“You’re just a small ball in the tall weeds,” an older inmate tells the younger inmate, “trying to find your way.”
The youngster paces my classroom, flapping his arms and making hawk-like noises. He’s craving attention. I, along with the majority of the class, have learned to ignore him.
“Sit your ass down,” someone says, which extends his flight.
He did the same thing yesterday and after ten minute I gave him a direct order to sit down in his chair for the remainder of the class period. “You might as well write the ticket,” he said. “Caaaw Caaaw Caaaw!” So I did.
Perhaps today he thinks he’s Holden Caulfield soaring above the rye. “Do we need to play Simon Says again?” I ask.
He swoops down, perches himself in the hot-seat next to my desk. “Caaaw caaaw.”
I ignore it.
“I’m mad at you,” he says.
“What for?”
“You wrote me a ticket.”
“I’m going to write another one if you don’t stay in your seat.”
He stands up, displays his wing span, and then pounds his open hand with his right fist. He flies back to his chair and sits.
Twenty-minutes later the shift commander and two corrections officers enter my area. The shift commander shows me a slip of paper. “Is this guy in your room?”
“Yes.” I point.
They handcuff the youngster and proceed to shake him down. “Are there any sharp objects in your possession?” one officer asks as he slides on latex gloves.
“No.”
They’re looking for a razor blade; it’s in his mouth. They take him to segregation.
Word get’s back to me: He’s transformed himself into a dog. He’s pacing his cage. Still, the ball is irretrievable; he’ll never get it back. Woof, woof, woof!
Recommended read: “It’s Kind of A Funny Story” by Ned Vizzini.
9 comments:
Between the age old argument of nature and nurture deciding our psychology I think we have change nature enough to naturally nurture him into a dog so he didn't have hardly any work to do to get there.
How many pens a year do you go through writing tickets Jim?
I only write tickets when an inmate puts himself or others in danger. This youngster (locked up since the age of eleven) was making the classroom a potentially volatile environment. It was getting so bad that when class ended I'd step out of the classroom to see if he could make it down the hallway without someone clocking him. Sad. Really really sad. I suspect he was mentally ill prior to committing his crime.
I've seen this behavior before. Defintely not conducive to a learning environment.
I think he is confused. I think hawks say scree, scree, scree. He thinks he is a crow with his caw,caw, cawing. In my professional opinion he sounds like a turkey, gobble, gobble, gobble. It is dangerous business to be a turkey in the fall. Maybe somebody will stuff him, or remove his giblets. I'm sure the muffin monster will eat his bloody sheets or any other evidence of the Thanksgiving feast.
I think I've lived with a kid like this. Maybe not this extreme, but still... the caw-caw-cawing, the acting out, it's all too familiar & sad.
JR-does anyone get any learning done?
Jodi, It's not so much about learning; it's more about having a right to an education.
The trouble with madness is that it's flies around and affects everybody.
Especially us cultural hermaphrodites. (I've been everywhere, man!):
This sort of caper would drive me a little crazy, make me think of translating vintage Everley Brothers from english into German.
Johnny is a Bird Dog
Johnny ist ein Jagdhund
"He's a dog!"
Sounds like you're working at the public school where I work! It never, ever ends. D
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