Looking Below the Surface of Student Opposition

They make our lives as teachers extremely stressful. They oppose whatever we are doing in class. They influence other students to rebel. They are aggressive and are potentially violent. They seem to care about nothing. Their own education is not on their list of priorities. They are drifting into a lacklustre future and they don’t seem to care a fig.

They are evil children/ teenagers. We wonder how long it will take them to get into so much trouble with the law that they end up in jail. We wonder how much pain they will cause all those with whom they become involved.

It’s very difficult to view these students in any other way after all attempts to control their dysfunctional behaviour have failed miserably. We’ve tried and we’ve tried again, but it’s like they are sneering at us, saying, “You can’t hurt me. Really, is that the best you’ve got? Bring it on!”

Where does it go from here? We retreat to the usual school punishment spiral. Our efforts to control use greater power and more serious sanctions, until the student is suspended and then expelled from our school, so that they are out of our hair. Someone else can try to control the little animal. It’s not our job to put up with this crap any more.

If we constantly seek to control our dysfunctional students rather  than seek to help them, the situation above will become more and more familiar to you. Teachers who joined up to make positive differences in the lives of all their students will be left with an odd empty feeling when we bid them goodbye.

It never will be farewell though – there is no way that they will fare well till someone decides to do what it takes to end the cycle of desertion.  Teachers will know there was something more they could have done, be clueless as to what it was, and also feel relieved (but not in any way satisfied).

The first step in changing from a purely control to a helping focus is to discover where these students are coming from. If you have no concept of how bad it can be for them you will not have the empathy required to persevere in your attempts to halt the vicious cycle of betrayal. With no real understanding of their world, you will never see them blossom.

It is far more likely that you will be witness to their rapid decline, and who knows where that will end. Attending student funerals or learning of student imprisonments are no fun for anyone but the most vindictive. If you get any sort of satisfaction from events such as these, you should not be teaching. You are not the solution in any way, shape or form. You are a big part of the problem.

Can teachers be major contributors to students decline into major depression and self-harming behaviours? Absolutely. In many cases, teachers’ reactions can accelerate the deterioration. There are way too many of us that are willing to go toe-to-toe with at-risk students on an almost daily basis. There are too many of us that rue the day when corporal punishment in schools was outlawed. There are still far too many of us that seek to bend the little ‘bastards’ to our will.

I’m sorry folks – this is not what teaching is about. If you are into student control, please find another job while you still can. Don’t leave it too late, or you might find you are trapped in a profession to which you are a total mismatch. The stress of this incongruence will finally get to you and you will start counting the days till your retirement. Till you are freed, you will contribute to many, many lost lives, many ruined futures, many disastrous relationships. You will be a major contributor to the perpetuation of the cycle of dysfunction, aggression and failure. Yet, you will be so blinded by your own pumped up opinion of yourself, you will not see that you are equally as dysfunctional as the students you ridicule.

Enough of teacher ineptitude for now. (I am so wound up by this brief discussion, though, that you can expect more on this topic in a later post).

First understand. Forget imagining the worst possible scenario from our own direct experience. For the vast majority of teachers, this will not even come close to the worlds in which our severely dysfunctional students exist.

If you can’t learn directly of each student’s real existence, at least read my words without the blinkers of a middle class upbringing blinding you to the absolute horror that confronts some of our students every day of their young lives.

Evan’s Story

You will most probably find this hard to believe. The horror in which this young man lived every day is beyond most people’s understanding.

Evan’s behaviour , when I first met him, was totally out of control. He was argumentative, oppositional, aggressive and often violent. He either faced his problems aggressively or ran away. He was hated by all his fellow students and a cause of extreme frustration and often fear to his teachers. Add to these ills his illiteracy and a nearly complete lack of the skills needed to attempt learning at high school level. Evan was what many teachers call a ‘feral’.

Evan was pointed out to me in a rather unique (at that time) manner. “Here comes Evan,” my colleague and friend on the Student Special Support Team told me. Although he was not yet in sight, I had no doubt which direction from which he was approaching. I could smell him long before I could see him.

He was a pitiful sight. He looked like one of those old wild west movie bad guys who hadn’t washed or changed his clothes in months. The shirt he wore was falling off him, the seams rotten. What passed for shoes were patched with packing tape; his bare toes poked through, the socks rotting off his feet. He looked skeletal, his eyes sunken and dull. His skin was putrid as were his clothes. He walked with a pronounced stoop, his whole body depressed. He looked starved, anorexic.

