That Kid

You know RJ. You taught him. He was a reluctant reader, writer, worker. Heck, he was a reluctant everything, except talker. Remember? He would not shut up. All through your class he talked. He didn’t even care enough to bother being quiet or sneaky about it. The other kids eventually got as aggravated as you were. They actually preferred listening to you, over him. In fact, if you assigned him a seat near them, they often came up after class and requested a change. God forbid you put him in a group to work. Even the lowest performing students would complain bitterly to be saddled with Mr. Obnoxious, although he was a convenient scapegoat. How could you blame them for not getting the assignment done? They had RJ!

I taught RJ my first year. To begin with, rather than become annoyed, I tried the strategies I’d learned in school. First, I called home. I was certain that he was going to "get it" when I told his mom about his outrageous behavior. I felt a little bad about it, but, hey, I’d warned him. I had specifically told him that I was going to call his parents if he showed up once more without his homework, and he defied my edict. On the day of the call, I was a little surprised when he didn’t seem to care. I was irritated, too. We marched into the team room, and I picked up the phone. I handed it to him and told him to dial the number. He shrugged and punched the buttons. “Mom? It’s me. My teacher wants to talk to you.” He listened for a minute. “Nothing,” he said into the phone. “Okay.” He hung up and turned to me. “She’s too busy to talk right now.”

“What? Give me that phone!”

“She said she doesn’t want to talk to you.”

I rolled my eyes and dialed the number on the data sheet. It rang and rang. I kept the phone to my ear, glaring at RJ.

“I told you so,” he said.

A week later, after constant attempts, I despaired of ever speaking to RJ’s parents. I implemented Plan B: Proximity. There was one seat directly in front of my desk. That is where I put RJ. I intended to personally supervise his education from here on out. There was one little problem, though: RJ talked to whoever was nearby, and I am very distractible. Many times I would catch myself in mid-conversation with him, “I can NOT talk to you right now! I’m trying to give directions.”

One day, I put a journal prompt on the board. If you could make or change any law, what would it be and why? RJ opened his notebook and wrote nothing. He waited patiently for me to engage him.

“RJ,” I started, but he interrupted me.

“You know, there are some crazy laws out there.”

“Well, why don’t you write about one of them?” I suggested.

“I mean it. There are some CRAZY laws.”

“OK,” I said. “WRITE a-bout them,” I spoke slowly and loudly, and I leaned toward him with my head wagging. Some of the other students lifted their eyes toward us.

Undeterred, he continued, “Did you know that in Ohio you’re not allowed to go out on Sunday if you’re ugly?”

“I would love to read about that, IN YOUR JOURNAL,” I said.

“Really. Really! REALLY. It’s true. I should know, I used to live in Ohio,” he finished. He looked at me like, top that.

“Oh yeah?” I said. “Well what’d you do all day on Sundays?” And then I laughed.

The silence was painful, but the “Ooooohh.” was worse. Not for RJ, though. His eyes narrowed, and his face froze for the briefest moment, but then he just changed the subject and moved on to some crazy law in Michigan. His knowledge really was kind of remarkable.

I felt triumphant at first; the other kids were still snickering about it when they left, and I heard a few repeating it to their friends even days later. I was the funny teacher who put that annoying kid RJ in his place.

Not long after the “Ohio incident” RJ moved. I was the last teacher to fill out his transfer slip. I looked at his grades. He was failing everything. I added one more F to the collection and signed my name. I looked up and handed him the paper. “Good luck,” I said.

Ten years later, I ran into a student from that class. We were catching up and reminiscing. “Remember that great skit you and Kristin did for your book project?” I asked her.

“No, not really,” she answered.

“Oh,” I replied, disappointed. “What about that poem…?”

“Mm-mm. You know what I do remember, though?” She said, laughing. “It’s illegal to go outside in Illinois if you’re ugly!”

“Ohio,” I corrected her, “but only on Sunday.”

“Whatever! That was hi-larious; I will never forget that.”

Still chuckling, she walked away, leaving me to wonder what RJ remembers about sixth grade.