ROBUST TEACHING
Rich took the school steps two at a time, he couldn't help shaking the feeling that he was late. Something deep inside him still feared being berated by the teacher for tardiness. He wore a worried look on his face. His lateness, however, was not the source of his worry, he was worried about his son. He had talked it over with his wife, Sandra, the night before and, after much deliberation, the decision had been made. He had taken the day off and was going to talk to Matthew's teacher, Miss Cornberry.
Matthew had been growing more and more withdrawn over the past few weeks. He had begun to complain that his parents were against him, that he deserved more and more expensive possessions; he expected pocket-money without working for it. The final straw had come the previous evening.
Rich had been sitting in the kitchen reading about the FTSE, not because he was interested but because he felt he should be; Sandra was washing the dishes and humming some tune that Rich couldn't place but knew would be in his head for the rest of the night. Matthew strutted into the kitchen – the strut, that was new as well – he had stopped in the middle of the kitchen and begum tapping his foot loudly.
- You alright Matthew? Sandra had asked.
- Something up, son?
Matthew gave Rich a look he had never seen before and hoped he would never see again. A look that one would normally reserve for chewing gum freshly discovered on the seat of your trousers.
- Yeh, I need ten quid, yeh?
- Oh really? And why exactly do you need this money?
- What? I gotta go out man, ya get me? There aint nothin to do in this house, no facilities or nothin. Whats I supposed to do? You should be giving me money, yeh? You is rich an all that, ya get me?
But Rich didn't get him, and that was what was beginning to worry him.
So, it was with pursed lips and a furrowed brow that Rich pushed open the doors to his only-child's primary school and started the search for the year one classroom. Sandra usually took care of school-related issues. She had attended the parent-teacher nights, she had made cakes for the bake sale and she had been the one the school had called when Matthew had broken his leg the previous winter. This was different though, Matthew had changed, he was no longer a carefree five-year-old...something must have happened and, seeing as how it hadn't happened at home that meant the school was to blame. Rich was going to get to the bottom of this.
He followed Sandra's directions to the letter; down the corridor, take the first left, straight for about ten feet and it's the pink door on the left. Rich was at least fifteen feet down the corridor when he remembered that Sandra had no concept of distance. Another ten feet ahead of him he saw a pink door on the left, he was about to sigh and shake his head – for nobody's benefit but his own – when he heard the scream.
Rich knew that scream.
- Matthew, he whispered and broke into a run towards the classroom.
He only had a short distance to cover but in that time countless images raced through his head, each more terrifying and perverse than the last.
Why was his son screaming?
What would he find in that classroom?
He reached the door and slid to a stop with a loud screech leaving a black mark on the floor and an echo in the otherwise empty corridor. Gripping the handle he ripped the door open taking several splinters with him. He lunged into the room...and stopped. Of all the terrible things he had feared...he had not expected this.
Rich stood and stared, he was not the only parent in the room, along the wall six other parents had gathered, five mothers and one other father. They were also staring at their children...but there was something off about them. It was almost as if they were admiring their children...they were...proud. Rich, on the other hand, was feeling something a lot closer to shame.
- Matthew! What the Hell do you think you're doing? Put that down...now!
The “that” in question was a toy car, which in itself was not so bad. However, Matthew was using it as a hammer, smashing the entire contents of the nature table into smithereens. Nuts, conkers, acorns and some of those potato-cress-heads were lying in pieces on the carpet around his feet. Matthew stopped for a moment and gave his father that same recently-chewed-chewing-gum look and returned to his smashing.
Rich looked around, a mixture of anger, shame and shock coursed through his body, he was completely speechless. His eyes moved from one parent to the next searching for answers, understanding, anger...something.
One of the mothers smiled, raised her eyebrows knowingly and said – Precocious little fellas, aren't they? Bless.
Rich turned to Miss Cornberry, – What in God's name is going on? Why are you letting him get away with this?
- Oh Mr. Murray, come now, it's not his fault. He's got no outlet for his rage. He's just expressing himself. Don't you worry. They all are.
“They” were the rest of Matthew's classmates, each and every one of the fifteen students was engaged in some level of reprehensible activity. One of them was standing on a chair squeezing red paint from a bottle onto the table, it looked like a crime scene. Another was busy taking pulling books from random bags and flinging them out the window. It was a crime scene.
A third turned around and looked right at Rich – Yeh, we gots no howlets for our race.
- Ooh, Mr Barnesworth, look at that. Very self aware for a five year old, said Miss Cornberry holding her hands close to her chest and giving a low rapid clap.
Mr Barnesworth smiled smugly at the other parents, happy that his pride and joy had been singled out for praise.
Rich's mouth hung open, he couldn't believe what he was seeing. His one and only child was being let run wild. He was acting like an animal and the rest of the world seemed to think it was OK, it was acceptable. Had the world gone mad? What had happened since he had walked similar halls all those years ago. And why, on God's green earth, was Miss Cornberry smiling at him?
- Are you crazy? What are you going to do about this? He asked her.
-Now now, Mr. Murray. Stop your fretting, they're just letting off some steam.
A crash in the corner of the room attracted Rich's attention. One of the children had kicked over a large red tub and the others had begun to pick up the coloured blocks which had spilled from within.
Miss Cornberry moved her head slightly to the left, narrowly avoiding a green block with the letter A on each side. – We have this well in control Mr. Murray. We are professionals after all. We have tactics for just such an eventuality.
- Oh? And what are they exactly?
- Well we're going to bring in extra teachers, three times as many teachers and we will be robust.
- Excellent! Brilliant! Robust. Tax well spent, muttered Rich letting his arms flap loudly on his sides.
As if on cue two men entered the room and stalked solemnly towards Miss Cornberry. One stood on either side of her and folded their arms.
- Now, said Miss Cornberry. Let's see how they deal with this.
The children eyed the new teachers suspiciously and for a moment it seemed like there would be an end to the violence, that the madness of the last ten minutes was coming to a close...alas it was not to be. One of the taller boys at the back of the class threw the first block...the others soon followed suit.
A hail of blocks rained down on the teachers and parents. The teachers stood strong and firm as blocks bounced off them and littered the floor below. The class was a war zone, there was debris everywhere. Rich noticed a small cut on the forehead of one of the male teacher, a trickle of blood rolled towards his eye. He wiped it away leaving a red smear across the centre of his forehead. Warpaint...robust indeed.
The children soon exhausted their supply of blocks and moved onto action figures. One of the young boys had managed to get the supply cupboard open and was looting it for all it was worth. His bag was teeming with pens, pencils and erasers. Rich looked for his son...Matthew was standing between two taller boys making obscene gestures involving one finger on each hand. Rich had had enough.
- They're standing right there. Do something! What's wrong with you? Control them.
But the teachers just stared blankly at him. What were they to do? If they tried to attack the children the parents would hold them responsible, if they did nothing they would be admonished for standing idly by. Then it occurred to Rich: It was not up to the teachers...Matthew was his son...and he was going to deal with him.
- MATTHEW! Rich shouted, surprising himself with his own anger and tone.
Matthew jumped. – Yes, daddy, he said suddenly very aware of his middle fingers and looking at them accusingly as if they had got him into this whole mess.
Get over here, NOW!
Rich frogmarched his son out of the room, gripping his arm firmly. Tears gathered in Matthew's eyes...was he crying because of what he'd done, or because he was caught? It didn't really matter, did it? Robust my ass, thought Rich.
..
(Editorial)
source: The Scientific Cartoonist
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