Can we borrow your mouse?

Year Two, Chapter Three

[Recap: I find myself enjoying biology, but miss teaching physics. A series of disturbing incidents with my colleagues threatens to cast a pall over the year.]

My classroom management skills, while improving, still needed a lot of work. It helped having my own classroom only three days per week; I could observe and learn from the lab teacher the other two days. But my default strategy would be to yell if I was losing control of a class, and while I didn’t have the violent episodes of screaming and throwing chairs that characterized my year at Roosevelt, I had my moments. I still tended to get confrontational with students, and if I didn’t have their full attention would resort to any means necessary to get it.

As a result of one of these confrontations, I was written up by Dan Mitchell, the assistant principal. I had never been written up before—I didn’t even know it was a thing—evidently it was a written reprimand that would go into your personal file. The horrors. It was all the fault of a young man named Dionte, who never stopped talking and could be blatantly disrespectful. After numerous attempts to get him back on task during a lab period, I got in his face and told him to shut his damn mouth.

The official reason for the write-up was using profanity. I was instructed to make sure I was using appropriate language with my students. I was deeply ashamed, feeling as though I had once again betrayed my ideals. Mitchell didn’t seem overly concerned, though, stating matter-of-factly that he had no choice but to put the incident in my file. He shared with me his conversation with Dionte.

“I’m not sure damn is even a curse word,” Dionte had said, “but I think it is, and if it is then Mr. Rohrig cursed at me.”

Even though I was clearly in the wrong, I still felt betrayed. Why you little juvenile delinquent, I thought, if you hadn’t been such a pain then I wouldn’t have lost my temper now would I? How dare you turn me in when you weren’t even sure what I said was cursing! I can see how it must have really traumatized you to hear language like that, when every other word out of your mouth is a curse word.

I apologized to Dionte, who with a bit of a smirk accepted it. He knew he had gotten the better of me, but afterward I never trusted him. I had a hard time forgiving those who complained about me behind my back.

One student accused me of racism. Donita went through life with a chip on her shoulder. She was in a smaller class with an even mix of white and black kids. Several of the white students in this class were doing well, while several of the black students were not. In most of my classes the academic progress of white and black students was similar, but not in this particular class.

After calculating their quarter averages, I invited them up to my desk one at a time to go over their grades and suggest how they might improve. After several students had received their grades, Donita came up, who was failing. Miffed, she began asking other students their grades. The white students she asked were passing, while the black students she asked were not.

At this news, she loudly announced, “All the white kids are passing, and all the black kids are failing!”

I was aghast, not wanting a race riot on my hands. I quickly countered that her allegation was absolutely not true, and to please have a seat. Fortunately, it was near the end of the period and the bell rang. Even though my grade book clearly showed that her failing grade was due to her own actions and not mine—there were numerous missing assignments—it still stung. I didn’t turn her in for being disrespectful, for fear of making it a bigger issue. But I was beyond incensed that someone would accuse me of assigning grades based on race.

There was one disturbing incident of near violence during my time at Ellis. One of my students approached me in the hallway during a class change and said that someone had put a knife to his throat. I tried to act nonchalant but my mind was reeling—I had no idea what I was supposed to do. I told him not to worry and that I would handle it. I rushed into Mitchell’s office. He glanced up and gave me an irritated look: What is it this time?

When I told him what happened, his eyes grew wide. The student was able to identify the culprit, who was dealt with swiftly. Despite their many shortcomings, the administrators at Cincinnati Public Schools knew how to handle potential incidents of violence, and for the most part did an admirable job of keeping the schools safe.

A big dichotomy during my first years of teaching was the disconnect between how I treated kids publicly and privately: My demeanor could be harsh when dealing with the whole class but warm and inviting when dealing with students individually. I must have seemed like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

In an effort to get to know my students better, I began offering up my room at lunchtime, either for extra help or just as a place to hang out. I knew the lunchroom ordeal could be terrifying, especially for those who didn’t have friends with which to sit. Six or eight kids began coming to my room regularly during lunch. My good intentions, though, managed to ruffle some feathers.

Blair Cavendish was fortyish and had been teaching for years. She knew everything and wasn’t afraid to tell you so. She had the annoying habit of always having a smile on her face when she talked, making her condescension even more irritating. Cavendish told me kids were required to eat in the cafeteria and should not be in my room during lunchtime. Even though I apologized, I had no intention of stopping them from coming; for the sake of avoiding conflict I agreed with her but remained noncommittal about what I would do.

