In Over My Head: Tales from an Ex-Teacher

Thus begins a new series based on my experiences as a high school and middle school teacher.  As we move through these stories, it may seem that I am either 50 years old, or have worked at a ridiculous number of schools.  The latter is true.  

In Over My Head: Self-Destructing

My first real experience in a high school was student teaching.  My favorite class to teach was, by far, the senior level creative writing elective.  At this mammoth high school, there were awesome electives aplenty, and both serious writers and lazy slackers anxious to avoid another “real” class signed up in droves.

   
I felt that Bea was the most likely to actually make a career of writing.  She was habitually late, and wore her red hair short and disheveled above perfect crimson lipstick.  She was a hipster before that title existed.  When you looked at her, you mentally inserted one of those long cigarette holders in her hand, and her poetry was dark and turbulent and smelled faintly of sex.  When we shared work, the other kids listened spellbound to her every word.

        
On the one occasion she arrived early to class, she fixed her black-outlined eyes on me curiously.  I shuffled my papers behind the big desk that I was pretending I was ready to fill. 

“How old are you?”  She asked.

I hesitated a minute.  Every question these kids asked me was fraught with potential issues.  My age was high on the list – at a scant 4 years older than most of them, I lost most of my credibility when they realized it.  But Bea was different.

“22,” I replied.

               
Her expression changed just slightly.  “Wow.  My boyfriend is 21.  He doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing.  Here you are; you have a career and everything.  You really have your life together.”

     
I laughed, just because I didn’t know what else to say.  “Well, thanks.”

 
“You’re welcome,” she replied, put her head down on the desk and closed her eyes.

               
Every week, the kids turned in journals of free writing they’d done for homework that week.  It just had to be completed; a minimum number of pages on whatever they wanted, but I gave them tons of suggestions so they’d have something to fall back on.

Bea handed hers to me as she left class that Friday.  She hesitated.  “I’m not sure if I want you to read all these.  There’s some that are kind of personal.”

The fact that she not only chose to write something “personal” in her school assigned journal, and the fact that she made this explicit to me, seemed a strange coincidence.

 
“Well, Bea,” I replied, “I have to collect your journal and read it to give you a grade.  You can keep it and turn it in to me on Monday if you want, but it’ll be late.”

Bea shrugged her shoulders.  “Whatever; you can have it.”

My heart raced a little.  What was to be revealed in these pages?  Bea was a smoldering stereotype of the tortured high school genius, so there had to be something very wrong with her.  Was she bringing me into her confidence?  I stood at the entrance to my first great Teacher Test, and I felt sure that I was up to the challenge of saving Bea from herself, Freedom Writers style. 

I didn’t have to wait long.  One particularly turbid poem swirled in a series of self-destruction metaphors, climaxing in a vivid description of vomiting, purging, losing yourself.  I read it three times.  Bulimia.  Boom.

It didn’t seem like Bea; she wore a casual sexiness like a silk scarf, and seemed more than
confident with the hips that swayed under her thrift store chic skirts.  But there was the vomit, literally and figuratively, puddled on the page.

I writhed for several days, trying to figure out how to navigate this.  I was obligated to report an abuse or neglect, but the rules were slightly more fuzzy about self-abuse. But I didn’t want to damage the trust that Bea had in me by giving her away.  I decided I’d talk with her first.  Maybe this would be the beginning of a new chapter – I’d guide her to health and wholeness.

I asked her to stay after class and wrote her a pass to get her next class late.  I pulled her into the office and sat her down, warmly patting her shoulder as I did so.

“Well, Bea,” I began with false brightness.  “I read your journal."

“Shit.”  Her shoulders slumped a little.  “But I feel like it’s creative, so I shouldn’t get in trouble for that.”

“No, it’s not the time for getting in trouble.  But you need help, Bea.”  I hoped my expression registered my care and concern.

She looked puzzled.  “I don’t think it’s that bad.  I mean, it’s pretty normal for most teenagers.  I’m ok.  Maybe you read it wrong.”

I sighed and put my hand on her arm.  “Bea, it’s never ok.  And it’s not normal.”

I opened the journal and turned sanctimoniously to the offending poem.  “I don’t know how I could read this wrong.  I mean, it’s about throwing up.  Eating disorders are never ok.”

Bea looked at the page and snorted.  “Bulimic?? You think I’m bulimic?”  She started laughing, without sarcasm or irony.  “I got drunk at a party and threw up.  I didn't know if that was ok to say, but I didn't mention alcohol.”

“Oh.” I visibly deflated. "Do you drink a lot?"

               
“I mean I have wine with my parents sometimes, but I hardly ever get drunk; it's gross.  My boyfriend made me go to this party and it was all his douchebag friends.  It was a really bad night, which is why I wrote about it, but the throwing up was just like a symptom of everything.  That's what the whole image is about.”

“Oh.”

She started laughing again.  “Bulimic.  That’s a first.”  She looked back at the page.  “Did you actually read the whole thing?”

“Yeah, yeah I did."

"I may have some personal shit to deal with, but my body is not an issue.  Is it ok if I go to my next class now?"

I hesitated.  "Yes, you can go."

She gathered her bag and books and headed to the door.  She threw a last glance over her shoulder at me, standing awkwardly a few feet behind her. "Well, have a good day, Bea.  Don't drink and drive," I finished lamely.  "Or, I guess, make sure you don't tell me about it."

She tilted her head sympathetically.  “Hey, don’t worry.  You’re a good student teacher, Ms. P.”