Last week during a department meeting, I heard an angry shout in the hallway. In a flash, I morphed into the intrepid fight-stopper that hides inside this mild-mannered English teacher. I flew to the hall, my orange sweater flapping like a cape. As it turned out, the shout had come from a good-natured exchange between a student and Mr. Woods. No fight this time. But had there been one, I was ready.
Step One is to act. If a teacher stops to think, to weigh the consequences and possible outcomes, she will at best lose precious moments; at worst, she’ll decide not to intervene. Any teacher unwilling to stop a fight can lay this essay aside right now and go back to shopping on the Internet. I believe our job includes protecting students from harm. A fight is harm.
Once committed to step one, a fight-stopper will, at the first sign of a scuffle, launch Step Two, which is to dive between the contenders. While school protocol likely instructs teachers to avoid positioning themselves between snarling students, the best way to halt a flailing fist is to create a barrier. Furthermore, deep down students want someone to break up their fight. If a teacher steps in, the pugilist will instinctively pull his punch. Furthermore, if the teacher’s adrenaline is peaked, she won’t even feel a glancing blow. Regardless, it will hurt less than, say, an hour of Wednesday’s PD. Remember, the teacher who breaks up a fight is Superman, and Superman isn’t afraid of a bruise or two.
Once wedged between the combatants, Step Three is to block the line of vision. If Punch and Judy are still looking at each other, they’re still fighting. Break their eye contact by turning one away from the other and proceeding quickly to Step Four: calming with words.
I’ve found murmuring “There, there, Sweetheart...Oh dear, Pumpkin...Everything’s all right, Precious...” and similar sweet-nothings will coax the Incredible Hulk back to Bruce-Banner sanity. For one, it shocks him. He’s expecting to be upbraided, not to be lulled by a grandma voice. Second, the student is more likely to accept guidance (“Let’s walk-”) and less likely to sock you in the jaw if you’re calling him “Sweetie.” This is the same psychology used in painting the opposing teams’ locker rooms pink. It does a wash on the testosterone.
Step Five is the walk. Without some distance between Rocky I and Rocky II, they’ll be back at each other’s throats before you can wail “ADRIENNE!” I’ve seen burly teachers escort fighters with a headlock or a firm grip on the elbow, but I adhere to a continuation of the grandma approach. Put an arm gently around the student’s shoulders, or pat his back. Kindly link his forearm. Any touch should be soothing and calming, not rough or aggressive. The goal here is to de-escalate, and that is better done with dandelion fluff than thistles. I encourage the student to breathe in, breathe out. I assure him everything is going to be okay. (I’m careful not to divulge that “okay” means three days of OSS.) While walking, I lean in, saying “Are you okay?” and “I’m so sorry--,” which is shorthand for “I’m so sorry you resorted to physical violence.” As long as the words are leveled in palliative tones, they’ll do the trick: calm an out-of-control child.
The walk, ultimately, leads to the principal’s office, where Step Six is to remind the student he is safe. As his adrenaline devolves into the shakes, I play flight attendant, asking if he’s comfortable, offering a drink of water. If I’ve done this right, my gentle response has disoriented our hallway Achilles. I’ve tapped his heel. By the time he visits the principal, he is a lamb again, wondering why he ever fought in the first place.
