Blood in the Classroom

It happened in the baby class, of course. I had six of them today; fewer than usual, but still enough to cause havoc. They came running into class with screams on their tongues, tearing things off my desk and throwing each other on the ground. I tried in vain to get them to line up against the wall so that I could seat them one by one (our usual procedure) but I didn't allow myself to get angry.

Patience, I told myself. They aren't old enough. You can't expect them to sit still and behave themselves like the older kids. So don't ask it of them. Change the class to fit the students.


I smiled, making my eyes wide. I gasped loudly to get the kids' attention. "Hey, guys, come sit down over here!" I said, running over to one of the beds that line the room. It was a break from tradition, so the kids were game for that. They hopped up to their feet and padded over, throwing themselves on the bed. They laughed and nudged each other as I got on my knees in front of them. "Oh!" I gasped again, pointing to Lera's legs. "Look at your socks! Everyone, look at Lera's socks! They have stripes on them!"

And thus, we started learning words about socks. Once I had set the pattern, the rest of the kids all started kicking out their legs at me, wordlessly asking me to tell them what was on their socks. I taught them. It wasn't much - it was nowhere near as much as the older kids had learned that day - but it was enough. They were all engaged and learning bit by bit. I was pleased.

Once we'd exhausted the sock topic, it was apparently time to get up and move around again. So I played with them for a while, repeating (over and over again) phrases like, "I can spin! I can jump! I can fall!" They all paid attention, and while they didn't speak very much, I could tell they were understanding.

After a while, it was time to count tokens. The ILP works by "tokening" kids for speaking; basically, when they say what I want them to say, I give them a token - just a red circle of plastic. At the end of the day, everyone tallies their tokens. Once a kid makes it to twenty, he or she gets a prize. In fact, today Vova got a prize. He was so excited about his little box of crayons that he leaned over, pulled my hair out of my face, and kissed me right on the nose. (The babies are hard, but they can be quite adorable.)

I had everyone sitting in a circle on the floor at the beginning. After I started to count tokens, however, one notoriously rambunctious girl - Aliza - lost interest. She stood, shaking her blonde curls, then raced to a nearby chair. I looked up and called after her, "Aliza? Please come sit down."

No answer. I was not shocked. She rarely responds to any commands. "Aliza?" I said again. "Please come sit down."

She was oblivious. Two of the girls in the circle, however, were paying attention and wanted to get back to tokening. They stood and walked over to Aliza, apparently intent on dragging her back to the circle. I called their names, but the other kids were all babbling loudly now and I don't think the girls heard me. They grabbed the smirking Aliza around the waist and started tugging on her. She narrowed her impish eyes and yanked out of their grip, forcefully. So forcefully, in fact, that she was flung back toward the chair, face-first...

...and bit right through her lip.

Oh no...

Immediately, she was bawling. She stumbled past the girls - who were reaching for her - and came over to me. Her mouth was full of blood, and she kept wiping at it with her little hands, streaking it all over her face. Thinking practically, I grabbed her arms and shoved her sleeves up to keep the blood off of them, speaking soothingly to Aliza and trying to keep an eye on the rest of the frightened kids at the same time.

Fortunately, there was a Russian teacher nearby, and I got her attention. "Aliza," I said simply, pointing at the bloodly, tear-soaked child. The teacher started speaking in fast, angry Russian, pushing past the other kids. She gathered Aliza up in her arms and took her out of the room. I don't know where they took her after that, but I'm afraid it might have been the hospital - the girl may very well have needed stitches.

As for me, I finished teaching quickly. I took the rest of the kids out of the room and sent them to their next classes. Then I went to the bathroom to wash my student's blood off my arm.

- - - - - - - -

To be honest, I did not feel guilty about the incident at all, at first. Kids run around; they bump themselves, scrape themselves, cut themselves; and occasionally they bust open their lips or break bones. This is part of childhood. What happened to Aliza was not the result of anything I had instigated; it was simply an accident. She spends so much time running around haphazardly - in all of our classes - that something like this was bound to happen sooner or later. I felt sympathy for her pain, but no guilt. It wasn't my fault.

Apparently, that is a matter of opinion. One of the workers at the school approached my Head Teacher, Allison, about the incident, and she was not at all pleased. I happened to be in the next room over at the time, close enough to hear and close enough to know that I probably wanted to stay hidden. "This situation is very bad," the lady said. "It is bad for you, bad for the school, bad for us as parents.  The teacher did not respond correctly. We wish you to take better care of our children."

