A Teaching Moment
I hit her. I hauled off and punched her right in the corner of her smart ass mouth. She staggered back, her eyeglasses falling off, her large ass hitting the desk, and then she tumbled onto it, knocking over the picture of my son, the stack of midterm synthesis papers I was grading, including the ones I set aside that were obviously plagiarized… she lay flat on my desk and I stared at her with my eyes burning as she looked up at me. I knew there would be repercussions for my actions, but in that moment, I didn’t care. This needed to be done; she needed to feel the pain. I don’t understand how someone can go into this profession just to bully people around and harass young minds. Like Whitney Houston said, “I believe the children are our future.” But she didn’t; she didn’t believe in anything but her own selfish ways of abuse.
I’d known Ms. Robin Angel for the four years I’d been an English teacher at MU. She stood about 5’5” but weighed around 145 lbs, most of it in her large breasts and large butt. She was a very light skinned black woman with shoulder length jet black hair, a very cute round face, a small sarcastic mouth, a rich girl’s skeptical “I’m better than you” hazel eyes, a button nose, a love for pants suits and open-toed heels, and an air of arrogance, but an air of beauty that you couldn’t help but be infected by whenever she was around. I would often be flirted with by most of the male students and teachers; I am 5’ about 140 lbs, with very large breasts and a very large butt that my long black hair goes all the way down to. I am from India and teaching has always been my passion, but teaching is about professionalism and respect. We want to make our students better, not worse. And that is why I had such a problem with Robin.
Robin was in a sorority that is very popular at this university. Many of the female instructors are in it and despite her weak curriculum vita, her lack of conferences, lack of a doctorate, lack of scholarly publications, lack of anything in the way of credentials, she got a job as a full instructor with all the benefits of anyone like me, who has a Ph. D and is tenured. Another problem I would have with her would be her students. So many of them would come to me and beg me to let them drop her classes and get forced into mine, well after the last day to drop or add classes. It was an unwritten rule that teachers in our department didn’t do this; it was seen as stealing students and a lot of the teachers were upset because without students, you lose classes, and depending on what grade of instructor you are, that’s thousands of dollars you could lose a semester per class that gets cancelled due to lack of students.
I had to turn them away, despite their claims that she didn‘t teach anything, gave tests and essays on works that weren‘t covered in class, and only treated members of her sorority or football players with any kindness. They told me about her attitude and the way she made fun of other students and the way she wouldn’t open her door during her office hours or how she would read a student’s doctor signed sick letter in front of everyone in the class, and make fun of it. She sat in the back of our faculty meetings and would talk loudly, but when I’d walk passed her office, she was always telling some student, “you should act more professionally.”
My problems with Robin really picked up during February, at our Black History Month celebration. We invited guest speakers, we each read pieces of poetry or prose, and we had an open mike for students who wanted to read their own poetry or share something. She didn’t even bother to say anything; she sat in the back and talked loudly during the celebration. When I got up to speak, I quoted Mahatma Gandhi and said, “You have to be the change you want to see in the world.” I was trying to inspire our students, regardless of their skin colors, genders, and sexualities, that they can overcome their problems. Every group of people has gone through some form of adversity; anyone with the slightest knowledge of history knows this.
Black History Month isn’t just a celebration of Black people; it’s a celebration of freedom and equality. But as I was walking passed Robin to my seat, I heard her say, “Why is she quoting Gandhi when this is a Black celebration?” I looked at her and she gave me that fake smile and wave. She didn’t even know that Martin Luther King’s passive resistance movement of the 1960s in the southern United States was inspired by Gandhi’s passive resistance movement in India. King read extensively about Gandhi and how you could liberate an entire nation of people through non-violence and a political and social version of Muhammad Ali‘s “rope-a-dope.” And despite all the people of different ethnic hues and backgrounds who understood what I was saying, Robin didn’t and maybe, she couldn’t care less. She would often say to me, “You know Maharani, these students are so stupid.” She wouldn’t say anything after that; she was be negative all of the time, about the students and her fellow teachers. She would even get in front of her classes and badmouth me and the other teachers, talking up all of the gossip around our department, then badmouthing her students to us. But because of her sorority connections, no one said anything to her.
