Luchadoritos de la Francia

I'm still recovering. From shock, mostly, though also from anger, from frustration, from resentment.

After weeks and weeks of trying to get my CM kids [they're my oldest students, between 8-10 years old] to behave themselves, I finally succeeded this morning when I pulled out the English card. The "English card" being that I will no longer speak any French to them. Ever. They were so anxious about not understanding that they actually kept quiet for once. No lines today. A big step. I even told my two "problem kids" that they were really really good today, and thanked them for their improved behavior. They seemed to think this was a great compliment, and perhaps we've finally reached an understanding. I'm hopeful.

What I wasn't expecting was to find myself plucking two kids off of each other, immersed in a brawl, in my other class. I'm still not sure how it started, but I guess that doesn't matter much, and probably never did. I've never seen anything like it. These little squirts are seven or eight years old, and here they are, pummeling each other onto the floor, and then across it. I like to think that I remember quite well what it's like to be that age. I remember feeling totally disenfranchised, extremely annoyed and hurt that adults refused to take me seriously. So when my kids squawk and groan about their variety of upsets, I do listen. I do try to understand, and in some small way, I do try to respond.

But that willingness to cooperate with child-life ceased when I saw A. grabbing I.'s shirt, and then I. tackling A. right into the trashcan. Nice, boys. Great. It took a minute or two for me to pull them apart, since of course no one in anyway wanted to help me. And then I sent two kids to find the Directrice -- The Principal. Whom I've privately called "The Trunchbull" since our first meeting. Several kids asked me why I'd want the Directrice. I'm astounded. My messengers came back and told me that she was in class, and they couldn't find any other free administrative adult. So I made the class work in silence for the remainder of the period. Fuming. Unbelievable.

Their usual teacher is conveniently out sick this week, of course, so I then went to their substitute teacher, who wrangled I. and A. for me and ushered us to the Directrice's office. I never thought I'd say this, especially in France where teachers don't take jack shit from their students, but these boys got off way too easy. The Trunch' asked me to sit down and had the boys recount what had happened. A. told us that he didn't want I.'s monster drawing the win "the Scariest Monster" title, and apparently had given him a good shove to prevent it. I. couldn't tolerate being shoved. Fight ensued. They got twenty lines each from the Principal's office, each line also requiring a signature from their parents. Then they had to apologize for showing me such disrespect. "Pardon, Joanna." And that was it.

What the fuck. Really. I realize they're little kids and feel things very deeply and don't have the social filters, but come on. It wasn't even about A. and I. -- they were smiling at each other a minute after I pulled them apart -- but about their complete lack of respect for me. I yell at them just as heartily as their normal teachers. I give them lines. I send them outside to stand in the hallway. And in the long run, it does absolutely nothing. I'm still just "Joanna," la maîtresse d'anglais.

PETITES BÊTES.
PETITS MONSTRES.


SO FRUSTRATING.

now I get my inspection. Great.