That One Time I Subbed In A Junior High--And Never Again

        In the early 90's, so early it was almost the late 80's, because it actually was the late 80's, I decided to sub while going to school on Planet Houston. I was hired in La Porte, a city south of Houston and known for being a bit "rough" at the time. The city was largely blue collar workers, etc. Those neighborhoods are always considered rough, but let me tell you, that after 13 years of teaching in a suburban school, blue collar kids are not "rough". They're just big, and sometimes multi colored and not always scholarly. But they don't shoot each other. Just saying.
        The one and ONLY time I ever subbed at the junior high school, this is what happened: I put on my one suit, I drove to the school. I checked into the office, the friendly secretary welcomed me warmly, I received a campus map, a schedule, a room number and lesson plans. I walked to the classroom, settled in behind the desk and waited for the kids.
         The desks were neatly lined up, five rows across and six deep. Every desk was taken, the kids sat in their assigned seats, answered "here" when called upon and in general were just fine.
         It's fine, they're fine, stop looking at me.
         I was learning quickly that the subs during this time left me a lot of in class reading and writing. Which likely had more to do with language arts than anything else. So the kids had their heads down, working on their assignments.
          A fairy portly young man in the second from stage right row, second seat, seemed a bit fidgety to me. I didn't hear any voices, nobody was talking, but he kept looking over his left shoulder at a kid in the fourth row, fifth seat back. As if they were communicating telepathically. Or maybe he heard voices. As long as they were quiet, what did I care?
          I sat on the edge of the desk watching the class and memorizing a monologue for my own class, when the Portly Young Man leapt from his seat with a mighty cry. I thought maybe he had been stung by a bee, which is how much logic is applied in these situations. There was  no explanation otherwise.
          In addition to springing to his feet, he twisted his body around to the left and vaulted from his second row seat to the fourth row, fifth seat back, grabbing that kid by the throat.
          The entire class jumped to their feet and immediately took sides, splitting the room and shouting encouragement, depending on their allegiance. The portly boy seemed heavily favored.
          In the few seconds I had to piece together that he was not stung by a bee, I realized he was attacking his oppressor. This kid had been bullied for years,and had chosen today to fight back.
           It's fine, I'm fine.
           Knowing there was a helpful phone right behind me that I could pick up and raise an administrator, I instead made the decision to intervene.
           There had been very little "sub training" past filling out paperwork. The only thing they really said was "Do not touch the students." They had said that a lot when I was hired.
           Adhering tightly to this sage advice while deciding if I was going to let this kid whale on his oppressor, I hopped into the fray. All 120 pounds of menacing theatre student/sub, pencil skirt and all.
           I did, after all, hold a green belt in tae kwon do. I know, I know, no autographs please, I'm telling a story.
           I grabbed the oppressed kid first, getting him in a headlock. I was being  kind when I called him "portly", as he outweighed me by at least forty pounds, maybe fifty. The other kid was smaller, so I grabbed him by the ear. I'm not kidding. It was hilarious. Well, hilarity is relative to time. It's hilarious now.
           I pulled them over the desks to the front of the room. I looked back at the class who were all frozen with dumbfounded looks on their faces. I nodded my head at a girl and said "Please pick up that phone and tell them to get down here."
           As she called, the bullied was still trying to get to his bullier. I may have been little, but I was strong, and he couldn't get his head out of my lock.
           When the girl hung up the phone, she told me what I already knew. "He's been bullying Bobby* since kindergarten."
            Two male administrators in ties appeared at my door. Both stood frozen, much as the students had. I imagine it was quite a scene: tiny blonde in a pencil skirt and jacket with a digruntled junior high boy in each arm. I smiled, "These two have an issue," I rotated my shoulder so they could see Head Lock's face. "Would  you please deal with it?" They nodded silently and each man took a boy with him. Neither administrator touched either boy.
             I turned to my class and smiled. "It was nice to meet you. I'm fired."
             As one gush of breath and pent up emotion, they all laughed and  then told me stories of what they had witnessed over the years between these two boys. I listened, I let them decompress, and after about ten minutes they were ready to resume their classwork.
             I returned to my perch on the desk, wondering if they would send an administrator to escort me off the premises. I had, after all, broken the only rule I was given when I agreed to this job. Do Not Touch The Students.
            The two administrators never returned, but the boys did. The smaller one had an ice pack on his face---Bobby had gotten him good---but Bobby just looked tired. They both schlepped back to their desks, took out their work, and resumed.
            We held that tableau until the bell rang.
             The next class started, no administrators emerged.
             Probably there is nobody else to teach this class, I reasoned. They'll fire me at the end of the day.
            After my last class, I walked to the office to turn in my paperwork. The secretary smiled at me in the exact same way that she had in the morning. "How was your day?"
             "Ummmm....you didn't hear?"
             Her smile did not falter. "No....?
             "Today is the day Bobby decided he's not taking it any more. He attacked his bully. During my class."
              "Oh my goodness, that is terrible. Are you OK?"
              I couldn't help staring at her as if she had guacamole on her face. "Yes....I'm fine. I didn't even rip my skirt."
               "Well, I hope this isolated incident does not effect your impression of our school. We'd love to have you back."
               I looked over her shoulder at the administrative offices. All the doors were closed.
               Unsure if I was being stopped in the parking lot on the way to my car, I waved at her as I left as if I were in a fog. Surely someone was going to fire me. I'm not supposed to touch the kids.
               At my car, I actually paused and looked around for police officers, or a truck with nice young men in clean white coats.
               Instead I saw Bobby, head down, getting on his bus. And his bully getting into a car with his dad.
              When I got home, nobody was waiting for me. There were no messages on  my machine.
               I kept expecting a call from the district, telling me I was fired. When I did get a call, it was a week later, when the Junior High called to ask me to sub. I declined.
               They called on a day I had school. I couldn't have done it.
               Even if I had wanted to.







* Probably not his real name.
Non fiction I swear.
kryssi
19 June 2017