The Independent’s schoolteacher diarist wrestles with what to say to a parent who punishes a child with beatings.
Feb. 2, 2006
Yesterday, my colleague Dave ran me through the leg work-out at our gym. He chose to stack on the weight on all five machines to work my hamstrings, my quads, and my calf muscles. I chose to lift lighter free weights when it came time to do lunges, even though I’m sure Dave wanted me to do five pounds more. To tell you the truth, I started feeling the burn in my hamstrings during the first repetition of the first set on the first machine, but I stayed with him all the way through until the end, and even after he left the gym so I could finish the circuit he’d designed for me. It was my choice to go through with the whole thing, and I trusted Dave enough to know he’d tell me to do the things that would make me feel the best, regardless of the pain I’d feel the next day.
Turns out, I didn’t even need to wait until the next day to feel the pain. I could barely walk away from the last machine and down the steps without wanting to keel over. (Why does it hurt so much to walk down the stairs after a leg workout, anyway?) My hamstrings burned, my quads felt like jelly. My calves didn’t hurt so much, but I could have ripped them off of my legs to take away from the pain in my thighs. My butt hurt. I somehow stumbled out of the gym and turned the heated seats on in my car. I had a nice, long drive home. It’s funny, sometimes, how we choose to feel pain. How even after all of the pain we feel during workouts, we can leave the gym smiling.
Today I am sore. I have a hard time sitting down or moving across the room quickly. I told two of my classes today, when they saw me struggle to sit in my chair, that I’d had a crazy workout last night. I giggled as I tried to show them a couple of the exercises I’d done, but I realized I could bend only halfway before my legs started screaming with pain. I think my kids thought I was crazy. I had a hard time walking downstairs after school; even now, as I sit on the floor to write this, my rear end and hamstrings are stiff with pain.
I don’t like finding out that a parent beats her child. Especially when the carrier of that message is the parent herself.
“My child gets whuppins with a belt,” she tells me. “I beat that kid.”
We’re on the phone and she’s telling me she thought that she’d let up for a while, kind of back off from the beatings and maybe her child would do better in school. She cares about her child’s education, she tells me. She wants her child to do well. Stop lying in school. Stop losing materials. Stop lying to her. Stop goofing off. She doesn’t want her child to grow up on the streets. She doesn’t want her child to kill anyone, she tells me. Be serious about school. Even McDonald’s wants high school graduates who have good organizational skills.
She took away the Christmas presents. Friends can’t come over. Don’t go outside when you come home from school. You’re not allowed outside.
“I’ve taken away everything my child has: no TV, no friends, no going outside. I even let up on the beatings. Maybe I need to go back to doing that. I don’t know what else to do.”
My hand is sweaty as I grip the receiver. I had called her simply to say her child had not handed in the homework assignment. It’s the start of the third quarter. I wanted to get her child off to a good start this quarter.
I try to show sympathy in my voice as I come up with a plan to help her child in my classroom. But the reality is, I want to hang up the phone and run away. I want to slam down the phone so she can hear how hard I’ve rejected what she has to say. But I am the teacher. I can’t talk to her about parenting.
I remember meeting her a few months ago at school, and I could see her child cower behind her as she said similar words to me about getting her child to behave, about getting her child to do homework. I don’t remember the things she said to me when we met because my emotional attention was on her child. As hard as I tried to maintain eye contact with her and nod at appropriate times (“yes, uh-huh, mmm-hmmm, yes”), I couldn’t help but look away and notice her child’s — “my student’s — “hanging head and hunched shoulders, the silent and defeated demeanor. This child was a different person in my classroom — “speaking out, laughing, asking questions. And yes, forgetting materials. And not doing homework. And swearing occasionally — “trying out bad words forbidden at home.
“My child tries to use ‘hell’ at home,” her voice crackles over the cell phone connection in response to my telling her that her child uses foul language in my classroom. She continues, “I say, if you’re not talking about Hell with the Devil in it, you’re not going to use that word in this house.” I clear the guilt from my throat and try to turn the conversation back toward coming up with a plan to help her child. “Do something good and right,” I tell myself. “Leave the conversation on a hopeful note so maybe the child won’t feel pain tonight.” Meanwhile, I think about Martin — “my student from last year who told me his father tried to kill him. I had to make calls to DCF, have meetings with his counselors. I don’t want to go through that again this time. I don’t want it to come to that again.
How do I tell her I don’t think it’s right to punish her child physically? How do I tell her I think it’s a great idea to let up on the beatings? But I am the teacher. I can’t talk about parenting. I can’t tell her not to take away her child’s toys and games. I can’t tell her she’s doing something that I think will damage her child. I can’t tell her that maybe positive reinforcement — “words of encouragement, hugs, love like my mom gives me — “might work better than a belt buckle. I can’t say these things because I am the teacher. And I can’t talk about parenting. Because I just don’t know.
I don’t know anything about their life together as parent and child. I don’t know anything about what this mother has tried already. I don’t know anything about how the child acts at home or how tired this mother may be of trying and trying and trying and getting nowhere. I don’t know anything. Except for when her child found out I’d called home — ¬¶I know what that child’s face said: There’s going to be trouble tonight.
“Thanks, Ms. Coggio. I’ll be having a talk with my child tonight.”
So tonight, while I’m sitting here on the floor with my aching legs and aching butt from last night’s workout, I’m thinking about this: I chose my pain. And I have a student, who, maybe even right now as I’m typing this, because of my phone call does not get to choose.
“Thanks, Ms. Coggio.”