Work — Children — Education

The difficult boy

My first difficult student was a boy named Onat. He was a kindergarten student who excelled in numbers, colors, and throwing chairs on people's heads.

It was 2015, and I had just landed a job at a prestigious Turkish private school. I was tasked with teaching kindergarten and first grade during my first year. I wasn't all that daunted. I had spent the previous two years teaching in an inner city center language course, and before that, I taught on the Island of Reunion. I felt these private school kids wouldn't pose much of a threat.

After my first lesson with first-grade students, I retreated to the restroom during recess to gather my thoughts. Their madness, chaos, and loudness shocked me, and I wasn't sure if I'd be cut out for this job. I assumed they'd be like proper little ladies and gentlemen. What I got was madder than a box of frogs.

I soon got first grade under control. It took the entire first semester to get them used to the rules, but I managed. Kindergarten was a different battle. Onat was in Kindergarten, and I feared him. Not because he was a bad child but because any time any teacher tried to discipline him, his parents would schedule a meeting and place the blame on the teacher or the other students. They couldn't handle the fact that Onat's home environment was what was contributing to his classroom behavior.

I had seen my good cop bad cop disciplinary methods pay off in first grade and had already etched out a name for myself as a teacher the students loved, respected, and didn't want to upset. I wasn't a shouter but I had a great side-eye and excelled in finding topics and games difficult students responded to. I decided to implement my approach with Onat.

The Lesson

"Ok, boys and girls, pick up red. Red, yes, red. Very good! Color the apple red," A simple yet effective exercise. One which the students enjoyed, mostly because I would go around the class and sit and color with them.

On one trip around the class, I sat next to Onat and spied his paper. As I suspected, Onat was off doing his own thing, which was drawing flags and writing random numbers. I took a note of it and continued my lesson. At the end of the lesson, when I refused to let Onat move his chair into the bathroom, he picked up a full water bottle and flung it to my head. It broke my skin and made me dizzy. I was bleeding. I informed the councilors and principal after the lesson and went to the infirmary.

The next day, I informed the psychologist that I wanted to try something different with Onat. She agreed, so I printed out country flags and numbered them. The exercise didn't fit with our topic — fruit and colors — but I wanted this boy to calm down. I wasn't angry with him. He was a child. If a high school student had done something similar, it would've been more complicated. I'm not good with high school students. I have no patience or love for them. A difficult confession, but one I must accept.

Onat didn't respond well to my Onat-centered task. He tore it up. I ignored the outburst and got on with the lesson. When I turned to stick a star on the board for one of the little girls who got a question right, Onat walked up to her and hit her with his chair. I saw it happen in slow motion, but I was too damn slow to stop him.

I lost my mind.

Onat was getting ready to swing his miniature chair when I grabbed him, picked him up, and ran to the VP's office, screaming to the other teachers to tend to the girl, which they did promptly. As I ushered Onat to the VP's office, he began to gouge my eyes. I used my free arm to pull his hand away, and I must admit I was tempted to squeeze his wee hand. Thankfully, the principal was there, and she took him.

I ran back to the infirmary, where I saw the wee girl spread out on the bed with the nurse trying to clean the blood. My heart sank. I knew that this week would be full of meetings, debriefs, and forensic-like examinations on every second leading up to the attack.

The Aftermath

"The parents want a meeting with you. They say that you hurt Onat when you picked him up," My principal said as I sat in her office, sweaty and nervous. I knew I had done nothing wrong, but I felt guilty as sin. Was it because I tried to change the lesson? Should I have changed the classroom layout? Why did I turn my back? Should I have confiscated the chairs before the lesson? My mind was on fire, replaying the events.

"But we all know that it wasn't your fault. You even brought it up in the last meeting," She said.

"I told his parents in September that he was too active. I wanted to say dangerous, but we're told to call all difficult kids active," I said.

"Peter, I know," she lamented as she held her gaze on my bruised eye. "They'll be here in an hour. Just stay calm and tell them everything that happened."

Meet the parents

"Could Onat wait outside?" I asked as the parents sat down.

"No, our boy will listen, too," The mother said.