We’d both grown up in two different countries; I grew up as a part of India’s upper class and she grew up here in America as a part of an upper middle class family. I gave most to the poorer people of my nation and was frowned on for it by my own family; Robin probably never gave a dime to a poor person unless it was a part of some initiation or to make herself look good. I couldn’t take her students in my class, but I started tutoring them on my own time. I didn’t mind doing it, but I really got angry because I felt like I was teaching them the material all over again. Then there was Farah. Farah was from Sudan, was about 5’4” 115 lbs with smooth dark brown skin and a round face, but with silvery gray eyes. She wore the traditional Muslim attire, covering her hair and body. Robin constantly mocked this girl, and Farah was a very sweet girl; she had a thick accent and she asked a lot of questions, but it was only because she wanted to learn and understand. I used to be the same way. But I cannot say how many times Farah would cry in my office about Robin mocking her dress or calling her a “terrorist” or jokingly saying “How many buildings did you blow up today, Farah?”
I read one of Farah’s papers; it was a comparison and contrast essay comparing the Chinese communist government to the United States’ democracy. I thought it was brilliant; it wanted to submit it to a conference or at least publish it in our departmental journal, but when I got to the grade, I saw a “D.” The only thing Robin wrote on the paper other than the grade was, “I have no interest in this topic. Pick a topic I’m interested in or you will fail, terrorist.” This really set me off. Robin was making fun of Farah simply for the hell of it; if she really thought Farah was a terrorist, she would’ve been too afraid to mock her. That’s why she never made fun of the thuggish types, not even when they blatantly flirted with her. She was a coward and the “terrorist” comment was the most offensive thing of all to me. After 9/11, everyone who “looked” Middle Eastern was probably subjected to some sort of discrimination, either through words or actions, or looks, or thoughts. I know because I felt this sting of hatred myself.
There are things that as a person, you just don’t do or say. I realize that people make jokes like that and some friends lob racial slurs at each other as terms of endearment or as satirical jokes on the ignorance of the slurs and stereotypes themselves, but Robin was not doing this. This was ridiculous and it had to be stopped. During an hour when Robin was in class and I was supposed to be in my office, I went to her classroom and stood just outside the cracked door, listening to her teach. She was awful and everything that her students said she did, she did. She made fun of her students, and not the idiots who walk around with their pants sagging and their boxers showing; for some reason, they were safe. She didn’t make fun of the students who plagiarized in her class; in fact, they passed. She didn’t punish students for wearing they’re headphones in class; she preyed on the weak. I decided to confront her after a faculty meeting where she sat in the back and talked loudly. I told her that I was walking passed her classroom and I thought she should lighten up a bit on the things she says. I told her in a very polite and humble way; this is my demeanor; I am humble and can appear to be timid. I told her that young minds are fragile and not everyone jokes the way she does.
“It’s not a joke,” she yelled, “They are STUPID! And you don’t tell me how to speak to my students!!”
My eyes widened. Everyone could hear her and she got in my face, waving her finger and backing me up. It was very intimidating, but no one did anything about it. I often tell my students that the whole thing about “it’s not what you know; it’s who you know” is not true because talent, honesty and good deeds will win out in the end. But if any other teacher had done that, with no connections to a fraternity or sorority, that teacher would be gone. She walked around the department bragging about it and the other teachers in their little clique would laugh every time they saw me. Then on Wednesday, I decided to wait for Farah after her class with Robin. We were going to lunch, but all of the students were out of the classroom except Farah and Robin. Robin was shouting at Farah and Farah was crying. I didn’t care what is was about; I opened that door, walked into that classroom, looked Robin square in the face and told her to see me in my office. Farah and I went to my office together. Ten minutes later, Robin entered and I closed the door.
She stared at me and I took the deepest breath I’d taken in quite some time. We stared into each other’s eyes and I could feel my spirit weakening and her arrogance winning. She was intimidating me with her stare and her beauty and ultimately, I looked away. But when I looked away, my eyes settled on Farah, sitting there, burying her face in tissue. I didn’t think about the punch; I just threw it. She let out an “UunNnhH!!” sprawled across my desk and Farah and I looked at each other.
“Let’s go to lunch,” I said, “Ms. Angel, make sure you lock the door to my office when you leave.”