He was hard to miss. Other students moved as far out of their way as possible to avoid contact with him.

In class, he sat alone, as far away from other students as he could and tried to remain inconspicuous – a hard ask. Any response from Evan was met by jeers and abuse from his fellow students. This often deteriorated to the stage where a barrage of missiles were launched in his direction with growing venom.

When he could take no more he became extremely violent. He used whatever weapon he could lay his hands on, once attacking another student with a hockey stick and beating him severely before a teacher could intervene.

Teachers didn’t know what to do with him or for him. Most simply gave up and called in the big guns. Generally that was me.

I was first called in to a class in a science lab. When I arrived there was an incredible din coming from the room. The students were screaming at the top of their lungs and hurling poisonous barbs at someone. The teacher seemed powerless to do anything of use. A barrage of objects were hurled toward the front of the room, many of them objects that could inflict serious injury or damage.

Evan was curled in foetal position underneath the front bench, swallowing pins, thumbtacks and anything else that would inflict self-harm. He was whimpering like a fatally injured dog who’d been hit by a truck.

Somehow, I restored some sort of order and then removed Evan from the battlefield. He was a shivering mess and fought me every step of the way.

My first step, was to calm the poor boy down. As I was attempting what seemed on that day the impossible, I learned that he was severely depressed. I know it wouldn’t have taken a brain surgeon to figure that one out. He told me he wanted to die.

My second step was to start to learn what caused this boy’s depression, and why he was so obviously neglected. On my journey to enlightenment, I found Evan suffered from much more than neglect.

Evan was born to a mother in her early teens who was scared, confused and totally unsupported. She had no idea how to be a mother, how to feed her young family (Evan was the second child – the first, a brother two years his senior).

She was desperate. One more mouth to feed, endangered both his mother and brother. Not knowing about support networks and having nowhere she thought she could turn, she fought to survive.

Like any mother, her first thought was to sacrifice …

She left the baby Evan in a spot where a speedy disappearance should have been assured. Living in the Northern Territory (of Australia) town of Darwin,  prehistoric salt water crocodiles abounded. She chose a brackish billabong, far away from all human habitation. There she left Evan, wrapped securely in his baby blanket – a sacrifice for her little family. She prayed it would be a quick end for her little man.

Trying to cover her tracks, she returned to the nearest neighbourhood supermarket, found a police station, and reported her son kidnapped. She told police she had left Evan in his pram outside the supermarket for only for a moment. When she returned the pram was gone and so was her baby.

Maybe her tears were real. She knew what she had done and regretted it. In her own warped way she loved her new born. She just didn’t have the means to support him without putting her other son or herself further at risk.

The police felt something was a bit off. Any professional develops a sixth-sense when things just don’t ring true. So, while they conducted proper investigations at the shopping mall, they also began a search of the neighbourhood.

Evan’s little body was found beside the billabong days later. Little hope was held for his survival in the harsh climate of Northern Australia.

The chance of an adult surviving in this situation for days was minimal. Salt-water crocs rarely miss such a golden opportunity to stock their larders.  Emergency services considered there was no chance of a new-born baby surviving even the first day.

Yet, when police approached the tiny body still wrapped securely, they expected a corpse. They were shocked to find a faint pulse. Evan had survived against all odds. There were fresh croc tracks all around the little body. Why they hadn’t toched him is  both a mystery and a miracle.

In their great wisdom, the government department set up to keep our children safe from domestic violence, abuse and neglect chose to take Evan from his young mother and return him to his father. Maybe now, Evan would have a decent chance.

No such luck. Evan’s father was an extremely violent man with a long history of domestic violence toward women and children. Anyone associated with him was the subject of continual abuse and extreme neglect. Even his sisters had barely survived childhoods where they were subject to vicious and unprovoked physical and psychological attacks. He had injured both so badly, they had spent many a day in hospital in critical care after escaping with their lives miraculously. His anger and his disregard for human life knew no bounds.

Why the authorities thought this would have changed is beyond me. They chose to believe that a man who had fathered children with a string of barely teenage girls who had all been abused by him was great father material.

So, Evan and his protective older brother had to survive further ordeals much worse than the extreme depravation they had already experienced with their teenage mother. Peter, the father, was happy to have the boys officially in his care. He could use the government hand out that came with the boys. He would enjoy the extra cash to feed his alcoholism and drug use.