As students kept coming to my room Cavendish would grow more pointed in her demands that I follow the rules. I continued being outwardly deferential but inwardly resolute.

Eventually Cavendish’s little protégée, Laurie Simmons, who taught anatomy across the hall from me, got into the act, informing me that kids weren’t allowed in this part of the building during lunch. I said okay and agreed with her but kept letting them come. I failed to see the harm—the students weren’t roaming the halls but were contained in my room, mostly quiet and causing no trouble. I began to detest teachers who were such rule followers, who couldn’t see the forest for the trees. who wouldn’t even attempt to understand what I was trying to do.

My relationship with Simmons continued to deteriorate. One day she came into my room in a huff, claiming my students were out of control in the hallway before class. Evidently, they had riled up her students so badly that by the time they got to her class, they were so wound up she couldn’t get them to settle down. I had no idea what she expected of me or how this was remotely my fault, finding it quite galling that she would blame me for her own students’ out-of-control behavior and her own inability to handle them. But instead of telling her that having this conversation in front of students was unprofessional, I stammered out a weak apology as she stormed off.

One day, Cavendish and Simmons came to my room after school and asked if they could borrow my mouse. I had a little white mouse in my room to which a number of my students had grown attached. I had no idea why they needed it but said sure. When they didn’t bring it back for a while, I began looking for them; a couple of my students tagged along. We found them in another classroom. They were acting coy and were all smiles as they pointed to a large snake in a twenty-gallon aquarium. At first, I wasn’t sure what was going on, but then it dawned on me. My students were aghast.

“Why would they feed your mouse to a snake?” they kept asking me. I had no answers.

Fortunately, I got along well with my other colleagues. I especially enjoyed working with Collin Schmidt, who was in charge of the labs for all the biology classes. I liked Schmidt—he was affable and humble, not afraid to admit that at times he had no idea what he was doing, but at least he was trying. Unlike me, he was an athlete, who looked like a bodybuilder. My body looked like it was built from Twinkies.

Like myself, Schmidt was in his second year of teaching. He related well to the kids, especially the girls, with whom he would joke with and tease on a regular basis. One morning before school I went to his room and found the door locked. I knew he was there, so I knocked again. It took him a long time to come to the door, and when he opened it, I saw a female student in the room. I felt awkward, as though I had interrupted something.  

Every teacher knows never to be in a room with a student of the opposite sex, or even the same sex, with the door closed, much less locked. I knew I should have said something, but didn’t, not being sure how to broach the subject. I found it hard to believe Schmidt would be guilty of anything beyond an innocent flirtation.

Sadly, I was wrong. Shortly afterward he was suspended for sexual misconduct, for allegedly having sex with one of his students. I never knew if it was the student I saw him with, but it wouldn’t have surprised me.

The police claimed to have strong evidence—his fingerprints were on a condom wrapper found at the scene of the alleged crime. The case would eventually go to trial. Before the trial, several hundred students staged a sit-in in the cafeteria to protest his suspension—they all spoke of Mr. Schmidt in glowing terms.

When I called Schmidt, he adamantly denied that he had done anything wrong. He was emphatic, vowing he would go to his grave proclaiming his innocence. I wanted to believe him, but just wasn’t sure. I told him I would pray for him. At his trial, which was in all the papers and on the news, he was found not guilty, yet was still terminated by Cincinnati Public Schools, who felt they had sufficient cause.

A year or so later, I received a phone call from a friend who was on the board of a local Christian school. They were considering hiring Schmidt for a science teaching position. Schmidt claimed to be a changed man, and my friend wanted to give him a second chance. I said that Schmidt was a good teacher, and that he had vehemently denied any wrongdoing. Schmidt was hired. Sadly, he would be involved in another sexual scandal with a female student. I found myself grieving all over again.

Next week: Teaching is not for me

Questions for reflection and/or discussion:

1. Should teachers, or any employee for that matter, feel free to violate policies if they are convinced it is for greater good? If a rule does not serve the interests of the students, should it be disregarded? Are you a rule follower or a rule breaker? Why?

2. I never told the administration about the mouse incident, nor did I ever speak with the perpetrators about it. Was this desire to avoid conflict admirable? What would you have done?

3. Should a teacher who commits sexual impropriety with a student be given a second chance? Are there any types of misconduct that should result in a permanent ban from teaching?