Two days ago, I'd broken the 10-year mark as principal of Howell Elementary. In 3,653 of those 3,654 days, Howell hadn't seen any fights like the one that broke out today. Before me, in my intimate and admittedly lavish office, sat Abel Marinero, age eight. There was a mahogany desk between us, and his eyes had recently sought refuge upon patches of its glossy surface; such curious brown eyes that would absorb the desk's reflection. There was a bruise on his right cheekbone, and his lip was a bit swollen. His hair, black as pitch, and his expression contemplative. Though he sat slouched, his hands were neatly folded between his legs. He was not panting, but had not caught his breath yet.
Only minutes ago, I was going over the planned layout for the new building to be built in 2012; dozens of fresh classrooms with newer equipment, into which I'd like to move our higher-tenure teachers. This was interrupted when Will, one of my administrators, came into the office to let me know that a fight had broken out - and that an ambulance had been called.
Since that moment, the boy was escorted to the clinic, where his knuckles were bandaged and his wounds - all of them minor - cleaned. Since he was well off, I had dropped everything to speak with him one-on-one after calling his parents.
"Why did you do it?"
"He took my Rafael."
The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle in question had been abandoned at the scene; likely confiscated by now for use as evidence. This was, after all, likely to result in a court case. I leaned forward with my elbows on the desk, fingers interlaced. I spoke into my hands:
"That's not a good reason to do what you did. You hurt Michael very badly." I paused in interest of his reply, which was, as expected, prompt:
"He hurt me first."
"He hurt you?"
"I told you. He took my Rafael."
I offered an exaggerated frown. "I understand, and that was very wrong of him. But the way you responded is not acceptable. You're in pretty big trouble, Abel."
He did not appear fazed by the utterance of his name, and his reply did not come. After a few seconds of silence, I continued.
"I want you to tell me exactly what happened on the playground today."
The boy drew a breath and began, finally granting me eye contact: "I was playing in the sand besides the swings with my Ninja Turtles, and I put Rafael over there-" he motioned to his right "-real quick. Then Michael walks up and takes it. I told him to give it back and he said I should share, 'cause he let me borrow a pencil in class. I said give it back, but he wouldn't."
Almost against my own desire, I freed my fingers to show a palm. I asked, "So you hit him?"
"Yeah."
I nodded and closed my eyes briefly. "That is absolutely unacceptable, Abel. Sharing is a good thing to do, and it's a valuable lesson to learn. Hurting people, for any reason, is something you should never do. You should have asked a grownup, or-"
"No!"
Between us, silence. Silence and a mahogany desk.
"No," he said, "because then he's gonna do it again. You keep saying stuff about lessons, but today, I was teacher."
I almost wanted to laugh, but after chewing on this response, I felt a wave of concern. If Abel was prone to violence, having him continue schooling here would be detrimental to everybody at Howell. And once the news gets involved, they're going to wonder why all I did was suspend him. Expulsion was feasible, but I'd ensure councilor visits as well. I felt compelled, however, to understand what had gone on - or was still going on - in this child's mind. So I asked.
"What did you teach Michael by doing that, Abel?"
"That sharing gets you hurt."
In 3,653 of my 3,654 days as principal, I hadn't been afraid of a student.