"But we need to talk openly here, and I don't think it's a good idea for Onat to be here," I advised.

"No," she flatly said.

Thankfully, the principal entered and restated my wishes, and after some back and forth, Onat was made to wait outside.

During the meeting, I told them everything and how Onat had used his chair to beat up a female classmate. I told them how he had done similar things, like throwing the water bottle at my head.

"She must've said something to Onat," The mother spat as the spineless father sat there saying nothing. I kept eyeing him up, thinking, 'Say something, man!'

"And I suppose I said something bad to him, too, to deserve what happened to me. And the other children he has beaten up that we told you about. They all deserved it, right?" I was losing patience.

"I'm not saying that," she replied.

"Then what is it? I'm not here to lambast him but he needs some form of help. He is intelligent yet frustrated, kind then manic. I'm not qualified to make a judgment, but I am getting to a point where the classes are now unteachable with him," I was going off script, but my principal nodded, which felt good.

"You nearly broke his hand when you grabbed him!" The mother accused, and my heart began to beat a thunderous beat. Yes, I had grabbed the boy's hand, but I didn't hurt him.

"He tried to scratch out my eye. Your son beat a girl with a chair and was about to do it again until I stopped him, then he tried to gouge my eye out," I shot back as I pointed to my still bloodshot eye.

"What does Onat do at home after school?" The principal kindly asked. She was keeping her cool better than me.

"He is free. It's what we believe in. He makes the choices," she replied.

The principal sat back and said, "Well, we back Mr. Murphy's actions. We believe in his methodologies. he did not break or sprain your son's hand. As far as I'm concerned, he had no other choice but to carry Onat out. In this school, we have rules. And we expect the parents to follow them, too. We believe in offering children freedom but with rules designed to foster creativity and ensure safety. Mr. Murphy, could you wait outside?"

It seemed it was now my turn to be dismissed. I went out into the foyer and took a seat next to Onat. As I sat, he let out a yawn and rested his little head against my arm.

Onat the lonely boy

After the meeting, my principal informed me that Onat would not be coming back to the school. The parents agreed after further discussion that he needed to be sent elsewhere. I thanked her, but I was saddened by the whole affair.

Onat was just a boy. His parents had been politely warned of his behavior for months but chose to do nothing. They hid their parental laziness behind faux hippy-like philosophies as their son floundered and became more and more frustrated.

I soon learned that Onat's family rarely dealt with him. This freedom was merely a lonely boy watching TV and the internet alone as his parents patted themselves on the back for being so open-minded. I know all this because I have colleagues who taught Onat after he left our school.

Raising a troubled child is difficult and takes the whole village. We all wanted to help, but Onat's parents wanted to be Kings of that village.

The little girl recovered, but we all learned a valuable lesson: before we teach the kids, we must first teach the parents.

When dealing with children, a teacher's reputation is fragile. One wrong move, one vengeful accusation, and it's game over. Thankfully, the system the school had in place was one I could rely on.

Final thoughts all these years later

Teaching can be messy, terrifying, and heartbreaking but mostly fulfilling. My experience with Onat, a troubled yet intelligent boy, proves that parents and educators must be unified in guiding a child's development. Yes, Onat's behavior was challenging, but it was ultimately the result of the parents and the school not being aligned on which methodology to use, which exacerbated the situation.

This case taught me early on that education requires partnership — a village — where parents are active in their child's life, not passive. When this relationship falters, it is the children who ultimately suffer. Schools are sanctuaries of growth and learning, not just for our little ones but for the parents, too. Every parent must recognize that their involvement, respect for the institute's processes, and willingness to follow the school's guidance are crucial for their child's development.

The responsibility of raising a well-adjusted child is shared. Yes, teachers can guide and support, but we can not replace the role of engaged and supportive parents.

Onat had a difficult beginning to life in school, but all these years later, I still remember his tiny head resting against my arm as his parents and principal spoke. He was just a little cho cho train, frustrated by the fuel being fed to him and the tracks constantly changing from under him.

Onat is doing well now and, as I suspected so early on, is a math whizz and a chess champion.

The child's real name was not used for this piece.