Need Feedback.
PROMPT: “It is difficult to remain a bystander in any situation of conflict”
Bad Teacher
Sunlight streamed into the classroom creating the illusion that everything was normal. He was at it again, shouting at the unlucky girl that subconsciously misspelled a word in one of her English essays. I sighed and tried to ignore the sobbing and shouting. This happened frequently in English class. Every week Mr. Proctor would pick on a student and humiliate them in front of the class. We should have been used to it by now, but going through his abuses every week only reinforced our anger and hatred towards him. The bell chimed, I muttered a thank you, and hurriedly ran out of the classroom. The day was officially ruined.
After four months of this routine, we could no longer stand it, so we decided on a personal vendetta against the teacher. He had taken it too far when he unmercifully ripped up someone’s work. The girl had spent hours on her essay only to have it torn up into a thousand pieces. He could have been more understanding. The same thought ran through each student’s mind and the boldest one of us decided to write a petition directly to the principal. We were at first reluctant, knowing the consequences should we get caught. However, this was the only way to voice our opinion. We had confronted Mr. Proctor about his teaching techniques and pleaded with coordinators to change our English teacher, but we were continuously ignored. Our teacher was clearly “weighted with authority”. We could do nothing we were helpless but we had each other.
The classroom was dead silent except for the sound of pen on paper. We appeared to be diligently working on our essays but were, in fact, secretly writing the petition underneath our desks. It was a risky situation with Mr. Proctor walking around checking each student’s progress.
I was worried that he would suspect something was going on. The blank sheet of paper torn from a notebook was quickly filled with criticism about his teaching skills, hand writing, and even his physical features. When the paper got to me I struggled with what I should write.
Should I follow the spiteful trend displayed on paper by my classmates, or should I pass the paper along and be the teacher’s pet? My religion and morals persuading me to do the right thing while another part of me was tempted to follow the crowd. I knew I had to make a choice, ‘I was either with my classmates or against them, and there was no road between.’
From a young age I constantly struggled with guilt. My mind swarmed with the opinions of my parents, my friends, and most importantly, God. This was obviously the wrong thing to do.
Do I want to compromise my integrity? I stared at the paper in front of me and slowly read each comment. There were so far a total of twenty discourteous comments even though only eight people had written on it. Some were shocking and definitely unsuitable to be sent to the principal while others were far from the truth and completely unnecessary. The once clean paper was also crammed with cartoon-realistic-portrait drawings representing Mr. Proctor.
They included speech bubbles that extended from his mouth and portrayed him in a negative way. I cringed at the vulgar words describing Mr. Proctor. Words like ‘tight-ass’ and ‘retarded’ flashed before my eyes. My heart reached out to Mr. Proctor. Even though he was an appalling teacher he was also someone we should respect. My conscience continued to struggle, but deep down I knew what I had to do. I hesitantly withdrew my pen from the piece of paper. I was determined to stand my ground and do what was right. So, I passed the paper along to the boy behind me. He eagerly accepted it and started scribbling furiously; inserting any insults he could think up.
I shook my head and continued on my essay hoping no one noticed my saintly action. I realised at that point ‘There are wheels within wheels in this classroom, and fires within fires’. The paper was successfully passed down to the end of the classroom. There were occasional whispers and muffled laughter as the paper was read but that did not seem to have any impact on Mr. Proctor. When it got to the last person, I could sense an air of triumph coming from the class of eager students, their time for revenge was coming closer.
I looked around the classroom again. My heart sank; Mr. Proctor was walking towards the immersed writer. I tried to catch her attention by coughing and saying her name at the same time, but was unable to successfully impart my distress signal to her. I watched in alarm as Mr. Proctor stood behind her, reading every word she wrote. The whole class witnessed the horrific event unfold, unable to warn her, helplessly paralysed. Everyone froze in their seats hoping that the moment would pass. It seemed that time was stationary, no one moved. No one said anything.
After what seemed like an eternity, Mr. Proctor spoke, ‘Ms. Abigail Williams can you kindly pass me that sheet of paper?’ We were all dumbfounded and instinctively held our breaths. He said it with such patience and calm, such that we never heard before. Abigail fumbled with the paper not knowing what to do. She looked at us, her eyes pleading for someone to say or do something. We felt sorry for her but no one wanted to intervene. Our educations were on the line. Mr. Proctor scanned the classroom with a look of disappointment and said “I cannot judge another”. He hastily took the paper and stumbled out of the silent room. His look of hurt and pain was forever imprinted in our minds.
Home
Help
Search
Login
