A Word for Mr King

I’m not sure that any of my school teachers would remember me as a focused student. Committed, goal-orientated, surely he had some drive in the classroom? I would imagine that if asked about me, they would probably manage to squeeze a “no comment” out between clenched teeth before requesting a change of subject. I was never the class clown; more like backstage crew at the circus. I remember the rush that we would get when seeing Mr. King having one of his famous melt-downs. It would have been the product of weeks’ worth of preparation from the class, to lead him gradually away from sanity until he was on a knife edge. All it would take then was a spark, a catalyst. Someone starting a fire in his desk, for example. That did the trick on more than one occasion. Someone hiding in the ceiling and repeating his instructions out to the class from above, or the class uniformly moving all the desks forward, inches at a time, until he was squashed against the chalk-board. These were the things that got us through high school. There was no alcohol to fuel our humour, not much in the way of females to distract us- all we had was the teachers. And when they exploded it was glorious.

Years later, I am a different man. No that’s not true at all. But recently I have found the shoe firmly on the other foot and those shoes are usually tied together or sticky-taped to the floor. I am now a teacher. By some bizarre decision-making and turn of events I have chosen to expose myself to 150 A.D.D kids whose solitary drive in life is to defeat me. From rowdiness to ridicule, they have tried every trick in the book. Fortunately my school days are still relatively fresh in the memory bank so the mind is a bit sharper than most and as luck would have it, I witnessed the writing of the book on teacher tomfoolery so I’m a couple years ahead of these ankle-biters. On the flipside of that coin however, these kids speak Korean. When I think of the spectrum of opportunities that presents itself when an extra language enters the classroom I am slightly disappointed that I never cottoned on to it all those years ago.

These kids have a tool at their disposal which is far greater than anything we had. They can communicate without me knowing what’s being said. And even more terrifying- they can speak to me without any backlash because “screw you” said in Korean and accompanied by a smile could just as easily be “thank you sir”. I will never know. I have taken measures, steps that Mr. Bissel would be proud of to nullify this weapon of theirs. Korean is banned in my class. It’s a tough procedure to enforce when you find yourself in Seoul and the majority of your students don’t have much of a desire to learn your language. I am also dealt the same disadvantage that my teachers faced in their losing battle against us- the students just have the time and the boredom. They don’t travel, they don’t drink. They plan. They wait. The result is the same result that cops experience when taking on the world’s drug dealers. They are always one step behind. I’ve also initiated a corporal punishment system, which goes down better here than in sensitive “my-rights-come-first” South Africa, but probably because this country has been spanked consistently by its Asian neighbours for the 300 years and it’s now a way of life. If you were to look through my window during 6^th period on a Friday you could be forgiven for thinking that there was a Pilates class taking place. Squats, lunges, everything we learnt from Kearsney College is now being introduced on the other side of the world. It is only a matter of time before I will be called Satan- the name that most teachers spend their lives trying to acquire.

It’s not all an uphill battle. I have absolute angels in some classes. I just want to wrap some of these kids up and attach them to my house keys. Some whole classes are a breeze, like a free period. But it is not these classes that consume your time, your mind, your life. It was our class back then, Mr King’s Geography. And it is the MSE class today. I now know the strain that a class like that imposes on a human. Your whole week revolves around Thursday 6^th period- when the terrorists arrive, hungry for blood. As it currently stands I am 0-2 down, and in dire need of a face-saving come-back. This class knows that they have me on the ropes and I need an impressive combo to bounce back, I think I might have to single a human out; it’s me verses them and imparting wisdom has become a secondary concern at this stage. I’m open to ideas.

So after all these years gloating with York, Butcher and Divet about the carnage we used to deliver I have finally met my match and it feels like I’m bearing the brunt of the universe balancing itself out. In fairness to the universe, I have placed myself squarely in the firing line of revenge. And it’s here.

So the word to Mr. King comes painfully, hesitantly, and as reluctantly as a John Smit handshake to Richie McCaw after a booming defeat. The word is tough to deliver, and it’s humbling. But it’s necessary to get the forces of good and evil back in my corner. I’m afraid the word is: Sorry…

NB tip – Don’t light fires in your desk unless you have checked out the fire escape plan, the location of nearby extinguishers and just how flammable your Tipex is.

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