My ex-pupils are but vague memories and many is the time a
girl meets me on the street, shyly introducing herself as a
one-time pupil. My usual response is, "I taught you? That's
nice. What's your name?" Yet through the fog of hazy
recollections of blue-shirted, navy-skirted pupils, one of
them stands out clearly in my mind. I cannot forget her.
Her name was Chumie. She was the girl that teachers warned
their substitutes about. Defiant, obstinate and downright
pugnacious. She seemed to have a sixth sense of knowing
exactly what teachers detest -- answering back rudely,
shrugging shoulders, staring into space when spoken to and
playing the class clown. We had tried everything with her.
Punishing, praising, threatening and pleading. Nothing
helped. Chumie would dutifully hang her head, promise to
behave in the future, and then carry on just where she had
left off.
Misbehaving.
One day Chumie was being particularly obnoxious, asking
stupid, persistent questions in an attempt to stall the
lesson's progress, rummaging in her schoolbag, tapping on her
desk, whispering to her neighbor. The class was getting
fidgety from her tiresome antics and I was at the end of my
tether. Then, ten minutes before the end of class, Chumie
became more daring. She began humming a tune. That did it.
This time, I decided, I would not waste my time and hers by
subjecting her to one hundred lines or some equally
ineffectual punishment. This was Serious Business.
"Chumie," I said quietly. "You know and I know that you have
reached the end of your limits. I hereby forbid you to enter
this classroom until you have a written a letter that you
hummed during class and duly apologizing. The letter must be
signed by both parents."
I was totally taken aback by Chumie's uncharacteristic
response. "Please," she begged, "I'm truly sorry. I'll never
do it again. But please -- just please -- not this." So
unlike her do-what-you-want, don't-give-a-hoot attitude.
"I'll talk to you after class," I said abruptly. I needed
time to think.
Chumie came to me after class without my having to summon her
again -- another sure sign that something was unusual. This
time, she had adopted her usual careless attitude but it was
impossible not to notice the desperation hovering beneath her
facade. "I could write the letter if you really want," she
said, her voice an octave above its usual pitch, "but I'd
rather not get my fa... my parents involved."
"Why?" I asked. I knew that Chumie's parents had been
consulted more than once about her behavior. "Because," she
said, a little too forcefully. I looked at her long and hard.
It was her eyes that gave her away. I detected fear in those
eyes. Very real fear.
"I won't make you have that letter signed," I said slowly. I
could almost hear Chumie exhale, "but," a sharp intake of
breath, "I'd like you to tell me why you'd rather not get
your parents involved." Something told me it was important
for me to know.
Chumie shook her head. Once again, she let down her defenses
and became the vulnerable, terrifed girl I had seen in the
classroom. Her lips trembled as she said, "No reason. It's
just... better this way."
I let it stand at that but something troubled me about the
whole business. Slowly, things began to take shape in my
mind. Chumie's sudden panic a few days before P.T.A. as she
miraculously turned into the model pupil -- until the evening
was over. Chumie lying -- about her family, about her
father's occupation. I always used to wonder why she did
that. And, most revealing of all, the occasional red and
white blistery stripes on her face. Everything fell neatly,
sadly, into place. Chumie's father hit her -- often and
hard.
My previous resentment and anger towards Chumie turned into
overwhelming pity. My heart ached for this lonely, vulnerable
girl, locked in a world of pain and hurt. Confronted with
physical and emotional abuse day after day, no wonder she was
crying out for attention. For recognition. Validation. And if
the only way she could get it was with misbehavior, then
misbehave she would. Chumie, I knew, needed help. And as her
teacher, I felt responsible. Yet I was unsure how to approach
this proud, hardened girl and so I let things lie, all the
while feeling a nagging sensation at the back of my mind. I
had to do something -- but what?
One day, I noticed Chumie wasn't taking notes. That wasn't so
unusual -- but what caught my attention was the giant bruise
on her thumb. An unusual place for a bruise. "Why aren't you
writing?" I asked. "I hurt my thumb. I caught it in the
door." She looked frightened and guilty as she said those
words and I knew without any doubt how Chumie had been
purposely hurt.
I had a long talk with Chumie that day. I don't know how I
penetrated her iron wall, but I did. We spoke many times
after that. Chumie proved to be perceptive beyond her years
and many times she amazed me with her maturity. It saddened
me beyond description to see what could become of a girl who
had such a wealth of potential locked inside her.
She told me that she could not blame her father, for she knew
that he simply could not control his outbursts and would
regret them when it was over. "He was hit as a child and
that's why he hits his children," she once said sadly, with
uncanny insight. "I only hope and pray that I, too, won't be
caught in this bitter chain..."
"You won't, Chumie," I used to tell her time and time again.
"You're a thinker. You're aware that there's a problem and as
long as you're aware, you'll fight it -- and you'll win.
Chumie, take heart!" I hated to see her so despondent.
I lost touch with Chumie over the years. Yet many a time when
I sing and play with my children, giving them all the love I
was given as a child, or when I listen with pride as my
husband so patiently studies with them, I think back to
Chumie and wistfully wonder how she's doing. I offer a silent
prayer to Hashem to give her the strength to be the patient,
loving mother she so much longed to be. To overcome the
obstacles of her difficult childhood and break that infernal
cycle.
Good luck, Chumie, wherever you are. I have faith in you.
You'll fight -- and I know you'll win.
