The Evolution of the Species

 

We are studying the evolution of the species. The class are doing research.

Nobody likes me The Boy claims.

He has been at the centre of antagonism the whole morning in the classroom. Things are being uttered at a volume level that I cannot detect. All I can see are faces turned between the sparring partners. His Enemy’s face is bright. His Enemy is enjoying this campaign. I give The Boy a table to himself with his back turned to His Enemy so that he is literally in a better position to ignore his enemy’s wounding comments.

His Enemy is now rallying his troops. He is gathering to himself a whirling vortex of allies who are similarly fixated upon The Boy.

I attempt to draw His Enemy back toward the laptop computer screen. He has chosen this method of researching Darwin and the evolution of the species. He is waiting for his computer to access the Internet and seems to be having trouble. His computer won’t allow him to log on. Then it won’t allow him to go on the internet. Then the web pages will not allow him any access. This is a situation he is enjoying, for how can he do any research work if the computer will not connect? His pencil is idle and while he is thus disconnected and disengaged he can enjoy taunting The Boy further.

Later they wait for assembly to begin. In the absolute silence The Boy has heard more taunts, and he gets up to complain once again. I take him outside the hall so that he can have a chance to chat about his problems.

I’ve met him once before some months ago.

On that last occasion there were two PE teachers working with the group. I’d first noticed The Boy after he’d refused to participate, and had gone off in a sulky huff to sit alone. The tough PE teachers had had little sympathy for him.

On that occasion he had spoken to me of his anger. He’d said that when he felt angry it was as if there were two wild horses inside him, one black, and the other white; and that they were pulling away inside him in different directions.

I had found his metaphor fascinating and had hoped to hear another such description as we now sat outside the hall, but this time he is more prosaic. I give him the chance time to air his grievances; and then explain to him a simple technique that might help him to escape his tormentor’s attention.

He does not listen.

His mind is hard-set on his negative way of responding to His Enemy and he cannot change.

Later, I use different ploys to keep His Enemy in the classroom a little longer so as to give The Boy some rare moments of peace on the playground. His Enemy is a wise wily boy. He immediately sees through my ploys and complains, saying that he is being blamed for something that is of course all The Boy’s fault.

After break His Enemy now lingers towards the back of the line where The Boy is now standing. I see the gleam in His Enemy’s eye, he knows that the long walk to the music room along the corridor will give him ample opportunity to taunt The Boy further. So I detain The Boy a little longer while the group leaves with the music teacher so that he will not have to walk so closely to His Enemy.

The Boy tells me that he was fine until His Enemy moved into that school.

That’s when I realise it is my fault that this boy is being so tormented.

For I know His Enemy.

I also know His Enemy’s’ Mother.

His Enemy’s’ Mother had been distressed by her son’s behaviour in another school. He was being picked on by the other boys, she’d told me. He was being bullied and teased by the other boys. He was miserable and unhappy.

His Enemy’s’ Mother told me that was why he was lashing out and likely to get himself excluded from school, and getting the label of being a difficult child.

His Enemy’s’ Mother couldn’t accept that her boy was in fact the tormenter and the bully.

There were collective sighs of relief when His Enemy’s’ Mother finally decided to move him to another school.

And I had failed to gently remove the scales from her eyes.

I later see His Enemy looking around with delighted wicked eyes as he realised there would soon be another chance to torment with lunch time approaching..

The Boy, his blond hair longer than that of any girl in the class, declares that nobody ever does anything.

Something must have happened in the music lesson.

There is a dreadful fight for survival going on here. A battle that would have intrigued Darwin, and I’m glad I’ve only have to spend an hour or so in their destructive company.

I reach for my hat and scarf.

‘Did you hear what The Boy did this morning, before he came into the classroom this morning?’ his teacher later asks me.

I shake my head.

I am told how The Boy had somehow managed to create a terrible, disgusting mess with the contents of his nose, and then instead of shielding this from view had instead chased and taunted the other children with a sight so repulsive that one of the other boys had ended up being physically sick.

This was in the presence of parents.

The caretaker had had to be sent for to find sand to cover the mess.

I’m utterly shocked and appalled; and I wonder which horse was responsible for that.

And then I realise that if these two boys represent the pinnacle in the evolution of the species then the faster we get back to the amoebic form the better.