F****t

I can count on one hand how many times I ‘lost’ it as a teacher. They weren’t my greatest moments, but in a way, I guess it showed students that I was human.

I once lambasted a Year 7 boy for ripping a page out of a classmate’s book and tearing his work to shreds. In front of the whole class I discussed his abuse and how his actions demonstrate such disregard for others and their work.

After studying ‘Macbeth’ with a group of Year 10s, I had students construct ‘tweets’ for various stages of the text. An anti-Semitic slur was used, and I lost my cool. We had not long before studied Elie Wiesel’s ‘Night’ and I thought they would have been aware of how their language can hurt, and how it makes people perceive them. Again, I discussed the abuse in front of the class.

The instance I’m about to discuss was possibly the most irate and emotional I had ever been as an educator. (Actually, there’s one other, but I’ll save it for another time)

I felt under-the-pump and I probably wasn’t mentally in the best place. I was returning to the senior school after teaching a class at the middle school (one of multiple trips between the two campuses… I’m not a forgetful person, but the amount of times I left my computer, charger, texts, books, sanity at that middle school whilst making the hurried trip back to the senior school was uncountable). As I left my car and walked to my office, I passed a group of boys playing downball. Downball really took off in 2015. Before school, at playtime (yes, playtime), and at lunch, teenagers (mainly males, but the occasional female would come along and show them up) would congregate just outside the Drama room to puff out their chests and attempt to reign supreme as the downball champion. They even started a championship system, a Facebook page, and rules as convoluted as the plot of ‘The Time Traveller’s Wife’. I mean, if they put as much effort into that as they did an English class, I would have read many more well-constructed, insightful, and/or impressive analytical essays.

Now, even being profoundly deaf I could hear their conversations and banter from my mudbrick, mould-filled, gas-leaking* building daily. They would range from the mundane “I’m always out first”, to the highly technical “don’t accept”.

But this day I heard something else:

“Why would you do that? You’re such a fucking faggot!”

I was scalded by the aggression. Humiliation burned through me. I thought about simmering for a bit, but the ‘Temper Tantrum Tennis Will’ of the early-2000s quickly emerged, spewing the damning red from within, pushing through my ears and boiling over to create a scene of complete drama. There was not a murmur from the group that any part of this behaviour from their peer may have been inappropriate. You may think this was just “boys being boys”, but this is a phrase or belief that I have little-to-no regard for. If people are wrong/mean/derogatory, call them out. If you don’t agree with their behaviour, speak up.

The surrounding students seemed to have no idea about why or how this phrase was offensive or could be seen as disparaging. Or if they did, they didn’t have the capacity to speak up. So, I was going to teach them and give them that power to do it when needed to.

I launched into a completely selfish tirade about how using this language in front of teachers was utterly despicable. I often said “language” if I heard a student use a word or phrase I that didn’t think was appropriate.

I told him to think about how this may affect his friends or peers, about how they may be struggling with or hiding their sexuality because they’ve been told over and over and over again through these formative years that being a “fucking faggot” or "gay" was a bad thing. I told him that his insult was personally hurtful.

I stormed from the tainted downball battlefield to my office and slammed doors. This one moment had me absolutely riled.

Two years prior I had driven this student from one campus to another after they had realised their sibling had hopped on the incorrect bus to head home on their first day of school. We spoke about how they had found their first day, where they lived, and why they had moved to the school. I thought I had been kind and showed respect for him, and this was gone in a split second because of his mindless comment.

Shortly after my outburst he came to my classroom, knocked on my adjoining office door and asked if he could come in. Was I mature? Not necessarily. In a calm voice I told him to leave, repeatedly.

He tried to talk to me through a closed door and explain himself. I was not having a bar of it. I was not in a place emotionally to deal with a teenage boy attempting to justify his homophobic slur.

The bell went and my next class arrived. It was a Year 11 class and they were completely nervous about entering or making a noise as some had been privy to the lambasting. I stayed in my office attempting to control my emotions. I would usually be quite “up” at the beginning of a lesson, but I couldn’t bring myself to do that. I spoke with little emotion during the final two classes of the day and retreated to my office multiple times to gain composure.

The student returned to my office at the end of the day and attempted to apologise. I couldn’t bear to look at him, let alone accept his explanation or attempt at an apology. I’m still not sure which it was. At a point in the exchange I finally grew the courage to look at him in the eye. I said something along these lines:

“You are saying that if somebody does something that seems an injustice to you that they are a ‘faggot’. Do you know the context in which you used the word?”

“Yeh, but if I knew you were, I wouldn’t have said it.”

“So, you know you were wrong in saying it?”

“My uncle’s gay.”

He was trying to justify his actions because he knew someone who was a "faggot". These were his grounds.

I really wish I knew more than I did at that moment, I wish I was more grounded, and I wish I had the time to get through to this child, but I didn’t, and I wasn’t, and I couldn't be bothered.

Another teacher happened to be passing by my office and swept in at the perfect time. He tried to explain the situation to her but I spoke over him so he couldn’t. Again, I told him to leave. It was the end of the day and I didn’t want to have to have him in my car ever again, so I told him to go and catch his bus.

I never spoke to that student again over the two years I remained at the school. Part of me wanted to, and part of me knew that I wouldn’t be able to.

How many of you watched Chris Lilley’s ‘Angry Boys’? Every time Daniel called his deaf brother Nathan a ‘f****t’, I cringed and got frustrated and died. People will say that Lilley was holding a mirror up to society and that it was a clever way to make comment on the way teenage boys treat and speak to others. I tried to say it once in a "fun" way, but it just didn’t work. I felt disgusting.

I don’t know what else to say now. I could talk about our community ‘reclaiming’ these slurs, but I don’t think I’d do it justice. I still hear the term or variations of the term and I flash back to that moment on the downball court.

Could I have handled the situation differently?

Of course.

Did I?

No.

Am I ashamed?

Absolutely not.

*I mentioned this to higher powers for years but was repeatedly told that it was “rotting leaf or animal matter”. I mean, this is completely understandable as the school was built on a swamp. Classes were often relocated to other rooms as the stench was so bad. In my naivety, I would light a piece of paper (kind of like a poor man’s smudge stick) in the morning and move it around the room to remove/cover the odour of Ethyl Mercaptan (this is my new drag name). In the term three holidays of 2016, while year 12 students were sitting practice exams, a parent (who happened to be a fire fighter) reported the “smell” and the matter was dealt with swiftly. I question the long-term effect on me daily.