The boys were a source of funds: they were NOT to be the subject of a single cent of spending on their behalf by their sperm donor father. He made it very clear on their arrival that they were not under any circumstances to touch anything outside their room. They would not be fed by Peter. They would not be clothed by Peter. They would not be cared for in any way by their ‘father’. He made it very clear that if either of the boys brought the authorities to his door, he would make them regret it.

Children grown up in mutual hardship that threatens their very survival on a daily basis are resilient creatures. They are supportive of one another to extremes. They do whatever it takes to survive and to see their siblings survive along with them. They know what true sacrifice is. They do it every day to protect brothers or sisters that are dearer than life itself.

Evan’s brother tested his father’s limits. He had the audacity to open the refrigerator in search of food to sustain his little brother. His father attacked him unmercifully, screaming his hate as he tore into the boy. He put him in hospital with multiple fractures. The brave young boy was wise beyond his years. He knew that any suspicion that his injuries were inflicted by a father addicted to violence would lead to his death at his father’s hand, and put his brother in further peril.

The child support agency visited the house after the older brother was allowed to return from hospital. The boys knew what was ‘good for them’ and refused to implicate their father.

When those charged with the boys’ protection left the property, Peter waited till there was no danger of them witnessing what was to follow, then set about making both boys sorry. He wore steel capped work boots. He’d never worked a day in his life, but he still wore steel capped work boots. The boys would soon find out why.

The broken ribs that Evan suffered, were not apparent to anyone outside the family home. Evan knew their lives now depended on his bearing the pain in silence and leaving no clue that he was suffering severely with every step he took.

His brother wasn’t nearly as lucky. When a pair of steel capped boots meet a young cranium with maximum force something has to give. Danny’s skull was caved in – the result of the boy’s carelessness as the emergency staff learned. Survival was doubtful. Brain damage was inevitable.

Danny survived but the part of his brain that was responsible for considering consequences before making considered decisions did not. Both boys would later look back on this severe head trauma as their eventual saviour.

The boys had learned valuable lessons. Had they learned enough to survive their father? They covered their troubles expertly as do most other children who are the constant victims of unprovoked domestic violence, severe neglect and abuse. They learned quickly to leave no evidence – nothing that would bring their family  situation into focus.

Ask yourself what you would have to do to survive with no food, no love, and no parental support. What would you be willing to do to survive? The boys somehow managed to survive, living totally on their own resources. They stayed out of trouble and managed to keep the authorities away from their home till I somehow got involved.

I visited the home address listed in the school records, trying to find out all I could about the home life of the students I was seeking to help. I knocked on the front door and waited … no response. I could hear people moving around inside. I knocked again and waited some more … no response. Still I heard movement inside.

It dawned on me that they were trying to avoid acknowledging I was at their door. I thought it strange at the time that they would continue to move around quite noisily inside while they were trying to hide from me. Maybe they thought I would just give up and go away.

I was persistent. I kept knocking and waiting. Finally I called out, “Hello. I know you’re in there. I can hear you clearly. Please open the door.”

I’m sure I imagined the huge sigh from inside. Footsteps coming closer prepared me for what I was sure now would be a confrontation. I prepared to defend myself physically if required.

The door opened to allow one eye to peer out at me. “Hello. I’m from Evan’s school. I just dropped by to say hello and meet his father.” I’d decided to hold the real reason for my visit in reserve, not knowing that it would be received in a positive light. I feared the consequences for a boy already doing it tough and not needing anyone to make it any tougher.

“Is Peter home?”

“Who?” the owner scrawny, unkept face asked.   “There’s no Peter here is there Darl?” She was looking nervously back into the dark recesses of the house.

“Peter Kruger. I’m looking for Peter Kruger, Evan’s father.”

“There’s no Peter here. Peter … Peter. Wasn’t that the name of the last person to live here?” she asked no-one in particular. “Yes, that’s it. He moved … into town I think.” She moved to close the door.

“It’s OK,” I said. Evan’s not in trouble. Just wanted to say hello is all.” Well it was worth a punt. What did I have to lose.

“Let him in.”

The door opened cautiously. A large, rough looking man peered at me from just inside the door.

Hiding my fear, I took a step inside and stuck out my hand. “Nice to meet you Peter. I’m Mr Mac, Evan’s teacher.” I left it at that, not wanting to dig the hole any deeper.

