to be arrested.
I couldn’t even handle it.
At the time that I needed to be organizing ideas for the day and organizing and distributing materials, I was on the verge of tears. My student was crying and defensive; my other 11th grade kids were looking at the scene with complete seriousness. I wondered what they were thinking.
All I knew is that I couldn’t handle it. My eyes welled up. What had I done wrong? Could I have done anything to prevent this? I could have gotten there earlier. I could have helped talk her down. I could have. Maybe I could have.
A second cop came in, and at that point, the handcuffs came out. Brinn turned her back to allow the cop to put the bracelets on her.
“Have you been arrested before?” He asked her.
“Yes.” She replied.
“For what?”
She refused to answer.
“Stupid stuff?” He prompted her.
“Yeah,” she said under her breath. “Stupid stuff.”
I couldn’t believe it. It wasn’t even 8 o’clock and here was my student, being handcuffed, and admitting it wasn’t her first time.
As the cops escorted her out of the room, it was just me and my other advisees alone. I had my back turned to them because I didn’t want them to see how close I was to crying.
But you know when you try so hard not to cry? And it just gets even worse? Tears rolled down my cheeks and I could do nothing to convince myself not to cry.
“Okay, guys,” I said, looking down at my desk at the pile of papers I needed to give them. “These are your schedules for the day — ¬¶” My voice cracked.
Another teacher came in, one who has become a very close friend. He knew what had happened and he opened his arms. I was going to ask him if he could watch my class for five minutes while I stepped out of the room to really cry. But when he opened his arms, I fell into them, right in front of my kids. I knew it wasn’t the coolest thing to do; I knew it, and I didn’t really want them to see me that way. But in that moment, I couldn’t do anything other than feel support and comfort from a person who could identify with the position I was in.
I sobbed. Out loud. I sobbed.
And no one said anything.
I don’t know how I pulled it back together, but I had a job to do, so I guess I just started doing it. I organized the materials I needed, I started giving them out to kids, and I got a grip on myself.
My kids were quiet. One girl was crying and writing a letter. Another girl looked depressed, and a boyfriend-girlfriend couple just sat next to each other. One of my girls, Shavonda, went to the bathroom to get me Kleenex.
I kind of giggled when she brought them back to me, and I thanked her. I felt embarrassed because those tears had snuck up on me so quickly.
“Sorry, guys. I don’t really know what happened.” And I kind of busied myself with shuffling papers around.
Shavonda stood in front of me and gave me a hug. “It’s okay, Miss Coggio. It’s okay. It’s okay,” she kept repeating. Shavonda is a tiny, skinny girl who I’ve had to comfort so many times when she’s been upset. In this moment she was taking on the role I would play for her.
We stood there in front of the kids, who still said nothing. “It’s okay.”
But it wasn’t okay. It’s not okay to see a 17-year-old girl get taken away in handcuffs and a squad car. It’s not okay to see that in my classroom. It’s not okay for my other kids to see that happening. It’s not okay. It isn’t.
“I don’t think you guys know,” I started, my voice choking back tears again. “I don’t think you know how much we care about you. We want so much for you. We want so much more for you than this. You just don’t know.”
It was a poor explanation for my outburst of emotions. But it was true. I wanted them to know that to see a student of mine get arrested in my classroom didn’t feel normal or emotionless to me.
Eventually, more of my advisees came in, and it proved to be a good distraction from my emotions. We quickly got focused on organizing for the day. Martin, one of my advisees who’s had a pretty rough time, and who trades a journal back and forth with me when he’s feeling upset, placed our journal on my chair.
“Miss,” he said. “I wrote in it. It’s on your chair.”
Later, I looked at it. This is what he wrote me — “a bit of my own words back at me:
“Write! Writing heals, remember. It also expresses your ‘courage’ and gratification. Don’t let this go!”
Dec. 19, 2005
Sometimes I get mad at my mom for whistling the same tune over and over and over. She’ll get stuck on this one ridiculous pop song chorus, or she’ll whistle Anne Murray or Natalie Cole. Only one part of the song, though, over and over. She’s been known to whistle a part of a song for 40 minutes straight, without even realizing she’s doing it, while she washes dishes or sweeps out the garage. (It gets really bad around Christmas. Those songs are just too addictive.) She’ll whistle until I snap her back out of her trance: “Mom, new song. Please.”
