“We was bad.” Kristopher’s sunken expression reflected the
general mood of the cafeteria. He glanced at Harry sitting by himself a
few feet away. Harry was one of only three white boys in the entire class, and the
heaviest by far. His eyes were red with tears, and he used a chubby fist to
wipe his runny nose.
Half-a-dozen of my boys, all black, including Kristopher, stood military-style next to
Mrs. Clayton, a neighboring teacher who witnessed the incident. She stood between them and Harry.
“What happened?” I looked at the boys perplexed. Kristopher
and Navelle were quiet. Daryl was whimpering, “I din’t DO NUFFIN’!” Toby was
playing with his teeth. Frank was laughing and punching Julius in the arm, and
Julius was mumbling, “Stop it, Francis! It ain’t funny!” None of them met
my gaze. Little Harry started to cry.
“These six were bullying this one,” Mrs. Clayton pointed toHarry. “Called him fat," she whispered. "Said he was stupid. They were ganging up, throwing food at him, the whole nine yards.” My eyes got wide. I didn’t know what to say. “You gotta
problem with bullying?” Her question took me off guard. Bullying? In
kindergarten? To my shock, I knew the answer.
“Only with my white boys,” I whispered. How could I have missed this? “They only pick on my
white boys.”
“Well, you gotta tell ‘em to stop.” Mrs. Clayton shook her
head and glanced around at the boys. “Tell ‘em it ain’t okay.”
Tell them it ain’t okay? Of course. Easy for you to say. The
solution seemed at once perfectly obvious and completely impossible. How do you
convince a child to stop being racist? They don’t even know what it means.
I took a deep breath and lined up the class. My six
bullies-in-the-making didn’t say a word.
“Sorry teacher.” Julius’s raspy voice broke the silence. His
pair of black chucks squeaked back and forth on the linoleum floor. “We was
just playin’.”
I sighed. An hour later the classroom was empty except for
me and the six boys. They were in
trouble, but most of them didn’t care. Now was my chance to make the
consequence meaningful. Now was my chance to talk to them, to tell them it’s
not okay to pick on Harry just because he’s fat and white. But what could I
say?
I cleared my throat. “Boys, what happened in the cafeteria
today…you were picking on Harry. You can’t treat other kids that way.”
“But we was just playin’ around with him,” said Frank.
“Yeah, we was just playin’ with him,” said Julius.
“But Harry wasn’t playing was he?” I stumbled to find the
right words. “Harry was crying, wasn’t he? You can’t play that way with kids.”
“Why?” said Frank.
“Because…” I found my voice trailing.
“Because it’s MEAN,” said Kristopher, suddenly exploding out
of his chair. Julius’s eyes got wide, as if it were the first time he’d heard
such reasoning in his life.
I blinked at Kristopher. “It’s mean.” I said. “That’s right.
It’s mean. And that makes it wrong.” It seemed as if truth were dawning upon
their faces for the first time, as if no one had ever told them it was wrong to
be mean. “How would you like it if everyone ganged up on you instead? How would you like it if everyone called you stupid in front of everybody?”
And just like that they pictured themselves in Harry’s
place, pushed and shoved, called stupid, milk poured over their heads.
“Man,” Kristopher said, his bottom lip trembling, his eyes
brimming with tears. Daryl and Toby started to cry.
Mrs. Clayton’s admonition in the cafeteria suddenly
returned. “Tell ‘em to stop. Tell ‘em it ain’t okay.” Could it really have been
that simple? I’d balked at the idea in the cafeteria. It couldn’t be. But this crowd of sobbing five and six year olds told me otherwise.
It’s mean, and that makes it wrong. It really was that
simple. How much heartache could we avoid if we simply taught our children to
think this way from the start?
from December 6, 2012
from December 6, 2012
