Chapter Three
Strutting the Minefield
The weekend’s not moving fast enough. I’m anxious to get to college, suicidally wishing away a good time to strut across the minefield awaiting me. I search out my acting senior lecturer voicing my opinions the trio should be suspended pending investigation. He listens, then excuses himself as he goes upstairs to see the principal. A few minutes later he returns, “Would you like to see the principal?”
She listens carefully agreeing with my suggestions, adding, “Phone the parents and explain what’s happened. I’ll speak to the faculty director who’ll see you later today.” Stage one completed, now where are the musketeers?
Lost soul Dean’s spied first. Walking vacantly in his usual daze he knows there must be life somewhere. But ferried and hand clasped each and every journey his existence is an empty orbit. The family runt prescribed growth hormones by medics was, last year, the butt of violence from Max towering at least a foot above him - the very embodiment of martial art ethics. He’s easily intimidated though on this occasion offers me no opportunities discover what happened.
“I did nothing wrong. I’ve said I’m sorry. We were only messing about.”
I don’t like playing authority figures, I’ve always been on the other side, certainly not a ‘guvnor chasing slackers. Is this inevitable in teaching I wonder, but I’ve no time to reflect. Dean sits frightened in my manager’s room, legs pushed together, head bowed, stumbling over his words. I ask if he knows his father’s driving school telephone number.
“No, I don’t.”
Both parents work during the day so I can’t contact them. However, as its within my authority to do so I order him off the site. Max takes it very differently. I remind him he hit other students last year and how Lee could have been badly injured.
“I didn’t kick him.”
“Who did?”
“It wasn’t me!”
He gets mad, quickly rising to a crescendo exactly as he did last year with the faculty director. His father’s similar. Body armour rigid, keeping the hurt child within away from crying out its pain. It makes me emotionally sick to think about it. Death camp child, brother dead, ordered not to cry her feelings and from her hidden tears a desert grew. Same old unconscious story of mankind. During the afternoon break I see Dean and Max sitting together in the common room commiserating like lovers. “Can you go please?” I see other students sitting by the stairwell, frightened, huddled together. Lee speaks, “They threatened me. Dean told me I’m dead tomorrow.” Even Chung appeared subdued. I walk up to where Max and Dean are conclaved. “Can you leave please.”
“No we won’t!”, Dean shouted. Terrific. When they’re supposed to work they won’t and leave college at the drop of a hat. Now they refuse to leave: upsidedownworld.
I seek out a colleague, a senior lecturer, who hands me a copy of the college guide, “A use for it at last?’ he inquires. “Yes,” I reply, “its got the number of the duty officer.” O.K., Max and Dean. Waving this scrap of funny coloured paper I tell them, with authority, “If you don’t leave I’ll call security.”
As they begin moving, Max starts on me, “I’ll get my brothers onto you, I’ll get you!”, before vanishing through the swing doors. I phone Max’s parents who are always available. His brother answers demanding to know why they weren’t informed yesterday, and doesn’t seem too happy.
There’s no sign of Sunil, perhaps his mini-cab’s late. He’s sixteen and requires a mini-cab to transport, collect, to protect and sanitise. I despair. I knew the streets of my Liverpool neighbourhood by five since exploring at three. Sunil’s no fool. His mock, “Help me, I can’t do this, I don’t know that, I forgot”, is merely half the story. Growing impatient I phone his parents. When I do it immediately becomes obvious he’s not told them truth. His father wants to know why Lee’s not been suspended. Him of the club foot, he of despairing tears in his special school, he of the quiet face, the timid soul, he of wasted legs and rolling gait. Sunil’s father sees no wrong in his son, “He’s such a gentle boy, he wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
His mother, taking the phone, understands more, “If he’s done something wrong you must tell me. Has he?” Sunil’s told his parents he was bullied by Lee. “No, it wasn’t like that”, I explain, “Lee could have been severely injured, he could bring a prosecution for assault.” Sunil’s mother continues, “Sunil says he was ridiculed because of his religion and race. I’ve told him before he shouldn’t take notice of such things.”
Talking to Lee’s mother a little later, she apologised for the trouble her son might have caused, telling me, “I've told him before if people say anything to him hit them back.” It’s strange the way offspring misinterpret parental wishes. Is it expecting too much for an adult to understand a child has their own life and follows it sui generis?
Nothing makes sense and this mish mash takes new turns when I phone Dean’s parents on Wednesday evening. Dean arrives at college on Wednesday morning, sitting in the common room as bold as brass, as down trodden as the Somme mire. “Dean, you’re suspended, please leave”, I begin, but quickly stop and think. The little sod hasn’t told his dad, and the dutiful protector of all things good on earth has simply done his daily duty and transported his little sunshine to Hendon. “Dean, did you tell your mum and dad?”
“No, I did not!”
Occasionally vibrancy sparks within his soul. Without fail he’ll use that phrase when he wants to assert his own self, except in this instance it’s misplaced. I have tutorials in thirty minutes and this verbally pugnacious nightmare’s in college. Let me chat to the college counsellor, maybe his skills could be used to effect. Brian’s loath to get involved because of previous finger burning experiences. He’s wary of being tossed into the role of authority figure and argues it’s not conducive to good counselling practice. “After all”, he confides, “it has to be a voluntary undertaking.” I can’t disagree, but a condition for Dean’s return to college last year was to receive regular counselling. More confusion. I’m of the belief that one has to be conscious of one’s life before attempting to sort its problems out.
Brian suggests Dean remains until midday when his father collect him and for me to
phone his father informing him of the suspension. I accept this as sensible, but not before another little drama when Lee tells me Dean’s calling him a “Cripple.”
