Surviving David

"Hello, Mr. Martin? This is David's English teacher calling from the high school."

"Great. What'd he do now?"

"Well, David's been having some trouble controlling himself in class."

"Well, what d'ya expect? He's an asshole!"

"Excuse me?"

"He's a fucking asshole. I'm sorry to say this, but whatever's going on at school, that's your problem. I've got enough on my hands dealing with his shit when he's at home."

After my first call home to a parent, I sat stunned. The discerning voices of professors from the past and teachers I recently began working with floated through my mind. Communication with parents is the first key to success in the classroom. . . . The best way to stop a disruptive student is to call home and get the parents on your side. They had sounded so sure that this magic panacea would solve all a new teacher's woes. No one mentioned what happens when a parent doesn't respond as he's supposed to. I had tried detentions, the vice principal, guidance, and now a call home with no success. I was lost, left to my own devices, and found I had few left. At 23, I was trained to be a teacher, not a parent, and was still in many ways floundering. How could I teach when I was expected to deal with the "shit" that David's parents couldn't even handle at home plus a classroom full of other students with their own challenges, needs, and disruptions?

I had accepted a teaching position at Ridgefield High School with hope and optimism. It seemed a safe place for a first-year teacher--an upper-middle-class suburb with 700 students, high test scores, and a solid football team. I was excited by the challenge of establishing myself in the classroom, connecting with my students, and teaching them what I could about writing and literature. I tried to look at my five freshman classes and lunch duty in a positive way as I designed bulletin boards and organized for the year ahead. Daily lunch duty could help me get to know more students. But by the second week of September, I was exhausted and overwhelmed. I spent my days struggling to keep up with my planning and grading, being mistaken for a student, figuring out who my students were, learning the system, picking up lunch trays, struggling to make a friend, and hiding from a department head who kept finding reasons to yell at me. Richard Haney popped into class at the most inopportune times, often with two minutes left in the school day, hoping to catch me and my students doing something wrong. He swept through the room, yelling at students and assigning detentions. As the final bell rang, Richard stormed out, while marching out two boys who had given him dirty looks, and shouted back to me, "And you, Ms. Coppens. I'll need to see you after school also." As I struggled to establish myself as a teacher, I also fought to maintain my dignity while collapsing in my chair, drained and near tears.

David quickly emerged as the leader of what my colleagues dubbed "the class from hell." This ninth grade, lowest-level class was my rack and screw, the final round of torture that loomed at every day's end. In a flood of apathy, 17 boys and two girls noisily shuffled and shoved their way into my class.

The last subject on every person's mind at 1:30 in a windowless, stagnant classroom was English. I would stand at my desk, sweating, praying Mr. Haney would not walk by, unable to fathom how I would make it through the next excruciating 50 minutes. As I put on the most serious teacher-face I could manage, I would stride to the front of the room. "All right, everyone, have a seat." With well-placed stares and desperate threats of an extended class period, I would usually be able to quiet the room. Other days the period would begin with lights out, heads on desks, and a few minutes of quiet so I could postpone the chaos. It was then time for the typical daily count--students absent, suspended, late from their "anger management" support group, students who had tried to do the homework, those who had forgotten their books or a pencil or pen. As I circled the room, marked points for having homework, books, and a writing utensil, David would begin his repertoire of antics.

First, a random object would fly across the room. David would be sitting quietly, slouched behind his small desk, smiling innocently. Then he'd begin whispering to a neighbor, tipping his desk back in a precarious balancing act, dropping his book repeatedly on the floor, singing rude lyrics, and ultimately beginning his running commentary with the voice of his alter ego, "Sneaky Pete." Sneaky Pete made his first comment of the day as soon as I successfully oriented the class into a discussion. "Yes, Amy. Why do you think George decided he had to kill Lennie?" And before Amy could stammer a response, Sneaky Pete would say, "Mike's on crack." Legend was that Sneaky Pete had driven a teacher insane last year and caused her to start eating chalk. He was known for his ability to throw his voice and sing in falsetto. Sneaky Pete was creepy and sounded as if he had been sucking on a helium tank. Soon the entire class would be in an uproar and near tears from either laughter or frustration. And I would be standing, a solitary figure at the blackboard, tottering between maniacal laughter and cries for peace and quiet. This happened every day.

As a result, I became an emotional wreck, David set the record for trips to the office (46), and we spent an inordinate amount of time together after school. During these sessions David and I discussed the rude and inappropriate nature of his comments and analyzed why it was difficult to remain under control last period of the day. He often wrote letters apologizing to me, the class, and to his future self. I tried every technique I had learned to improve our relationship. Unfortunately, the repeated detentions and even suspensions didn't seem to faze him. He remained on the football team because the school disciplinarian was also the athletic director. It took me time to realize that as a large, promising linebacker, David was given a lecture about sportsmanship and a cold soda every other time he was sent to the office.