“Oh right. Evan’s teacher,” he laughed. Amazingly he opened up and told me he thought I was someone from DOCS (Dept of Community Services – child welfare), or someone trying to collect money that was owing. It turned out they were dodging the law on a number of fronts, from rent collectors, to child support payments. Why he told me all this I couldn’t figure out – still can’t.

I explained that I needed to contact them if there was an emergency at school that involved his boys. I asked and was given their phone number, but had to promise to give it to no-one else.

I left the family home knowing a great deal, but having asked none of the questions I had arrived with. I walked to my car as fast as I could without raising suspicion, wanting to put as much distance between me and these people who raised all my hackles. I realised how fortunate most teachers are to have had childhoods generally free of neglect and violence.

Evan and Danny needed lots of support. I realised though that it needed to be the type of support that never reached the ears of their ‘family’. We would have to treat any issue at school completely in house, breaking the usual parent-teacher contract.  What communication did go home would have to be totally positive. With a miracle, this would be received favourably. More likely, their father would ignore anything that came from the school, leaving the boys in relative safety.

This school had a large number of students who were struggling to survive day-to-day. We had established a Special Student Support Team comprised of me – the Behaviour Support Teacher, the School Nurse, the Guidance Officer, the School Chaplain, and Youth Workers from three separate community organisations that had part-time offices at our school.

We set ourselves up to offer special support for students living rough and doing it tough – the kids that struggled each day to survive their parents. For them school was a great place, even though, at times, they didn’t learn a great deal. At school they knew they were safe. It was their haven, their oasis.

Between us, we fed and clothed the boys. We gave them a number of safe places around the school where they could go for support or to escape aggressive students who were making their lives even more difficult. They dropped in at the start of each day to set daily goals and so we could start each day positively (or to provide a place to recover from what they had escaped that morning before gathering themselves mentally to give each lesson their best shot).

They still felt the need, though, to supplement what we provided  for them to eat. They were coming from a position of severe depravation. Like any species that struggles to find enough food to sustain them through difficult times, they sought to stockpile when they saw the opportunity. They stole, traded, and retrieved the discarded left overs of other students and staff.

Everything they could get their hands on was a resource to be traded for food. This practice earned them the scorn of other students, but it sustained them.

They were mercilessly bullied and ridiculed by other students. Evan was the main target. For any trying-to-be-tough guy, he seemed to be a gift target – someone who was so scrawny and unloved that he seemed like he couldn’t fight back. How wrong they were.

It soon became obvious that these boys packed a real sting. Push either of them into a corner and force them to defend and you unleashed a nightmare. Forced to fight, the boys thought only of survival. They saw each confrontation as a threat to their lives and defended accordingly.

One such confrontation involved a gang of ‘tough’ guys attacking Evan during a physical education lesson. He defended with whatever he could reach – a hockey stick. Luckily for them, they had no real loyalty to their ‘mates’. At the first sign that someone was going to suffer severely at Evan’s hands, they deserted the scene. Their legs ran even faster than their mouths.

What resulted from this fracas? Severe bruising and total shock for the boy who did most of the pushing around, accusations that Evan had attacked this quite large group murderously and totally unprovoked, demands that he be expelled from the school was the result. The physical education teacher had not seen it start and supported the gang’s account.

The incident was serious and demanded a full investigation and further action from the school. Luckily in the course of the investigation the truth came out. In the middle of all the madness, Evan missed his bus home.

Evan was justifiably terrified. He had every reason to believe that his father would kill him when the school contacted home. We knew he wasn’t exaggerating.

What do you do when you know in your heart that a little guy is going to die a horrible, violent death if you don’t get the next bit right? The Special Student Support Team hastily discussed the situation with the Principal. We thought our best course of action was to seek some sort of emergency care for Evan. Experience had taught us that his father didn’t care if his son’s came home or not. All he seemed to care about was that he could remain anonymous and hidden away from the authorities.

We put our plan to Evan. He told us he would have to go home eventually and then his life would be worthless. He pleaded with us to take him home and let him take his chances with his out of control, violent father.

Our hearts cried for the little man. We couldn’t let him face his father alone. So there we were, our female Guidance Officer and myself, riding shotgun for the little guy.