I phone Dean’s father from home - I’m not staying at college until nine, when he finishes his late shift. He’s angry, very angry! “I was just talking about you!”, he shouts. “What’s going on? No one tells me anything. How did Dean get involved in this fight? Who was supervising him?”
“This is a college, students’ don’t get supervised at break times.”
“What!”
“He’s over sixteen and there’s no statutory obligation.”
“No what?”
“Statutory obligation,” I repeat.
“He’s only a child. He needs watching over and looking after. He can’t be left by himself. You haven’t heard the last of this. Who’s your college chief? Right, I’ll be in touch.”
Down slams the phone - another threat added to previous.
The following morning I meet the faculty director suggesting he talks to my students about their violence. He offers, but I detect a lack of interest and I don’t feel confident about his willingness to investigate the causes of student violence not its ramifications. Nor, if he did, do I think he’d involve students in any subsequent decision making. The trio need to be questioned individually, firmly without intimidation, but he won’t do it. I feel his message reinforces the notion students can sort affairs themselves, whereas I want them to see the world in terms of structures, formal and informal, that are mediated objectively. I don’t think his approach is conducive to this.
On the learning front Paul’s getting his weather project in order on Windows. The weather reports he brings in are matched by mine from the Guardian. We exchange information detailing the world’s weather and using an atlas we begin to discover our planet. Paul’s no sense of place, of earth, or distance, it’s as if the planet he lives on is alien to him. Paddy and Lee are word processing what they have done during the past week. Chung and Tricia, now holding regular phone calls at the weekend, are working together.
Thursday’s the best session with the group. We continue talking about relationships, though only Chung remembers to bring a photograph of himself, aged seven, which he passes around. Fortunately there’s no ridicule. I edge the discussion onto growing up. I want them to talk about the ‘self’ and ask them if they understand privacy and it’s importance. The ensuing discussion reveals they don’t like being ordered about by parents.
“Do this!”
“Don’t do that!”
They shout in unison.
“I’ve no time for myself!”, admits Chung.
It’s suddenly become hot. Lee offers to open the windows. Chung intervenes, “No, let me do it.”
Hold on mister! “You’re not respecting him. Lee wants to do something and you want
to prevent him.” I see the anger in his face. His muscles tighten, then, mercifully relax. He begins to talk again.
“I didn’t like Kuala Lumpa.”
“Why?”
“Well, they wouldn’t leave me alone.”
“What do you mean? Can you explain?”
“Well, one day I was having a shower and my cousin came in without knocking on the door. I felt embarrassed and went red.”
“Male or female?”, I ask.
“Male”, he responds.
Paul says his parents think they know what’s best for him. I ask the group if they think that’s right.
“No”, they answer uniformly.
I ask how they learn. “Every day for, say, eighteen years, you learn something new, have experience. Only you know about yourself because you’ve lived it, felt it, thought it.” I have a quick idea for an exercise and get some large paper sheets and felt tips. “Listen, let’s write down things under the heading what I know”.
Lee instantly loudly complains he knows nothing. Paul begins immediately, and Chung and Trica get stuck in together, arms around each other. Lee’s just plain stuck.
“What’s going on?”, I ask.
“I’ve got a headache.”
“How do you know?”
“I can feel it!”
“Right. So you know something, don’t you?”
Thus, slowly with much cajoling, the list progressed with veracity to this:
“I know I’m a young man.”
“I know I go home.”
“I know I have a family.”
“I know I have blue eyes.”
“I know I’m the tallest.”
Here Chung disagrees, quickly standing up to prove he’s taller. Measuring himself back to back with Lee he concedes, amid mirth, several inches. Humour established, the group continues its task.
“I know I live in London.”
“I know London is in England.”
“I know some French.”
“I know English”.
“I know I’m a good arm wrestler.”
“I know I’m a good pool player.”
“I know I’m a good darts player.”
We have a short break to collect our thoughts. From knowing nothing a little structured reflection indicates each one knows a great deal. By expressing familiar facts and beliefs they’ve identified important elements in their life. Developing an appreciation of what they are is precisely what will enable them to realise they have power to determine, and change, their lives. Upon return to class Chung reads out his own extensive list.
“I know I need to learn more French.”
“I know I am good at football.”
“I know I am love sick about my feelings.”
“I know I have a heart.”
“I know where I live.” This is important for Chung who’s been to court numerous times to sort his proposed adoption by his uncle after coming to England to receive special education.
“I know my name.”
“I know I like Liverpool football club.”
“I know I need to learn more.”
We’re talking more realistically about feelings today, making progress, auguring well for the future. Next Thursday I’ve promised them a video, “Who do you think you’re looking at?” Should be good.
Another fire breaks out at college. Two female students set fire to some rubbish on a table in the common room, and as I walked in, they walked out. A student looks on at the proceedings. “Hey mister”, I call to him, heavy lumbering shape learning against the wall, “who were they?”
“Don’t know.”
The fire’s quite colourful now, becoming attractive as it leaps above the table, eating its plastic surface, bubbling brown smoke. I’m mesmerised. Last week a fire took place of potential epic proportions as a slighted student threw matches into a waste bin in the staff room. I remember the site manager’s advice with clarity, set the alarm off and get out. It’s too late in the afternoon to do that. I emptied a metal rubbish bin, picked up a drinks can and pushed the smoking flaming mess into the sticky green thing with a clang and a hiss. I then go upstairs to find the site manager. “There’s been another fire!” His eyes pop beneath his half moons.
“Follow me downstairs”, he commands. Mmmm. “Must see the cleaners about his. Happens all the time.”
I see Strange Harry and ask him to find the word ‘immolation’ in the dictionary. I push the swing doors and leave for the weekend.
