When fathers aren't fathers

Yesterday I got called in to take over at an elementary school. I reluctantly agreed.

When I arrived at the school the principal greeted me, told me of the troubles at that school since another substitute had taken over for an ailing teacher, and gave me the details of what had transpired since Monday. He walked with me to the classroom and read the students the riot act. While he spoke I wondered if I had gotten myself in deep waters for taking over this job. I stood by his side and smiled coyly. Surely all those obedient children who listened to the man would behave for me...

Well, not exactly but it also wasn't a repeat of Bisbee's 6th grade. Although I had to stay on my toes the entire time and never give the kids stagnant free time, by the end of the day I had several kids come up to me and hug me. "You did good!" said one boy, Michael, who gave me advice all day long about classroom procedures. Several girls also acted as aides and helped me pass out papers, assignments, student folders. The teacher's aide, a woman my age who is also working on her teaching certification through UA, helped me maintain my tempo. Without her I surely would have failed.

One girl, Claire, told me she suffers from depression and easily gets upset when classmates don't talk to her. Another boy told me he doesn't like being called by his real name and prefers to be called "Zay" so that is what I called him, much to his approval. One Mexican boy sat quietly at his desk and followed all instructions without fail. I smiled at him several times and gave him the thumbs up for doing such a good job on his class work.

There were also little battles among the students to gain my approval. Several boys fought over computer time to get their English assignments typed out.

"Steve has been on that computer for over ten minutes!" cried one boy.
"No, I haven't!"
"I got here first!" said another boy, also working on his English assignment.
There were times I just wanted to bang the heads of these three boys together to make them stop fighting. Enough fighting, already!

Then there was a little curly-topped boy, also named Michael, whose father was recently arrested on child pornography charges and who, according to him, could be "sent to prison for at least ten years." The boy, who by now was clearly hurting as he volunteered this information, hadn't seen his father since late August when the city cops stormed the house and ransacked the house looking for evidence. "I haven't been able to sleep since then" he continued, and has been restless and more disruptive in class. "I may never see him again!"

Michael was a sweet boy to me and although he was hyperactive (what boy isn't?) he did listen to me overall.

I wanted to hug this boy and let him know that everything will be OK, but how honest is that when the boy knows that he will lose his father for the next ten years, the most formative years of his life?

I left the school saddened for Michael's future, but I also left the school relieved that the day did not go as badly as I had feared. Although my voice was hoarse and my feet were tired, I left the school with even greater admiration for elementary school teachers who have to take care of little boys like Michael, little girls like Claire and all the other children whose parents failed them as primary caretakers. It's moments like today, despite all the screams and hollers and my warnings to cease and desist, that I drive away with a smidgen of satisfaction for a job well done.