The Choice Room

I decided to personally “escort” misbehaving students out of the classroom to the bad kids’ room. We called it the CHOICE room. Because kids don't misbehave, they make bad choices.

The CHOICE room was where kids could go when they couldn’t be in the classroom. It was one of Franklin’s best ideas; he called it a release valve for when classroom pressure reached dangerous levels. I already had a reputation for using the valve the most because the pressure was unbearable. I was such a frequent caller that I tried not to call until there was something really serious, like Gracyn throwing a chair across the room. So after each time he slung one across the floor up unto a wall, I walked across the room and called, and then he ran from one side to another as I tried to corner him by sliding empty tables in a way that he might get trapped. If I did catch him, then I had to hold him by the wrist until security got there. By this time of the year most students were used to Gracyn, so I simply dragged him to the front of the carpet and continued the lesson where I left off, while he hung near the floor, yanking my wrist as hard as he could, yelling, “Get off of me, white b----!!” It was just like Sean from first year, but Gracyn must have weighed another 50 pounds.

If Gracyn happened to have escaped out the door, then I had about 5 minutes to get my class back on task before he would run back in the room, yell, “f--- you!” and then slam the door to thunderous applause from my class. I could only call security again, “It’s Mr. Slaughter, Gracyn is in the halls again.” By this time, my voice was breaking up and roars of laughter were in the background. That was a typical day.

I actually preferred when students made it out the door before I could get to them. By mid-September I was so frustrated with some of my students that I just let them go out the door, like a matador using the door as a red cape, and I locked the door behind them, hoping not to see them again for the day. Other teachers hated it because my kids would go into their classes and yell obscenities at them. I felt bad, but I didn’t know what else to do, so I mentioned to the other teachers that they should just lock their doors too so the kids would have nowhere to go. Then, the kids ran the halls and became the administrators’ problem. Eventually, I realized how an administrator’s problem would eventually turn into my problem. Sensing the inevitable, I went to Franklin, told him that locking kids out was no solution to the problem, and I wondered if he some a good ideas. I was apologizing, but I also genuinely wanted to get better. He told me my actions were unacceptable and then saw me out the door. He wasn't the same principal from the year before, something was beginning to smell rotten.

My decision to stop calling security several times per day and personally take kids to the CHOICE room was a smart move. I was no calling on security to save me because I could just do it myself. Kids could stop worrying about security and start worrying about me. With my increased anger and exasperation, the class was behaving better, and unfortunately, I believed there were causal links between my anger and my class’ improved behavior. Some of them were acting better. But nothing was improving for me—I still hated it.

Creating Space

Job queries slowed,  and my anxiety seeped into my home life. If I wasn’t talking about school, then I wasn't talking. My wife noticed the changes and told me I should see a psychiatrist. I always believed the psychiatrists were not for me. I could solve my own problems. But I was approaching a place I had never been. I had no space in my day when I wasn’t thinking about why Ryden was screaming or why Laila couldn’t read or why Ms. Price had stopped talking to me (she was the other 2nd grade teacher). Each night I slumped at the dining table with my babbling daughter and supportive wife, and I put my head in my hands, wishing that everything could go back to the way it was. I wanted to enjoy the dinner. I wanted to ask my wife about her day. I wanted to tickle my daughter in the neck and laugh at her when she pursed her lips to avoid eating her vegetables.  I couldn't think about work anymore; it was eating away at me. I started to fantasize about escape; if I couldn’t find another job, what else could I do?

Riding your bike in DC is always nerve wracking. On this particular morning, I wondered what would happen if I was hit by car. It would obviously hurt a lot, but only temporarily. If it was really bad, I might be in the hospital for the rest of the year, eat microwaveable dinners, and watch soap operas all day. It was the small slice of heaven I needed. But then, there are also the other risks of getting hit by a car. I could become paralyzed or I might live my  life in a coma. What if I died? As soon as I had the thought, I tried to silence it because I knew where it would go. I could fantasize about microwaveable dinners, but I could not let myself fantasize about death.

But it didn't work. The next night, I put my head in my hands again —instead of imagining a new life free from Daley, I started wishing for an end. I needed to see a psychiatrist. I tried to make an appointment, but all the local clinics were booked so I made an appointment that was two months away in a clinic requiring a 40 minute commute. Options were running out, and I needed a solution, today. My wife mentioned journaling.

I had already written what elementary grad students called teacher reflections about what was and wasn’t working in the classroom, but it had been years since I wrote about how I was feeling. Once I started, I didn’t want to stop writing. Everything that had been filling my head, I started to put on paper. After writing an entry, it seemed I had created a little space, just enough space to breathe again.