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The Rules of Respect


I almost thought the class was gone when I arrived today. There was no sound, and the desks were empty.

But once I’d completely entered the room I saw the students to my right, sitting criss-cross applesauce and in a circle around Ms. Bright, who sat, sternly, in a chair. She’d rearranged the classroom—namely, moved her desk to the opposite side of the room—and the conversation she was leading the class through was a serious one. I could feel its weight as I tiptoed toward a chair for myself.

Apparently, a new classroom arrangement also meant new rules, and the students had been tasked with drafting those rules. Psychologically-speaking, the provision of something tangible (rearranged furniture) in representation of an abstraction (a need for order) is conducive to emotional adaptation (i.e. to a change of routine), so I was impressed at Ms. Bright’s use of the technique, and equally impressed at the students’ proactive approach to adaptation. They were noticeably enthusiastic—I’d even say excitable—about the prospect of making new rules.

To prevent the session from devolving into a noisy mess, Ms. Bright was enforcing some strict rules, herself: Students could only speak when they were holding the speaking stick, and then they could only speak once all the other students were silent, appropriately seated, and intent on the speaker. It was an ambitious (okay, impossible) ideal, but Ms. Bright was giving it her best shot, hence the overt sternness. She clearly wasn’t messing around. The kids, though—the kids were messing around. I estimate an average of five minutes for each student to share just one rule proposal. That’s with Ms. Bright making corrections like, “You need to wait to speak until Bobby stops talking,” and, “I’m going to ask you to hold off on sharing your idea until Susan is sitting criss-cross applesauce.” It wasn’t as laborious to witness as the testing incident, but it was painful to sit through in its own, special way.

In spite of the crowd management difficulties, Ms. Bright and her students were able to come up with a great list of class rules. They included things like raising hands to speak, quietly listening to others when they are speaking, sitting still on the reading mat, staying out of others’ personal space, and asking before using others’ school supplies. What it all boiled down to was respect.

One boy, “Dennis,” seemed to have a personal itch to scratch, because he proposed that students call each other by their proper names, and nothing other than their proper names. My Ty went next, volunteering that students also avoid “making puns of peoples’ names.” Ms. Bright was clearly amused, and she agreed that those were both great rules.

Near the session’s end, a boy named “Chuck” raised his hand vehemently. He was nearly spastic, and Ms. Bright had to calm him down to rule-appropriateness before she could allow him to speak. His proposed rule was this: “When we have a substitute teacher, some people shouldn’t act like they’re trying to be perfect.” Ms. Bright stiffened up. The girl sitting next to her, “Rachel,” dropped her head into her hands and burst into tears.

Ms. Bright angered. She apparently knew what Chuck was referring to: “For your information, I told the substitute teacher which students she should ask to help her.”

Rachel continued to cry. Ms. Bright asked Chuck how he felt about singling out his classmate in such a way; she said it was clear he’d had Rachel in mind when he spoke—that he’d purposefully hurt Rachel’s feelings—and she wanted to know why. More than that, though, she wanted him to feel the embarrassment of having acted in such a way.

Flustered, Chuck rose to his knees and fired back. His communication included phrases like, “goody two shoes” and “Ms. Perfect.” Ms. Bright then revoked Chuck’s rule-making privilege and sent him back to his desk. She had to tell him several times, each instance raising her voice a little more. It was an intense scene.

While Ms. Bright seemed convinced that Chuck’s behavior was purely antagonistic, I suspected there was more behind it. My suspicions were confirmed (at least to my satisfaction) when two other students spoke up to say that Rachel was actually the hurtful one—that she calls Chuck “Peanuthead” all the time. They were loud and insistent. Chuck yelled from his desk that Rachel was being hurtful when she called him “Peanuthead.” The disruption had far outreached Ms. Bright’s patience. She put an end to rule-making time then and there.

I’ve spent enough one-on-one time with Chuck and Rachel to know that they’re both good students who try hard and get along well with their peers. In my mind, what happened between them during rule time was the result of a lack of communication. Did Chuck bring up his rule to send a message to Rachel? Sure. Does Rachel call Chuck “Peanuthead?” I’ve no doubt she does. I can’t help but wonder if the situation could have been resolved with a constructive conversation between the two (and, of course, some impartial mediation from Ms. Bright).

Time will tell if this strained relationship will continue to disrupt class time. My bet is we haven’t seen the last of this feud.

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