There is a coldness at the heart of humanity. Dark days amplify our fear of outsiders. Those whose appearance and behaviour are alien to our own are perceived as a threat. Apprehension and loathing keep guard at the door. But is this desire to keep intruders at bay healthy? Is it right to subject those who exist at the shadowy margins of our cosy lives to cruelty when they inadvertently invade our space? Can prejudice ever be an excuse for cold-blooded murder?
Acts of extreme intolerance are often born out of an irrational fear. Nobody expected him to be in the corridor in the middle of the afternoon. But other than being in the wrong place at the wrong time, what harm was he doing? He wasn’t running. He wasn’t damaging displays. He wasn’t stomping around burning with injustice, or kicking a football at Miss Watson’s autumn leaf collage. Technically speaking, he was doing handstands, but nothing worse.
A scream gatecrashes my classroom and I rush to see what’s happening
Ms Cunningham’s screams gatecrash my classroom and I rush out to see what’s happening. I half-expect to find her being beaten to a bloody pulp by a child armed with an ADHD diagnosis and a Unihoc stick. She isn’t and, frankly, I’m disappointed. It has always been my view that any teacher worth their salt should, no matter the provocation, resist the urge to shriek like a demented chimpanzee.
“What is it?” I ask.
“It’s a massive spider,” she wails, pointing desperately at the floor.
A web of intrigue
I squint in the direction of her index finger. I put on my reading glasses and squint again. I elect not to mention my concerns about teachers who (encouraged by government writing targets) use adjectives to exaggerate rather than accurately describing nouns. The creature is considerably less massive than Ms Cunningham’s reaction to it.
Ever since I read Charlotte’s Web, I’ve had a soft spot for spiders. Normally I trap them in a glass to avoid leg damage. But right now there isn’t a glass available, so my only course of action is to encourage it to step into my hand. Unfortunately, it misinterprets my intentions and, having recourse to eight legs and lightning reflexes, makes a successful bid to escape.
The creature is considerably less massive than Ms Cunningham’s reaction to it
“Oh my God, where’s it gone? I saw it scuttle across your shoe,” says Ms Cunningham from her kneeling position on the autumn display table. “It must be somewhere. It might be on you? It might have run up your trouser leg!” I sigh, assure her it hasn’t, and go back into class.
A few minutes later, Jason, who for the most part has an arachnid-like ability to remain motionless for hours on end, unexpectedly walks up to me and announces to everyone that I have a spider on my sleeve.
For the pupils, there are three types of reaction to the news that a foreign invader has occupied a teacher’s sleeve. One is to run away, screaming hysterically. Another is to gather around it in morbid fascination. The third is brutal and simplistic.
In less than the time it takes to say, “Leave it alone, it’s perfectly harmless,” Jason knocks it to the ground and stamps it into oblivion.
Steve Eddison teaches at Arbourthorne Community Primary School in Sheffield
