When Carpets Become Spittoons
Here’s another entry from my personal journal of the 2008-2009 school year. Look for other tales from the classroom under the tag “Rotten Apples.” Please note that all student and school names have been changed in the interest of privacy.
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September 11, 2008
When Carpets Become Spittoons
It was a lovely end to the day today. About 15 minutes before the final bell, I happened to notice Michael Williams spitting something onto the floor. I walked over to his seat in the back row and observed a brown lake forming on the carpet between him and his neighbor.
“What’s all this,” I said, pointing at the carpet. “Are you dipping?”
“No, I didn’t do nothin,’” he mumbled as he looked away.
I grabbed a piece of paper out of the printer, put it over the wet spot on the floor and stepped on it. The fresh spit soaked into the paper, turning it brown.
“So, that’s not your puddle of spit on the floor?”
I have gotten used to seeing tobacco and trash on the bathroom floor. On my classroom floor? Not so much.
“No, I didn’t do nothin’.'” Michael said, this time looking me directly in the eye.
“Ok,” I gestured towards the student sitting next to Michael, “so that wad of dip sitting in the floor is Bobby’s?”
Bobby Chandler didn’t even look up. Earlier in the period he had discovered a video game site that our web blocking software had yet to find, so he was busy shooting cartoon cats out of a cannon.
“I don’t know.”
“Mike, I watched you spit it out.”
“I’m not dipping…wook,” Michael said as he pulled out his lower lip, causing him to slur his “l.”
“I know there’s nothing in there, bud…I watched you spit it out. It’s sitting right here on the floor.”
I directed his attention toward the damning evidence. I thought I made a pretty good case.
“Well. It ain’t mine.”
We were at a stalemate. I decided to pull out the heavy guns.
I pointed at the black plastic bubble protruding from the ceiling, “Mike, there’s the camera. It is aimed right at you. Do I really have to go to the tape and get the pictures of you spitting on the floor?”
He didn’t answer. I took that to be his admission of guilt. Having scored the touchdown, I went for the extra point.
“Why would you spit on the carpet….” I struggled for words. What I wanted to say was “what the *#@!* is wrong with you?” I settled for something that was less likely to get me fired. “That’s just gross. Do you spit on the floor when you’re at home?”
“Yeah.” He looked at me defiantly.
“You spit on the floor at home?” I asked again. Sometimes students say something so crazy, that you just have to ask for confirmation.
“YEAH!” He was starting to get worked up. I really think if I pressed the issue he may have tried to punch me. Which, given the circumstances, might not have been too bad. Getting slugged by a student at school would have to entitle me to at least one day off.
I weighed the options and relented. “Well, you’re going to clean this crap up.” I called the custodians and they brought a bucket of suds and some paper towels. Michael spent the last three minutes of class scrubbing the carpet.
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