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Gregory AndersonUNTITLEDFrom my first few weeks working in this inner-city school in Hull, I realised that I didn’t connect with the pupils easily. The riot-mentality of most classrooms - casually punctuated by breaking windows and shouted threats outside – usually put me on edge. Still, I’m sure you can imagine less exciting places to work.  However, as the weeks flew past and the pay packet flew in, I began to feel increasingly out-of-place talking to these kids. My interests related to nothing in their lives, and they knew it. One pupil in particular, Jack, seemed especially belligerent towards me. Unable to write, perpetually aggressive and massively built, this lad took a vocal dislike to me from the start. You should know I didn’t admire his behaviour towards me either. He would continue with perpetual, if trivial, acts of rebellion. You want examples? How about never taking his hat off, purposefully putting his feet on the table, or swearing freely? Typically he would arrive without a pen. I would invariably give him mine, before watching him dismantle it and asking for another. Despite these nefarious characteristics, he was a generally amiable lad. He didn’t physically threaten me, and didn’t smoke drugs in my presence. Unfortunately, there seemed to be nothing that could connect me with him. I commented on this to one of the senior teachers. “You should talk to him about his boxing. He likes that.” Soon, in the next few days, I saw Jack again. As usual, his reaction was a belligerent stroll past before throwing himself heavily into his chair. I ask him, “How’s the boxing going Jack?” Hearing this phrase he looked at me. You must understand that Jack hardly, if ever, looks straight at me. With a boy his size, you don’t usually want him to look straight at you. “How do you know about that?” The way he said this wasn’t aggressive. He seemed surprised. Explaining that his boxing talent was well-known amongst the teachers, I suggested that I take Jack out to the library to write a boxing article. Despite the risk that this might seem like work, he agreed. He did not know where to start. I did. Simply by hearing his enthusiastic talk of boxing, the sections of our essay were created – where he first started, what it was like going training the first time, how he felt during his first fight. Confident that our efforts would make something like a coherent article, we left the classroom to use a computer in the library. ...Jack's nose exploded. Blood dribbled profusely... Imagine a concrete shoebox, a 1970s social experiment. Grey concrete paths pitted with black chewing gum. Battered trees with torn branches crouched over you. Blackened plinths of ploy-concrete served as seats. The only thing alive about the school grounds were the plethora of rag-tag pupils wandering outside lessons. Mud splattered grass clods were liberally spread outside the PE changing rooms. I remember seeing a burst football, kicked for a final time against the library wall. We were almost past the football when a shout from behind us stopped Jack.“Oi, w*nk*r! Stop where you f*cking are!” How would you feel hearing this behind your back? Profanity and shouting were daily experiences my profession, so I should mention I did not feel scared. Jack, however, did. “I didn’t say anything,” Jack retorted defiantly. The tone of this quick exchange made me uneasy. I was hoping this would be a quick shouting match. A few more words were exchanged. A tall lad stepped forward. This boy/man seemed older and more aggressive than his friends. His hair was cropped short and hidden under a backward cap. His lean bulk filled a striped T-shirt, and the trousers of his long legs were tucked into his trainers. His face, pitted with cream-smeared acne and albino stubble, was reddened and tense. Walking up to Jack, this boy pushed his chest against his and peered down. The rest of his boys, who had begun to congregate around us, were beginning to shout encouragement. Despite my professional responsibilities towards Jack, I hesitated to put my body into this bustling melee. “F*cking do him!” “He dissed your mum! “ At this the lad leant down as if to kiss Jack, before intimately smashing his head against Jack’s. Jack’s nose exploded. Blood dribbled profusely. I stood, unable to react but knowing in a matter of seconds I would have to. Fortunately the boy jumped back and walked away quickly. His boys followed him. Turning to Jack I tried to think of something to say. He had already begun to walk back to the classroom. When I arrived, he had asked the teacher – the politest I had ever seen him – for the keys to the toilet. He simply washed his nose, and headed back to the library. I followed him. The library didn’t have a free computer, but I explained to the manager Jack’s situation. A free computer was found. As we began typing out the article, I wanted Jack to write that he had just been assaulted on his way to writing the essay, how he himself had found a way to channel his frustrations. But he refused. “I just want to write the article,” he insisted. I didn’t say anything else about the assault. To refer to it in an article was perhaps to condone it, or to admit that it upset him. Jack was a hard man. I wasn’t. Jack didn’t come into school often after this incident. I left soon afterwards for a far plusher school with a hockey team and fat, black computers. Jack still boxes, I hear. He’ll leave school in seven months, without any exams. Gregory Anderson is a teacher living in Hull. He runs the site www.real-writing.com. The photo is from a beautiful series taken at Salford Lads Club by the photorapher Trevira; the photos were originally published at Nothing To See Here. The club's fame was boosted in the mid-80s by that well-known photo of The Smiths, taken by Stephen Wright just outside its front door.
12:42 PM - 25/9/2006 - post comment
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