“Oops, sorry honey!” And she’ll move onto another one. Sometimes she’ll slip back to the old song, as if her brain won’t let her get over it yet. As if it hadn’t finished working through the notes the way it needed to.
I keep thinking about a moment in class the other day, maybe two weeks ago. I had kids write eulogies / lifetime achievement speeches for themselves in preparation for writing eulogies for characters who died in The Hot Zone. I had read them an example of a eulogy that I’d written for myself. (Lots of kids believed it was bad luck to write eulogies for themselves, so I changed the assignment to lifetime achievement speeches if they wanted.) Hardly anyone wrote about how they died, if they chose to write a eulogy. One girl mentioned that she died of cancer. Another girl mentioned that she died with her high-school sweetheart (the one she’s currently dating, and the one with whom she holds hands in the middle of my class. Ahem, ahem).
They led wonderful lives. They saw themselves going to art school for animation and design school for clothing. They saw themselves as parents and scientists and Academy Award winners. Most were in the entertainment business; some played varsity Ivy League college football, but others could lay claim to affiliations with Ninjas, the Gotti family, and the Nobel Peace Prize.
In one particularly engaging class, every student walked to the front of the class to read his or her speech. After each of the speeches, we all shed tears (water from my water bottle) and sobbed and sniffed aloud.
When Amanda stood to read her speech, we expected the ordeal to go the same way it had for every other student. As she approached the end of her speech, she mentioned that she died at the age of 35, the victim of a terrible gang fight.
Our class fell absolutely silent. No one pretended to cry or sob. Some kids looked at me for direction; others kind of started at Amanda out of disbelief.
I think I just raised my eyebrows. I was mostly struck by how unanimous the reaction had been from the whole class. This class in particular is one that verbally reacts to anything: snowflakes, chalk on my skirt, a burp from outside in the hallway. Anything. But this time, everyone fell silent.
And I’m wondering now, did Amanda articulate a reality? Does she really see herself as a victim of gang violence? Or was she attempting to appeal to the masses of students for whom gang life is perhaps fascinating? And was the class’s silence a reaction to the possible real-life scenario Amanda painted for herself? Or was it a silence that reflected their understanding that gang life is not for them? Everyday I have these puzzling moments. On some days I’m better able to interpret them on others; this is a moment that’s stuck with me.
A long time ago, I heard on the radio that some songs get stuck in our heads because our brains can’t figure out why or how those notes go together. So we keep going over and over and over them until we figure it out. Sometimes, if we’re lucky, we hear the song again and pay particular attention to the part that keeps tripping us up. And maybe we’ll be able to learn from that moment in the song so that it doesn’t confuse us anymore. But then there are the songs that we’ll never figure out. Because no matter how often we listen to them, they baffle us.
Dec. 18, 2005
In the last fifteen minutes of last period on Friday, one of my 9th grade students, Jeremy, asked if he could stand up to address the class about their final project — “the staged rendition of The Hot Zone, the book we’re reading. After we’d finished doing what was on our lesson plan, I granted him permission to talk to the class. Jeremy stood up at the front of the class and started speaking. No one listened. They wandered around the room, talked when he was talking, grabbed each other’s notebooks and pens, laughed at jokes. Jeremy started raising his voice.
I was seated at my desk to the side of the room and watched the ordeal. Occasionally I called students’ names to get them to quiet down, which they did — “for a few seconds. Jeremy was flustered. Two boys kept standing up and walking around, sitting on the floor, talking with each other.
“Guys!” Jeremy called out. “Come on!” He called questions to a group of students who refused to listen. “So how do you want this play to look?” “So who wants to be an actor?” “Does anyone want to write scene one?”
It was hopeless.
In the middle of the ordeal, Jeremy looked over at me. He was absolutely flustered and frustrated. I sat at my desk and smiled, knowing exactly how he felt. I feel it every day.
“Miss Coggio,” he said over the noise of 10 other kids, “I am SO sorry. If this is the way we are for you, I am SO sorry.”
I loved it.