Every morning, D. arrives to school late, shuffling into English class with his wrinkled uniform shirt untucked and the hem near his knees. He is wearing a shiny, oversize black jacket and carrying a McDonald's bag in his hand, containing his Egg McMuffin.
"Give me your tardy slip," I tell him with a sigh. He digs it out of of his pocket, already a crumpled wad mixed in with pieces of old candy, crumbs and other pieces of paper. He drops it on my desk. I shake it off and tell him to have a seat and take out his silent reading book, reminding him that he cannot eat his breakfast in class.
"Oh yeah I know, Miss Bass, I know," he says assuredly, nodding a knitted forehead in my direction. He sits down, leans over his desk and begins rummaging around in a deflated backpack that always seems to be empty, intently looking for something. I eye him, then go back to grading papers.
Five minutes later, the greasy smell of fried food drifts in my direction. I look up and see a pile of crumbs under D.'s desk.
"D," I say.
"Hmm?" he says, his cheeks tighter than usual.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
D. taps the open book on his desk and puts his index finger to his lips, making a shushing motion.
I try not to laugh. "D," I say. "What is in your mouth?"
D. shakes his head.
"You are eating your breakfast aren't you."
D. shakes his head, attempting to swallow the mass in his mouth.
"Yes you are," I say.
"Uh-uh, Miss Bass," he says with a gulp, "I ain't tryin' to eat my breakfast." He stares at me wide-eyed with a ring of greasy crumbs around his mouth, clutching the McDonald's bag on his lap.
"Am not," I correct. "D., you have crumbs all around your mouth and your finger is greasy." I pointed to the greasy streak on his desk. D. balls up his fist and begins to vigorously rub the spot away.
"You know the rules of class," I tell him. He says nothing for a few moments.
"Pleeeeeeeeeease Miss Bass!" he suddenly exclaims. "I am hungry! I don't got a chance to eat breakfast at home and my momma she don't like me eating in her car so I have to eat it here!"
"'Have a chance, doesn't like'," I tell him. "D., you cannot eat in class. It will become a habit and it's distracting to everybody else. Not to mention, it can ruin books and materials."
D. closes the book he was pretending to read with his clean hand.
I continue, "You need to wake up earlier to eat breakfast or come to school earlier and eat it in the fellowship hall before morning assembly."
"I-" he begins. Having no excuse, he begins to whimper again. "Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease Miss Bass! Just this once? Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeee-he-heeease!"
"Agh, D.!" I say, exasperated. "Go stand in the hallway and hurry up and finish your food. This is the only time this is happening. I had BETTER not see any breakfast for the rest of the year in my classroom, do you understand me?"
He nods, grinning his chipmunk grin, and runs out the room. "And tuck in your shirt!" I call after him.
The next day, D., comes to English class late with his shirt wrinkled and untucked, wearing his jacket and carrying his McDonald's bag in his hand.
"Oh no," I say to him, shaking my head and taking the bag from him as he walks through the door. I put it behind my desk.
He winces. "Aww, man, that sucks," he says as he flops into his desk. "Just don't eat it, okay Miss Bass?"
"Trust me, I won't," I say. "And neither will you."
He sighs.
* * *
1 comment:
It's important for a teacher to show compassion (or at least, that is what my wise elderly expert neighbor-teacher-who-is-about-to-retire says). All of us have been shown grace by a teacher in our pasts in a situation where we could have been slammed with the book of law.
At the same time, it's important to make sure students toe the line in the classroom.
It is challenging to maintain a harmonious balance between these two needs, isn't it?
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