Riotous Ruin

The slam of the steel door shattered the solace of silence. The buzz of the locking mechanism cycling closed left me assured that I was secured in my classroom. The meticulously placed posters on the walls did their best to mask the institutionalized feeling of the cinder blocks, but a prison is still a prison--no matter how well you decorate.

I had been working inside the prison for about four years at that point. My primary role was to teach middle school and high school English, but, as all teachers know, my role encompassed so much more. As teachers, we wear a multitude of hats, and take on a breadth of responsibilities to give our students the best opportunities we can afford. For me, working in a correctional center, I believed that I was given the opportunity to work with students who needed all of the consistency, care, and compassion I could muster. By no means was I an extraordinary teacher, but I felt as though I always tried my best to give my students an experience they would remember. Sure, there were other teachers who were far cooler, more hip (the kids told me that anyone who says hip definitely isn’t hip), and more adventurous, but I felt as though I was always well liked and respected. I felt as though my classroom had become a place where students felt safe.

Unfortunately, safety can be a fickle thing.

Working “inside” comes with a host of difficulties that working “on the outs” does not. Sure, mouthy adolescents, a lack of academic engagement, and a fight here and there are pretty run of the mill in any school, but on the inside, these behaviors tend to be greatly exacerbated.

On this particular morning, I was met at the door by a concerned safety officer, warning me to not be alarmed at the state of my classroom. During a riotous uprising the evening before, my classroom had fallen victim to unruly chaos. Walking down the long hallway it felt as though feet had turned into miles. My shoes against the floor rang in an unnerving echo amongst silence. Approaching my classroom, the evidence of the revelry became clear. Thick panes of shattered glass crunched underfoot and pools of murky water left from the busted sprinkler heads seeped beneath the crack under the door. It wasn’t until I actually entered my classroom–actually stepped into the destruction–that I saw the tarnished ruins of the space that I had spent years cultivating.

As I pressed my badge against the card scanner and swung my door open, I was stunned. I was shocked. I was rooted to the floor, my eyes furiously scanning the wreckage, absorbing the damage that had been done.

My bookshelves had been tipped over and smashed into broken pieces; my classroom library strewn across the room, covered in the sludge and water that had exploded from the broken sprinklers. Covers of books torn off, pages littered the floor. My desk had been overturned. Papers and folders had been thrown everywhere. Objects like my printer, computer, and classroom tablets were nothing more than shattered pieces of glass and plastic. Dirt and leaves covered the floor from the overturned plants that students had been growing all year. Remnants of ceiling tiles covered the mounds of shattered windows. The room smelt of stagnant water and the beginnings of mildewed pages. Ironically, however, the sun shining through the window projected an enchanting kaleidoscope of color around the room as it bounced off of the countless scattered shards of glass.

But it wasn’t the sight of the destruction, or the rancid smell that broke me from my disturbed reverie, it was the sudden realization of everything that had been lost. Electronics, furniture, and books can be replaced, but in that moment I lost things that I would never be able to get back.

I lost portfolios of work that students had been working on all year. I lost pictures and cards left behind by students who had graduated on to bigger and better things. I lost letters and artwork given to me by students who had since passed away; the artifacts that they had left behind were suddenly destroyed, never to be replaced.

I had lost my sense of safety. I had lost my sense of value. I had lost my sense of respect.

As the clean up began, I thought about what I would say to those individuals who had destroyed my classroom. I thought about how I wanted to yell, to scream, to shake them until they felt my anger, but I knew that none of that would matter. That wouldn’t get me anywhere. Instead, I waited for them to come to me. As the only English teacher, each of these students had to step foot back in my classroom. They couldn’t avoid me forever.

Like all teachers, our job extends far beyond the curriculum in the classroom, and I decided right then and there that I would use this as a teachable moment. I spoke with these students about the disappointment I felt in their actions, and how it had altered the culture and climate that I had worked so hard to create. We talked about how their actions had destroyed irreplaceable objects and ruined the hard work done by their peers. I’m under no delusions that they took my message to heart, but I do think that I accomplished more than I would have by yelling and screaming. While two of the culprits couldn't be bothered to feign remorse or regret, the third offered me a weak-hearted apology. Coincidently, that same student asked me to speak at his graduation ceremony a year later, so I guess I struck a chord with at least one of them.

And though those students have since left, there are scars left behind in my classroom that will forever mark their transgressions. However, I have worked tirelessly to rebuild my classroom and create that sense of safety and academia once more.

I consider this moment to be one of transformation. My work in this school is clearly divided into two distinct time periods: pre riot and post riot. While I don’t think I’ll ever truly regain what I had before my classroom was destroyed, I won’t let that stop me from stepping forward.