Not a Nine to Five

The class is silent. Finally. I sigh inside as I walk over to my desk and sit staring at my papers. Have I pushed it too far this time? Will they all think I'm a joke, a drama queen? Stopping the clock like this is pretty easy to do these days; perhaps I snap too easily. Really it's only a few, not all of them. But it's amazing how much control one kid can have over the whole class; far more than me, that's for sure. Once one gets away with it you can't blame the rest for feelinglike they should get their turn too.
I shuffle the papers and glance around the room. Astonishing. Silent and waiting for me to do something. Get up and start all over I expect. Why on earth would I do that? Perhaps two or three years ago I might have let it pass, but as time has gone by I have become more and more cruel. I'm never nasty and I never cross the boundary line; but I'm pretty certain I push it almost every lesson. On the other hand, who is doing the pushing? I mean really? Am I pushed to the point of no return or is it me taking out my own frustrations on them? Sometimes I feel frustrated at the world, but not often. Mostly I feel frustrated by them.
I won't start again, not now, there hasn't been enough punishment. But I've got to do something. I might lose them otherwise. I can see eyes starting to wander, pens tiptoeing back to paper or the skin on the back of a hand. So I get up and look around. Mostly they are still looking at me, waiting for me to start on Romeo and Juliet for the fourth time in twenty minutes. I won't. I lecture them instead.
"How do you expect me to teach, when everytime I start to say something, a voice is talking over me? Who is not doing their job here? Is it me? Or is it you?"
The influx of rhetorical questions confuses them. They are in the habit of answering questions, but they're being told off for talking out of turn. They stay silent. Better not to risk it. A pen clicks; my head snaps round. Wide eyes glare at me, still defiant, always defiant. I can almost feel their thoughts, pulsing out across the sound waves. Wasn't me. I didn't do it. Ain't fair, this. School is a waste of time. If I switch my eyes on and my brain off, I can get away with this for hours. I'm sorry, I hope I haven't upset you!
Finally the table at the front chatches my eye. The four boys stare up at me, waiting patiently for the storm to clear; it is turbulent weather they know they don't belong in. Too bright, too nice, too studious. It is them that finally force my hand. If they could ever force anything that is. With a careful consideration they have their pans raised, ready for the first instruction, ears pricked to do exactly what I ask. The pressure is almost too much for me; I can't teach them with all these others around! They don't deserve it! But boiling point is just avoided and I sigh again.
By this point I don't care about Romeo and Juliet anymore, only about lunchtime and the bell that will finally signal the end of another painful hour. The passion I had is slowly dying as I talk about the language of the play and the best way to write a formal paragraph. Still they stare with defiant eyes, stony and dead. It is as if they really have mastered the art of switching off to the point just before no return - they will be able to do the task when I ask it of them, but until then they are noncommittal, stand-offish and scornful. Staring at those thirty pairs of eyes squarely is a hard task. Set them the activity as quickly as possible. The eys are burning holes in my skin.
Fickle as ever they are infinitely needy in their work: can you look at this Miss? Is it alright Miss? What shold I do next Miss? So I help them again, repeat the advice again, slowly fry my brain, again. The bustle of work for a few minutes eases the pressure and I begin to smile and joke with them. I actually begin to believe they aren't all that bad. I'm getting somewhere, I'm really making a difference to these kids.
The bell rings loud and chaos ensues. I let them go all at once, too exhausted to keep the terrors behind. As they dump their books in a mess on the desk I realise that really I was just fooling myself; I'm not making a difference and these kids don't care about any of this. Times have changed and we don't know how to keep up.
They whoop and spit down the corridor, intimidating with their hoods and stony stares. I tidy my papers and collect in the books. Ready for the next hour to begin.