On the way, we made escape plans, organised escape routes and hiding places where if need be we could pick him up. We gave him one of our mobile phones and set speed dial to reach us quickly. If we were successful and got him inside unscathed he would go straight to his room, take the fly screen off the window so he would not be impeded if a quick escape was necessary, then lay low for the night. That meant not eating, but that was the normal order of events at Evan’s household anyway. He nominated two people who lived nearby to whom he could run.

Debbie, the Guidance Officer kept the car running with the doors open ready for a hasty retreat. Evan and I stood on the doorstep. I thought there was little chance that we would escape this one without major injury. I have to tell you I was shaking. I thought Evan and I were about to die. I looked down at Evan and thought if it had to be, this little man was a fitting companion to go out with.

I knocked and waited. We got the same run around I had received at my earlier visit – they ignored the knock, I suppose hoping we would go away and not bother them further.

“Hi Peter, It’s only me Lindsay. can I talk to you?”

Somehow I managed to put the right spin on the incident, and Peter accepted that Evan was not at fault and had not brought the authorities to his door. Evan scampered away to his room, and I stayed for a ‘quick chat’ all the while my heart racing.

Deb and I both spent a sleepless night waiting for Evan’s emergency call. It never came. We both prayed that was not because he was not able to make the call.

Evan arrived at school the next day as usual – starving, unkept, in need of a bath and a friend.  We breathed again.

Later that term, Danny somehow came by a small stash of marijuana. He immediately saw the resale opportunity and had visions of filling their bellies for more than a single day. His luck held for most of the day. With five minutes left in the long lunch break, the teacher on playground duty noticed something suspicious going down and nabbed Danny in the act.

The school was required to report drug use to the police. So, the boys in blue paid a visit and took Danny away to the lock up. We later found that he had been convicted and sentenced to twelve months in the local youth detention facility. We heard not a word from Danny’s father. Plainly he didn’t care as long as they didn’t come knocking on his door, and as long as he continued to receive the youth allowance for his son.

Evan had witnessed the deal at a distance and was called as a witness. He was blameless. He said to me, “Mr Mac. You know how I made you take me home last time? It’s not going to work this time. I’m dead if I go home.”

After another hasty meeting with the principal, we rang the child protection agency to seek emergency care. Their response was, “How old is this child?”

I told them he was thirteen but that I didn’t see why his age mattered. Their response took my breath away. “If he was a baby or maybe under five, we could do something to help. We’re sorry.”

“We have no doubt that this boy will be murdered by his father tonight, and now you’re telling me you won’t help us.” They apologised again and hung up.

We had half an hour to find a solution that would keep Evan alive long term. We were speechless. We were desperate. We didn’t know where to turn.

One of the team suggested we contact the Senior Constable that operated the “Farm” – a working farm that retrained young offenders fresh out of youth detention. This wonderful man helped these boys stay out of jail. He provided ongoing support to keep them on the straight and narrow. He loved his job and his boys loved him.

When we rang him, we were looking for ideas. “Bring him to me,” he said. We told him we thought he would be taking too big a risk. We didn’t want him to lose his job over this. He had no hesitation. “I’ll take the risk. Bring him to me, please.”

We did. We heard not a peep from his father.

Three months later, I was mowing the nature strip in front of my house. “Hey, Mr Mac,” a voice from behind me called. I turned to see who was talking.

I didn’t recognise the young lad. He was a smiling, well dressed, well cared for young boy. “Mr Mac, it’s me, Evan.” It was hard to believe. The boy in front of me and the Evan I knew were polar opposites.

Evan had been living with his father’s sister. She had been physically abused by her brother too. She had kept Evan safe. He was loved. He was happy. He was living the life he’d never thought possible.

Evan was a survivor. Like so many other severely abused and neglected children, he had great strength, and only needed one chance.

My heart sang. I stood listening to him, tears streaming down my face. I was a happy chappy.

To his teachers, Evan was ‘feral’. He was uncooperative, non-communicative  and sometimes violent. He was the cause of great unrest in the class.  He sat and took no part in the lesson.

After his escape from his father, Evan became a model student.

A student in survival mode or one who feels worthless will not ever be your model student.  They will be your worst nightmare. This does not mean they are evil.

When you are next confronted by students like this, consider what lies below the surface. Give them a chance. It may well be the one that makes the difference.

• Posted in: Classroom Management ♦ Student Behaviour ♦ Student Welfare ♦ Teaching ♦ Troubled Youth ♦ Uncategorized
• Tagged: Education, Major depressive disorder, School corporal punishment, School discipline, Self-harm, Student, Teacher