Sometimes we don’t get to teach what we meant to teach—because our students have something to teach us. Here’s a case in point.

How wonderful to walk into the classroom during my first year of teaching eighth grade (about to begin a unit on reconciliation), and see two girls embracing one another!

This would make the retelling of the Prodigal Son story so much more effective! But it wasn’t a hug I had stumbled upon; it was the climax of a vicious cat-fight. Martha pulled out of the clinch and clawed at Lydia’s face and arms, and Lydia fought back just as vehemently.

Rousing from my temporary state of shock, I pulled the two girls apart. Lydia returned to the crowd of students who had been cheering her, and Martha slumped into my arms, by turns weeping, clinging, and beating at my chest. This entire scene lasted no more than two minutes, before Martha pulled away and ran~to the office, I hoped.

“Could anyone please tell me what’s going on?” I asked, shaken myself. By now the class was moving to their seats, a charged hush gripping all of us. Lydia was tending her wounds and was close to crying. What had aroused such anger in an ordinarily calm group? They began to tell me the story of the last fifteen minutes.

Everyone Involved

“Go back to Mexico,” the note to Raul had taunted. “Go back to Africa,” was the message Derrick had received. “You belong in China,” Mai read on her scrap of paper. It seemed that Martha had systematically gone around the room last period and delivered either a written note or spoken a slur to each student regarding their heritage. It had clearly taken forethought and a seeming disregard for her peers’ opinions and reactions.

The shadow of the principal preceded her entrance into the emotionally disheveled room. “I’ll soon know all the details of what has happened with this group,” she opened, “and Mrs. Eifler, I expect you to see that the whole class is suitably punished, since, as I understand it, they all played a part in egging on the fight. This behavior, especially from eighth graders, will not be tolerated. Martha will be suspended until Monday, and I’ll call later for Lydia. Now I want you to teach these students a lesson.”

Up until then, I’d never felt truly desperate that first year of teaching. A gulp, followed by “Yes, Miss Wood” was my sole response. Palpable silence and sixty eyes followed me from the door to my desk. My painfully obvious question, “What made this happen?” yielded an incredible discussion.

Trying to Understand

The kids told me that Martha had steadily been burning all social bridges: putting other students down, isolating herself at lunch, and lashing out at former friends. We began to talk about motives. Why would a bright girl be so self-destructive? As we pieced together the events, we began to understand that, for whatever reason, Martha was literally begging for attention and had found a foolproof way to get it. Now the kids asked the key question, “Why does she want us to hate her?” We’d made a breakthrough. A shaking, somber Lydia raised her hand.

“Look, you guys will think I’m weird, but I really feel sorry for her. We were good friends until third grade and then she did something kind of like today. I remember I used to see marks on her arms and legs that didn’t come from running into walls, like she said. Remember the black eye she got? I think I know why she’s acting this way. I did the same thing in fifth grade.” We all held our breath, astonished at Lydia’s courage. “I think Martha hates herself because she’s getting beaten up at home.”

“W~xeix my âad i.ised t.o beat me and my mom, he made us feel like we were dirt and we deserved it. When he beat my brother, Tony would hit me so hard you can’t believe it, and it wasn’t because Tony was mad at me. I’m begging you guys to try and understand the pain Martha’s going through, because I’ve been there. We’re the only people she sees everyday who don’t hurt her and make her cry herself to sleep every night   Lydia’s gentle but passionate voice trailed off.

And now I was supposed to punish these kids? Come, Holy Spirit, come! We felt we understood now at least a bit of what had triggered Martha’s comments and began discussing how she might be feeling when she came back to school on Monday. Derrick, who had extensive experience with suspensions, offered that “You feel like everyone’s staring at you and maybe won’t accept you. It’s scary.” The parable of the prodigal son, my abandoned lesson plan, was coming back.. something about killing the fatted calf to welcome hack the repentant son, even though he was a long way off...

Our Prodigal Daughter

“What about a prodigal daughter party?” I suggested tentatively, really just thinking aloud. My tidy lesson on forgiveness, planned so carefully the night before, was rendered obsolete, as the class picked up my meaning in a giant swoop. Within seconds, they were wondrous steps ahead of me.

“We could each bring something like brownies or punch!”” Don’t forget napkins and cups!” “I can bring a cooler with ice!” “How about a banner that says, ‘Welcome Back and We Love You, Martha’?” Every talent and appetite in the class was soon represented and it was Lydia who circulated the sign-up sheet, which quickly overflowed.

Monday’s follow-up conversation with Miss Wood was brief. “You’ve taken care of the class, I trust?” she asked.

“Yes, we’ve come up with a consequence that put everyone to work.”

Martha entered the festive classroom surprised, then bashful when she saw the banner, and finally showed a tenuous smile of appreciation. Lydia was the first in a long line of kids to hug her and bring about one of the most powerful and sincere reconciliations I’ve ever witnessed. Yes, although my meticulously crafted teaching instructions lay untouched on my desk, those kids had learned their lesson.

Karen Eifler is a retreat leader and religion teacher at Prince of Peace Parish in Kearney, Nebraska.

RTJ March 1998 32-33