Grey Goose, Porcelain Sinks, and Smashed Cellphones
Not a Lorde song, but a story of my failed experiment as an assistant principal
(This article was originally published October 8, 2022, in the Southern Spice section of Times-Georgian.)
Invariably near the beginning of each school year, I find myself looking for ways to connect with my students. They are always surprised to find that I spent some time as a public high school assistant principal. Truth be told, I know they’ll be shocked by this admission, which is why I tell them my stories.
My teacher comportment in the classroom bears no resemblance to their preconceived notions of administrators and deans, one very great reason for my very hasty exit from a doomed experiment in school leadership.
“What, Mrs. Trumble? You were an assistant principal? Really?”
“Hard to believe, I know. The job didn’t really suit me, so I went back to the classroom just about as fast as they would let me.”
“What are some of the craziest things kids in your school did?”
Ah, there it is. My opening. Story time!!
I should pause and give a little background information first. I never intended to be an administrator. I was perfectly happy teaching English, but somehow our flawed public educational system impresses upon us that the next natural step in a teacher’s career is a “promotion” to administrator, even though the skill sets for each job vary greatly and success in one arena might not equate to a suitable fit in the other.
So after a long stint in the classroom and the acquisition of an advanced degree in Educational Leadership, I landed a job as a high school assistant principal.
To be fair, I’m glad I did it so I know, with certainty, that I never, ever want to do it again.
Sins Against an Innocent Sink
My first story begins like this:
A random Tuesday at about 8:05 a.m.: “We need an administrator in the boys’ restroom by the cafeteria,” the impatient voice shouted over the walkie.
Dammit. One A.P. is out, and all of the other ones are on bus duty. It’s only me in the cafeteria.
Photo/Unsplash
“This is 41. I’m on my way.”
I know, I know. Yes, we used numbers. Don’t ask me why. Ooh, let’s assign each administrator a number and that way no one will know who’s coming? Or, let’s call each other by numbers so people will think we’re important? Unfulfilled police or spy dreams, perhaps? I never understood it.
Another thing I didn’t understand was why the young man woke up that Tuesday morning and chose violence.
Somehow Brian (I’d say that I changed his name to protect his real identify, but the truth is that I can’t even remember his name all these years later) had brought a metal pipe of some sort in his book bag that morning, entered the boys’ restroom, and started whaling on the bathroom sink. I could hear the godawful sounds before I walked in.
Clang, clang, clang. It sounded like a single-minded deranged plumber had somehow infiltrated the school.
Brian managed to get the sink off the wall with the pipe. It made a terrible, shrieking sound when it wrenched free and crashed to the floor, shattering into a million shiny porcelain shards. Blood was everywhere, flowing from his hands and his nose, on his clothes, on the floor. He was just so angry and the sink was the unhappy recipient of his fury.
The sight of the blood was enough to calm him down a bit. The School Resource Officer arrived, cuffed him, and led him in the walk of shame down the main corridor, out the front door, and into his car. An arrest before 8:30 a.m.
A Smashed Cell Phone and Some Grey Goose
My students are suitably entertained and outraged after the sink story, but I save the best one for last.
On a spring afternoon, around 2:30 p.m., a teacher hauls a different young man into my office with a trash-covered cell phone. I reach for the ever-present bottle of Mylanta on my desk and down a quick sip before I begin, the school-appropriate equivalent of taking a shot of whiskey before an arduous task.
“Um, what happened, Mrs. Davidson?”
“I asked Aaron to give me his cell phone because he wouldn’t stop texting during class, and he got mad, smashed it on my desk, and threw it away. He said he’d rather destroy it than hand it over to me.”
Dear God, there is not enough Mylanta in the world for all of this.
Photo/Unsplash
Two months later, Angry Aaron crossed my path again during breakfast duty in the cafeteria.
A random Thursday at 8:15 a.m.: “Forty-one, we need an administrator in the lunchroom. The cafeteria ladies said they smell alcohol on a student.”
Great.
The food service ladies tell me that a young man, Angry Aaron, came stumbling through the line, breath reeking of alcohol. They served him, he laughed and laughed, and, teetering precariously with his breakfast tray, went to sit down.
The SRO and I find Aaron at the table and take him into the office. His eyes are glazed, his speech slurred. The SRO administers the breathalyzer; our friend blew .08 — legally impaired.
He tells us he “drank a whole lot of Grey Goose vodka this morning” and threw the bottle away before he got to school. For reasons I still don’t understand, he was suspended pending tribunal, but not arrested.
Photo/Unsplash
Fast forward a few weeks to the tribunal hearing at the board office. Angry Aaron and his mother arrive just before the SRO and me. The SRO recounts the story as it happened, including the breathalyzer results. The mom thinks I have it in for the kid (as if he has not done enough to self-sabotage!), so we figure it’s best if the SRO relates the whole thing. I’m ready for the administrators to kick him out, put him in alternative school, something.
In a shocking turn of events, the mother says that Aaron had been sick that morning and had taken some cough syrup which had skewed the blood alcohol results. And he was feeling so bad that he was “just out of his mind and loopy” and just made up “that crazy story about the vodka.” Aaron pipes up right then and claims he doesn’t even know what Grey Goose is — he’d never even heard of it before.
He returned to school immediately after the hearing.
“Hello? Human Resources? I need a transfer request, please.”
“Yes, that’s right, for a classroom placement for next year.”
The Outrage and the Aftermath
My students display the appropriate amount of outrage coupled with a newfound kinship with me.
Mission accomplished. I’m back where I belong, and I’ve revealed my humanity to my students. I’m more accessible now and I’ve proven that connecting with my students and establishing a positive classroom atmosphere is a top priority for me.
And Brian and Angry Aaron? I keep expecting to see them in the local paper or on the news for some criminal act, but so far it seems as if they’re flying below the radar.
Or someone’s doing a really good job of explaining away their misdeeds.
