I knew he was cheating. Teachers know when kids cheat. It's simple really. But sometimes we know, and other times we see. This time I saw. Casually and quietly, I approached his desk. It is always my intention, no matter how difficult the student or situation, to preserve a child's humility. It was a quick and stealth-like drive-by. I swiped the papers and walked back to my desk, trying not to create a scene but still letting him know with my straight face expression, I knew what he did. It was a shame really. This kid was a good student. But he was also impulsive and hot headed. His face was already turning red.
He came up to my desk and asked me what I was going to do now. He didn't even try to deny it. I told him during my break I'd be calling home. He tried to play it off and buddy-buddy me out of it. I could see he was nervous and a bit distraught. "I'm sorry, Michael. You know my policy. It's a zero and a call home. I do not tolerate cheating in my class." And I stood there, looking sympathetically into his eyes, hoping he would understand I was trying to teach him about honesty and integrity. He turned as if he was going to walk away, and then quickly turned back.
Over six feet tall and lanky, he swung his long arms up in the air and back down, giant flapping wings. Bang! He slammed his hands onto my desk, and leaned in right up to my face. With a forceful New York grit he yelled, "You fucking bitch!" Spit flew at me with the release of his teeth from his lip in the enunciation of the f in fuck, and again as he forcefully pushed out the b in bitch. His face was hot and his eyes glassy.
"Get. Out!" I yelled back pointing to the door. "Get out!" And he walked out the door, nearly slamming it off its hinges. I called downstairs to our small private school office to let them know to be on the lookout for him. I tried to keep in control, to continue with the test. But all eyes were on me. Our one room high school class was a close-knit bunch. It was difficult to tell if the rest of the boys were upset with me or worried about me. It was probably both.
Another teacher knocked on my door, and I stepped out in the hallway with one foot wedged in the doorway. She had found Michael in the stairwell. He was sitting on the floor crying. This sixteen-year-old, six foot whatever boy was bawling his eyes out. She watched my class and I stepped out to see him. "Why are you crying?" I asked. It took him a minute but he spilled his guts. He knew he should have studied but he was out with his grandparents the night before. He wasn't prepared for the test, and he knew it was stupid to cheat. He was mad at himself more than he was at me. He was impulsive. He struggled with ADHD. He had a a pretty rough go in life. But he cared about his education, and he had remorse. The whole experience of melting down in front of his peers and coming clean with me, I felt, was really all the consequence he needed. I made a deal with him. "Go home and review tonight. Come back and take the test tomorrow, and I won't call home." And he did.
I'm pretty certain he never cheated again. At least not in my class. Sometimes the pressure is too much. Sometimes it's even hard to live up to your own standards. But calling him out on it was the best thing I could have done for him. He felt bad about how he treated me, and I told him I forgave him. I think that was as important to him as anything else.
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