Big Boys

December 2002

My next subbing assignment was two hours work at a high school with big, disturbed boys. I thought myself lucky to get paid half a day and only have to work two hours. But later, the pay seemed worth it, because two hours seemed like an entire day. This was yet another special class where they put the kids who didn’t make it in regular classes. I didn’t have a teacher’s aide this time. One kid was a product of military parents and his goal was to be a member of S.W.A.T. because you can carry bazookas and bash in people’s houses.

I was sure that underneath the bravado lurked a gentler soul. He covered it up by making brash statements, designed to shock. He bragged that he was brought to the school office under suspicion of carrying a concealed weapon. He was 6’4”.

He wore gunmetal pants, front-creased to perfection, and belted slightly below his waistline with a brass buckle. His high-topped combat books were shined to a high gleam. No baggy look for this kid.

He wore a huge, water-resistant Swiss Army watch with automatic calendar, and three blue subdials. He was extremely proud of it because his dad gave it to him and he used up valuable class time wandering around and showing it to his classmates. They said they had seen it many times before and that he should sit down and shut up.

The ensemble was matched by crew cut hair and square shoulders.

I said I would take a look at it if he would come back to his seat. It had colorful white and black dials with luminous hands and silver colored Arabic numerals. The subdials held 1/10th of a second, small-seconds and 30-minute registers.

He had the annoying habit of using his deep, booming voice to caution others in the class to follow the rules. In this class, called Special Day Class in World History, students played a jeopardy quiz game structured around their lessons in feudalism.

S.W.A.T. boy had trouble sitting still; he paced the room in a long, rigid stride. He lectured others while standing in the center of the group. As he pushed his way to the center he pontificated his concern for proper ethics. The future S.W.A.T. boy kept interrupting, saying, “Rules are meant to be followed,” etc. and you could almost see him transform into his police-like role. It was pretty scary because he knew how to act properly while visions of maiming and torture danced in his head.

The other kids didn’t like being ordered around. One student kept responding and the two seemed about to come to blows. I told the bossy S.W.A.T boy to go outside and cool off, after he said he was about to explode. Instead, he took refuge in his drawings. He was getting himself upset. The control freak part of him wanted to establish order.

The drawing was a lacy butterfly, rising gracefully up into the air, its wingtip-like fingers touching the ground, so delicate I could not take my eyes off it. It formed an arch with a tender middle, the shy center of hope. This drawing came out of a gentle soul.