It had been a monster of a day. The Grade 8s and 9s had tired me out beyond belief. No matter how often I split troublesome parties apart, they always ended up re-forming and causing just as much mischief as before. I felt like a policewoman.

“Simon, put that away.”

“Sihle, you’re going to break that chair.”

“Give Tamika’s pencil case back!”

They were naughty, they back-chatted, they tested my boundaries.

Mock exams started. About five days into in the exam roster I had to supervise a class I didn’t know, some Grade 9s, an hour before their exam. I was told that they should be spending the time studying quietly.

Not this class. Paper balls whizzed through the air. One boy had acquired a fidget spinner, which I was unable to confiscate, to the glee of the onlookers. The class ran amok. A girl at the back with two pigtails was standing in her desk, the seat part flipped up. She was chewing, and looking at me in a defiant way. I shouldn’t have taken the bait. I shouldn’t have…

“Why are you standing?” I enquired.

Deliberately, she slid into her seat.

“I’m sitting,” she said, with a self-satisfied smirk that infuriated me.

“Why are you eating?” I demanded.

She looked at me, held eye contact, then swallowed. “I’m not,” she said coolly.

I couldn’t take it. I snapped.

“This is unacceptable!” I shouted. “This period is to be spent quietly preparing. You guys are completely out of line; and I’m going to report this behaviour.”

The girl snorted.

“Do you think that’s funny?” I snapped.

“No,” she said, looking me dead in the eye.

A ripple of giggles broke out over the room. She had won.

I couldn’t control what happened next. I got up, put my bag on my shoulder, and exited the room as calmly as I could muster, even though I was positively shaking in anger. The corridor was relatively quiet. I scuttled into the nearest alcove and started to weep. Angry, hot tears spurted from me. My whole body trembled; I burned at being humiliated. I waited for the feeling to pass until I was somewhat numb.

I re-entered the classroom. I could feel the eyes of the students on me keenly. What was Miss going to do now? I sat down carefully, avoiding eye contact, took out a book and proceeded to read.

“I’ve just reported the learners disrupting this class to the grade leader Mr Fuchs,” I said in a matter of fact way. This was actually a lie, but it had the desired effect. I felt 20 pairs of eyes gazing at me in surprise. They were silent from then on until the next teacher relieved me of my shift.

I was relieved that the last period of the day would be my Grade 12s. I liked them. Not just because they were older and more mature, but also because they actually elected to take the subject that I taught, and were generally more receptive and respectful. I enjoyed their company, and we had many interesting conversations during my time teaching there.

Particularly impressive was a girl called Naledi. She was known as the wonder child of the school. She was Deputy Head Girl. While most students took eight subjects, she took nine. She was smart, yes; but she was also brave, honest and kind. I liked her immediately.

I was also glad of their company because in a way I felt closer to them in mind-set than I did to many of the teachers. But I don’t think this is necessarily an age thing. I had a lecturer at university who was in her sixties but was the funnest, most open-minded individual imaginable – so I don’t believe that all old people are conservative and boring.

At Lakeview High though, I had to accept that a lot of the more out-moded ideas – the email; Mr Hood’s homo and transphobia – were primarily expressed by the older members of staff.

Thus it was that on that afternoon I was gladder than usual to see them – I too needed someone to talk to, I realised. I waited for the class to settle in. There were 12 of them.

“Do you guys know about Robert?”

“Ja?” said Josie, a red-haired girl who was the comedian of the class.

“So have you heard about the whole ‘him not being allowed to wear a dress’ thing?”

They looked taken aback.

“What do you mean?” asked Yola, one of the few boys in the class.

“Mr Hood won’t let Robert go to the Matric Dance wearing a dress.”

“What?” exclaimed Caroline from the back.

The class rebel, Unathi, had a lot to say about this. “That guy is so whack. Like, they don’t jive with our modern values man. Why can’t he just let Robert express himself? Hayi, that man, I’m telling you.”

Naledi looked serious. I could see she was troubled deeply by the affair. She was a tall girl, taller than me by a centimetre or two. She was thin, with an angular, dramatic face. Her narrow eyes were slanted and wise.

“That is unconstitutional, Ma’am,” she said firmly.

“I know,” I replied.

“But Ma’am, you have to intervene.”

“I’m trying,” was all I could muster.

“Ma’am, what Mr Hood is saying is wrong on so many levels. Our constitution forbids us to discriminate against people based on race, religion, sexual orientation or gender. He’s literally breaking the law.”

“But what do I do?”

“Ma’am, can I be honest?”

“Please.”

“I think you should go right now and talk to him about this.”

The way I write it here, I make Naledi sound bossy. But she wasn’t. She said everything stated above in a very passionate, empathetic way. I could see she was gravely offended by the practice of the school leadership and I knew she was right. I knew it. I was saying something, yes, but was I saying enough?

“I can’t go now, we’re in the middle of class,” I said.

“Ma’am, you can leave us. We won’t fool around, I promise. This is important.”

Other learners in the class nodded in agreement. I felt stronger. I decided to take action.

***

Tell us: In this age of digital communication, new ideas or ways of seeing things can spread very fast. Are the older people you know keeping up, and changing too?