The Grapes of Wrath

While in college back in Moscow, I was quite a busy full-time student, yet I still had to somehow support myself, so I was giving private lessons to school kids.

One memory about these times truly stands out and partially explains my reluctance to work in education. A teacher truly needs the nerves of steel…

Someone recommended me to a lady whose 11-year-old son fell behind at school and had no particular desire to study English. When I showed up in their enormous apartment for the first time, I felt slightly ill at ease due to all the kitschy luxury on every inch of the space.

The mother went straight to business, and for the 21-year-old me her words sounded shocking. “My son is a little devil. You can’t blame him too much. His father was shot in front of him by a hitman hired by his business partners. I took him to therapy, but he’s completely unruly. So if he misbehaves during a lesson, just slap him. That’s the only thing that helps.”

My legs almost gave way, and I instinctively stepped away from her. “I am not going to beat a student. It’s unprofessional, illegal, and cruel! You shouldn’t be doing this either!” She stared at me for a second and snorted. “Honey, you are young and innocent. Just give it a try and you’ll see what I mean. But I seriously give you permission to do anything to him. I need him get better in English.”

She handed me the books and the notes left by the previous teacher (who I am sure escaped screaming and checked into a mental hospital). I made a strict face and got ready to meet the student.

The boy looked me up and down shamelessly and landed on a chair in front of me, grabbing a tray of cookies on his way. I never allowed kids to eat in class, but the mother explained that eating was helping to keep him focused, so I let that one slide.

He must have felt a bit shy and he also didn’t know my limits at the time, so the first lesson went relatively okay. We did his homework and I was able to explain some new grammar in between his runs to the fridge.

All the hell broke loose during the second class. “I am not in a mood,” he announced right away. “I don’t feel like doing anything. Let’s just sit and talk, and you tell me about yourself.”

I wanted that to be a teaching opportunity, so I started my story in English. He interrupted me by throwing an apple at me! “I don’t know what you are saying! Speak Russian!”

What a brat! I picked up the apple and put it on the window sill. “This is an English class, kid. We have to do your homework, but if you’d like we can start from playing a game that I brought.”

“No!” he yelled at my face. A door opened abruptly, his mother appeared from out of nowhere, slapped him across the face, and ran out, without saying a word. He calmed down for a bit, and we were able to do his homework.

I cried all the way from the lesson to home. I felt sorry for myself, the kid, and his mother. I wanted to quit, but they paid well, and I needed money.

Somehow, the following two weeks went moderately well. The mother was somewhere around the apartment, listening, and every time he would raise his voice at me, she would appear in the doorway with a belt or shaking her fist. That wasn’t healthy, but at least we made some progress.

It all ended soon anyway. One day the mother warned me she’d have to step away and it would just be me and him. “Don’t worry; I gave him some pep talk and good spanking; he will behave. Plus the doctor upped his meds.”

The lesson started from the kid throwing all of his books on the floor. “Not doing shit today,” he announced and put a huge bowl of grapes in front of him. While I was trying to explain new grammar, he kept chewing on the grapes loudly while spitting the seeds. I was trying my best to ignore it.

At some point a seed landed on my shirt… I jumped up from my chair and grabbed the bowl. “You are being disrespectful,” I yelled.

He glanced at me and smirked. “Why? Did I ruin your cheap shirt? I know you are poor, that’s why you are stuck teaching me. But I am rich, so I can do whatever I want!”

Something just exploded inside me, so without thinking, I grabbed him by the collar, and stuck his face into the grape bowl, sideways. He could still breathe, it wasn’t painful, just humiliating for him, because he couldn’t free himself from my grasp.

When I finally let go, he picked up all the books, slowly sat down and did all the homework obediently within half an hour. Then his mother came home and asked me how it went. He just sat there listless, so I took her to the other room and explained what I did. “Told you!” she replied, satisfied. “Only hardcore, only violence with that kid…”

She even paid a bit more that day, but I never came back. It haunted me for a while that I had to lay my hand on a student…