As you can imagine, not everyone is a fan of the detention supervisor. Wednesday afternoons at school, all the students attend special workshops they’ve signed up for. Cooking class, quilting, welding, native appreciation, stuff like that. If a student is late for their activity, they must go to the homework room for the whole period. Some students just get sent to homework automatically, perhaps because they have misbehaved earlier in the day. Either way, I sat at the desk in the homework/detention class and read my book to myself. Students opened up sketchbooks or started origami projects. I didn’t really care what they did, I was just there to make sure they weren’t jumping out windows or running away. This is not a dramatic exaggeration for storytelling purposes, but rather a reality at Ross River School.
Two girls decided that my habit of asking them to stop running away from class was unfavourable. I didn’t give them the benefit of my attention when they decided to write “shit” and “fuck” on the blackboard, giggling and looking over at me, waiting for me to get all teacher-angry. At that point it was more productive for me to count down the ticking clock than try and reprimand them. I decided they did not in fact need to take a fourth bathroom break in under 20 minutes, so I reminded them that they could choose to stay in class or see the principal. This worked for a little bit, as they’d shuffle back to the detention class giggling and whispering, making sure I heard my name interjected in their gossip.
This dance of leaving class, being called back, sulking and giggling circulated for about another 10 rounds before they tried again and I stoop up and headed to the door, indicating I’d be involving the principal.
“Girls, stay in the room. You don’t get another break for at least 20 minutes.”
One girl pretended she didn’t hear me correctly.
“What did you say?”
I repeated.
“I can’t understand you,” she said. Giggles shared between them. One whispered something to the other, and nudged her to say it to me.
“We don’t understand white speak.”
I asked them what, exactly, that meant, because as far as I knew, we were both speaking English.
“You’re too white and stupid to understand,” said one.
“Well, maybe you should teach me then. Explain to me what you mean so that I may learn from you,” I answered.
“We’re smarter than you, we speak the language, and you’re too stupid and white.”
Quite a mouthful of racial epithets to come from the mouth of a ten-year old, I thought. One needn’t wonder too long to deduce from what gardener such thoughts may have been planted in a majority native community.
I knew the principal was busy, but I wasn’t about to argue with these kids or put on a show for the other students in class. We took it to the principal, a white male of Slovakian descent. He was not too impressed. I doubt the girls are sorry, and we’ll see what happens next time. For now, I sit on the other side, wondering what it’s going to be like being the racial minority belittled for my skin colour. Who would have thought a white, Gap-wearing girl from Orleans would be saying that.

Labels: racism, Ross River, School