Despite the hell he created in my classroom, I had ambivalent feelings about David. He pushed me to the limits of patience and reason, but it was difficult to be angry with him. His jokes were infantile, but his comic timing impeccable. I was infuriated one moment and entertained the next. Unlike the rest of the class, he picked up on the humor of the texts we read and enjoyed making catch-phrases of his favorite lines, especially the sexual innuendoes from Romeo and Juliet. In response to my request for Sneaky Pete to leave the room, David would smile widely, showing the gap between his front teeth, and say, "No sweat, Ms. C. He's outta here." But he'd creep back in a few minutes later. David would cause mayhem during last period, but the next morning he'd greet me with a high-pitched Sneaky Pete hello, and I'd grin against my will at the absurdity of such a little voice coming from a 180-pound hulking individual.

A few months into the school year I approached class after an exhausting morning, knowing the worst was yet to come. I could hear sounds of muffled screaming as I approached the door. The entire class was seated and staring at the front of the room. As I entered, David broke into a sheepish smile.

"Hey, Ms. Coppens. What's up?" He stood holding scrawny, bespectacled Brendon Sakuari by the ankles, dipping him up and down into a trashcan. Brendon's arms were flailing, and I could hear his mix of muffled laughter and cries.

"David. Release him," was all I could get out. Brendon dropped to the floor, David gave him a hand to help him up, and for a moment it seemed as if they were going to embrace. The whole class applauded as David bowed, left the room, and called out, "Going to the office, see ya after school, Ms. C." A small part of me wanted to laugh at David's ability to entertain and be liked even by his victims; the other part was infuriated because of the chaos, the mess, the gum in Brendon's hair, and how David was able to prove in one swift motion that I was incapable of establishing control in a classroom.

That afternoon David strolled into my room and asked what we were going to do. Was he going to write me another letter? Would we talk about self-control and motivation, because he had lots of new ideas about those topics.

"David," I said, "I don't want to talk about anything right now. I'm tired, I have a headache, and I just want you to go home, and I don't want to see you in my class tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that. I'll figure out somewhere for you to go, and I'll give you quiet reading for your assignments. You can do it if you want, but seeing that you've done next to nothing all year, you probably won't. I just can't deal with it anymore, and I'm not able to do my job and teach with you in the room."

"Whatever you want," he curtly replied and stormed out the door.

David spent the next few weeks alone in the office last period of every day. I don't know what he did or if he read anything I had left for him, but my class slowly regained a semblance of order. Mr. Haney avoided my classroom because he grew tired of screaming at me and realized I would not budge and put my desks in rows. There were small daily outbursts from other students, but generally we read, wrote, discussed, and actually had an English class. Over time my job felt more under control, but David kept creeping into my mind. Class seemed empty and almost too quiet without him. I'd pass him in the hallway, but he wouldn't bound over to say hello as he used to. My conscience kept nagging, and a week later I found myself bundled in the stands of the season's last freshman football game. I watched number 64 barrel down the field, plow through the opponents, and clumsily trip over his own feet. I felt the warmth of a feeling that I imagine must be akin to parental pride begin to spread through me as I saw him as part of something successful and organized. During a timeout he jogged to the sidelines, pulled off his helmet, and waved to me. I automatically turned and looked behind me, and the nearly empty stands answered back that yes, he was signaling in my direction. His father's voice declaring, "he's a fucking asshole" months ago reverberated through my ears. Maybe it was time for him to come back to class.

The class anticipated David's return with a buzz. To their dismay, he stayed relatively quiet, happy to be out of isolation. I'd see his mouth open for Sneaky Pete to make a comment, but then he'd regain control, raise his hand, and volunteer to read aloud. I was elated. David managed to pass the quarter with a D and few disruptions. He earned the Student of the Month award I gave for the most improved behavior.

Third term started well, but to my chagrin ended poorly. I put David back into isolation when for unknown reasons his regular habits sneaked into class again and he pinned Brendon Sakuari to the wall by his neck. He probably would fail for the year and end up repeating freshman English with me in the fall. Days passed and class went on without him. And although his absence brought me some relief, I was surprised the administration accepted this solution. I now see they didn't know what to do with David any more than I did. "Just let him rot," said Mr. Haney, and this seemed to be the general consensus. But I had the nagging feeling that now I was failing David. He was my student, and I was unable to handle him. Just as David was being left to rot on a bench for the remainder of the year, I had been left to rot in an isolated classroom filled with more challenges than I could have imagined. It was as if I too were now expected to fail. But I had not become a teacher to settle to the bottom of mediocrity. In a year filled with struggle and emotion, David had become the truth serum of my capabilities and limitations. Finally, I wandered into guidance to look for help. All the counselors were busy as I began digging to find his folder. It was thick. I took a deep breath and began my attempt to find some answers.

There was a photograph of a preschool-aged David sitting on his mother's lap. She looked worn down, but there was laughter in David's eyes and the same mischievous smile I knew well. His threadbare first-grade journal had meticulous crayon drawings and descriptions of his love for school and anticipations for Santa. There were Good Helper and Spelling certificates. Later was a list of his favorite books and a detailed narrative about a victorious fourth-grade football game. This writing was stronger than any I had seen from David all year. A glowing report from an elementary school teacher said that David was bright, energetic, and a good friend.