I should’ve known it wasn’t going to be that easy; I’d knocked her out of her heels, and Farah’s eyes gave away the attack right before I felt Robin’s hands pulling my long black hair from behind. I had taken a couple of tae kwon do classes, but I never made it passed white belt; I was no fighter, but I felt she wasn’t a fighter either. She easily pushed me against the wall and my poster of Kahlil Gibran came down. She was taller; she had the slight weight advantage, and she had attitude, which may be more important than anything else.
“You put your hands on me,” she whispered, “I’m gonna make sure you don’t ever forget this ass-whipping you’re about to get.”
She punched me in the stomach; with a gasp and an “whulf!” I doubled over and stared at her. My stomach was soft and I have a large deep round bellybutton, like many Indian women; my stomach offered no resistance and the punch completely winded me. She put her hand under my chin and guided me back up. I was still clutching my stomach and staring at her, completely at her mercy as she looked at me and smiled. She slapped me and almost knocked me down. She got me with a little punch to my nose that staggered me. She yanked up my brown shirt and tugged my pants well below my bellybutton with her hands, then she drove an uppercut into my navel; her whole fist went into it and I let out an “uuuuugggghhhh!!!” This time, she wouldn’t let me double over; she held me up, but she wasn’t that strong; it’s just that I was that weak. We both had hourglass figures and I could see she was breathing hard already. I tried to push her off of me, but she leaned on me and I could not get the leverage needed. But I wouldn’t need leverage.
I felt Robin exhale and saw covered arms wrap around her waist… Farah. She turned the bitch around, grabbed her by her shoulders and lifted a knee into her belly, right on the indentation on her pants wear her own round deep navel is. Robin let out a “OUGH!!” and folded over, but Farah pushed her into my bookshelf and Robin’s arms flailed up at the sides of her own head. While I folded over and went down, Farah began to punch Robin’s belly with shot after shot, lifting the light skinned Black woman on her pedicured pampered toes with “Ough” after “Ough” after “OUGH!!” Robin couldn’t help it; our fight was to be silent; I kept my groans in when she hit me, but Farah’s punches were easily taking their toll on her. Another shot to her soft belly and Robin let out an “Ummm!!” folding over and looking up at Farah, who stared back with fire in her eyes and her fists drawn back.
“Please don’t hit me again,” Robin said, in as nice a voice as I’ve ever heard her say anything
“Why not?” Farah said pressing her fist against Robin’s stomach and watching her fold over with an “Oooosh!”
“I can’t beat you,” Robin said as Farah pulled up Robin’s shirt and lowered her pants, the same way Robin had done me, revealing her soft buttermilk colored belly and round deep innie navel.
“What am I going to get in your class?” Farah said
“I’m gonna give you an A,” Robin said, “Just don’t beat me up. You beat me; I don’t want to get beat up again.”
Farah looked at Robin and almost laughed. She drew back her fist as if she was going to hit Robin, and Robin flinched and her face showed deep fear. I got to my feet and Farah looked at me.
“Ready for lunch?” she said
“If you are?” I said breathlessly, then I looked at Robin, “Are we done with the meeting?”
“Yes,” she said, clutching her belly and shedding tears, “May I have my eyeglasses back?”
“That’s up to Farah,” I say
“She can get them herself,” Farah says, “Make sure you lock the office when you leave, Ms. Angel. Have a nice day.”
As we left and closed the door, we could hear her start crying. As of today, Ms. Angel still works at MU and I do as well. Farah graduated and is in Grad School in our department. She actually works as my graduate assistant and she may get hired on as faculty after she completes her Master’s. The gossip and the sorority biases and all that are still going on, and Ms. Angel’s students tell me she’s just as bad as ever. But every time Farah or I walk passed her office, she changes her tune. She never went to the dean on us, after all, the dean’s my friend . I’ve got my connections too, not to mention, the dean is in a different sorority. It’s funny, Robin said I would remember the ass-kicking she gave me. Well, she did beat me, but Farah beat her, and that’s what I remember more than anything else. And she remembers it too; she still touches her stomach and flinches if Farah looks at her for more than three seconds. We resolved the problem, maybe not the way Gandhi or Dr. King would’ve done it, but at least it got done.
THE END