I was blushing furiously at this point. I heard her walk out of the room, but I still didn't come out of the supply closet. I heard Allison address the rest of the teachers in a subdued voice, reminding them that we are responsible for the children's safety, and that it's up to us to make sure that they aren't doing anything that is dangerous, anything that could get them hurt. "These kids are being entrusted to us," she said. "It's our job."

Well, that's all very well, I thought. But I've been trying. We've ALL been trying. We stop fights every day, scold the kids, but they still happen EVERY DAY. We tell them not to climb on things, we pull them away from dangerous things, but the kids don't listen. They're kids! The way they learn is through getting it wrong and getting hurt, sometimes. This could have happened in ANYONE'S class. She was just standing by a chair, and two girls just grabbed her waist. I called after them and tried to stop it, but it all happened too fast. What else was I supposed to do?!


I went home feeling like I was under attack. I tried to push it out of my mind, preparing for my Elementary class this evening, but it just kept haunting me. I struggled between self-centered defensiveness and unreasonable guilt. But the time I was walking back to the school, my internal arguments had become external: I started muttering under my breath. "It was an accident. It could have happened anywhere; in any class, or on the playground, or at home. But it happened in my class. Does that make it my responsibility?" I thought about that, but then growled in frustration, "It wasn't my fault! I didn't do anything! I took care of it right away and got her to help immediately. It wasn't my fault!"

But then, my dramatic subconscious sent a tendril of thought slithering poisonously through my mind. Her blood is on my hands . . . it said.

"That's not true," I murmured, weakly. "I washed it off."

I resisted the sudden, Macbeth-ian urge to look at my hands and check if the crimson stains were still there.

- - - - - - - -

Needless to say, I arrived at my Elementary class in an unhappy state. I was full of a tempest of emotions, unsure which one I felt more strongly. I gathered my materials, trying to get myself calmed down enough that I could teach effectively. (Though, at that moment, I didn't know if I believed myself fit to teach anyone ever again.) I shoved everything to a dark corner of my mind, trying to stay focused on the present. All I can do now, I told myself, is make sure I pay even closer attention to the safety of my students, to keep this sort of thing from happening again. Of course, as it's only happened once in the nearly two months that I've been teaching, chances were that this was an isolated incident, and I didn't need to worry.

I went to my Elementary class and they all greeted me cheerfully, unaware that I had already caused the mutilation of one student that day. I love my Elementary class, and quickly fell into my happy role as teacher, nearly forgetting all of my problems. About five minutes into class, one of the kids - the hyperactive, highly unstable Dima - pulled something out of his pocket and began to play with it, showing it to the other students. I looked over to see what it was . . .

. . . just as Dima unfolded the pocketknife and started wielding it like a sword.

"DIMA!" I shouted, trying not to betray my terror. He had stood up, showing off his swashbuckling skills to his laughing classmates. My nerves were on fire. It was all I could do not to tackle him to the ground and wrestle the weapon from him. "Dima! Put it away!"

He laughed maniacally and turned toward me, making feinting stabs in my direction from a few feet away. I held up my binder to defend myself, sincerely afraid. (I'm not kidding when I say the boy is unstable.) I swear, children can smell fear, because this only made him more delighted. He slashed through the air with his tiny - but surprisingly sharp - blade.

I spoke in a calming tone, "Dima, give me the knife." I couldn't help but think of the countless movie scenes I must be parodying. He didn't respond (stupid movies - you lied to me), so I tried another tactic. "Hey, Dima!" I said, smiling and sounding impressed. "That's cool. Can I see it?"

Dima's face fell just a bit - he liked his toy, but likes me enough to let me have a turn - and he closed the pocketknife, handing it to me. I snatched it out of his hand and quickly pocketed it. He cried out in alarm at my two-faced duplicity, but I told him, "You can have it back after class, okay?" He knew he was beat, so he agreed and went back to his bench.

Myself, I was trying to keep my weak heart from failing.

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And so, I have spent the majority of the day wondering if I am a heartless fiend who leaves trails of gore behind myself everywhere I go. My entire body is shaken and weak, and (even though I know it's stupid) I am still afraid to look at my own hands. Bloodstains - I am discovering - are very, very hard to wash off.

Moral of the story: Some Mondays are worse than others.