When did David the good helper and writer of honest, touching prose become David the fucking asshole? Then the strong report cards from elementary school began to slip to Cs as David entered middle school. The grades continued to drop each term. A seventh-grade guidance counselor made a brief note that "David seems to be adversely affected by the divorce of his parents and the estrangement of his mother."

The next day I stopped David in the hall and asked him to see me after school. He bitterly rejoined that he had things to do and what was the point. What is the point, I thought. It's March, almost fourth term, and it would make a lot more sense for me to dismiss you to spend the rest of the year sitting and doing nothing on the office bench. I've been trying to get you out of my mind for months. But something has stuck. Maybe the way I see you nervously talking to girls or the way Sneaky Pete quotes Shakespeare. Perhaps it's just my determination not to continue to fail myself.

Whatever it was, I said, "Just be there. It's your last chance."

At the end of the day, he sauntered in, looking peeved that I was taking up his time.

"I don't know why we still have to go through with this. I'm going to have to take this class next year anyway." He sat slumped over and looked down at the floor.

I looked at him. He was a mess and angry, but I saw the child buried in the thick folder and answered, "Maybe you will, but I don't think you have to. I know that you can do much more than you've shown me so far. I see you, David. I see that you're bored and that you're intelligent and probably you're beyond what we're doing in here. I think that you can get an A in this class, no sweat. All you need to do is a little work and prove to yourself that you're worth the effort and the time."

I praised him and told him that I cared. I told him that somehow, through everything, I had grown to care a great deal about what happened to him, but I was afraid that he was running out of chances. As I spoke I thought briefly that I had gone insane. This was a boy who had tormented me all year. He looked up and stared at the wall in front of him, and I added, "Yesterday afternoon I went through your files in guidance. You did so well in school and you're such a good writer. What a cute kid you were David! And you looked so happy." With this he blushed and smiled but then quickly began to act distant again.

"So what? So what if I was a good student and was all smiley? What does it matter?" he muttered almost inaudibly.

"It matters because it's still in you and I wish I could see it again. You can get an A in this class and probably any other class you're taking if you just give yourself a chance. So if you want to, come back to class tomorrow. Start fresh and give it one more try."

With nothing left to say and feeling that perhaps I had said too much, I shuffled my papers together in a teacher-like gesture. "All right, get out of here. I'll see you tomorrow."

"We'll see," he replied and slowly walked out.

The next day David walked into class just as the last period bell rang. I was relieved, but worried. Had I set him up to fail yet again? Was he going to tear the class apart to prove me wrong? Everyone quickly quieted, as curious as I was about how long he would last.

"Okay, everyone, take out To Kill a Mockingbird and turn to page 28. We're going to begin reading aloud."

David's hand raised slowly and he asked for a book. We were about to begin and his hand shot up again

"Yes, David," I asked apprehensively, half expecting an unwanted Sneaky Pete.

"Can I read?"

And so he began to read aloud and I was quickly struck by the irony of the passage. With a deep, clear, and confident voice, David read from chapter three, Scout's tumultuous first day at school:

Miss Caroline took advantage of his indecision: "Burris, go home. If you don't I'll call the principal," she said. "I'll have to report this, anyway."

The boy snorted and slouched leisurely to the door.

Safely out of range, he turned and shouted: "Report and be damned to ye! Ain't no snot-nosed slut of a schoolteacher ever born c'n make me do nothin'! You ain't makin' me go nowhere, missus. You just remember that, you ain't makin' me go nowhere!"

He waited until he was sure she was crying, then he shuffled out of the building.

The class giggled. My cheeks burned faintly as I smiled to the class and waited in dread of David's response, but he just glanced up for a moment, and to my surprise, he looked just like an ordinary kid wanting encouragement. "Nice job, keep going," I said, so he continued to read.

David completed every assignment fourth quarter. He took notes, scored As on quizzes, and volunteered to read aloud often. He began hesitantly to use his voices to bring characters to life in amusing ways. He wrote a solid four-page paper on appearance versus reality in To Kill a Mockingbird. He wrote poetry and even read his writing aloud. I tried to act as if I weren't surprised at all. The class as a whole somehow came together and ended the year far beyond where they began. David finished the quarter with the highest grade earned by any student in the course all year.

On the last day of finals, David sauntered into the room as I was grading exams. "So, how'd I do?" he asked quietly.

I looked up from my pile of papers and said, "A 94 for the quarter."

"Is that an A?"

"And you passed for the year."

"Holy shit," he exclaimed. "Ms. Coppens, do me a favor, and don't call my dad. I want him to be surprised. He's going to freak when he sees my report card!" With that he turned and ran out of the room.

I sat back and rested from my grading for a few moments. David's voice faded away as he ran down the hall and shouted, "Dude, I got an A in English!" to anyone who would pay attention.