The Aquarium Incident

"Comedy," as the axiom goes, "equals tragedy plus time." Having taught several students dealing with profoundly unfunny problems, however, I submit that there are some aspects of their tragedy that could never be transformed into humor: Velquisha's house burning down, for example. Or the eviction of Michael's family from their apartment. Or the incarceration of any number of my students' parents. In the case of my classroom aquarium, however, it only took two months for me to accept that there might be some comedic value to what initially appeared to be a completely unamusing situation.

Resting unsteadily atop a dilapidated bookcase crammed with a variety of neglected books, in an unswept corner of the room I'd designated (in more innocent and ambitious days) as our "classroom library," is an aquarium. It used to be the home of three goldfish, which I let various students name and feed on a weekly basis.* At this point of the school year, the fish are long dead, but I've kept the aquarium running, having found the sound of trickling water to be something of a calming influence in an otherwise hectic environment. Today the aquarium is a watery graveyard of broken pencils, arrowhead erasers, and other assorted detritus that the kids drop in when my back is turned. It is also a home to a family of cockroaches that crawl along its walls, by which my students are remarkably - and perhaps tellingly - unbothered. 

One afternoon this February, Xavyer was keeping himself occupied during a Social Studies lesson by taking apart a marker. Given that he was going about this business in a very surreptitious manner, I was unable to see exactly how he managed to remove the marker's stem of red ink from its plastic tube, but suffice to say he has a bright future as a mechanical engineer. As I turned around to write something about the Virginia Declaration of Rights on the whiteboard, I detected a patter of footsteps to and from the aquarium. I paused in time to see Xavyer scampering back to his seat, but by then it was too late. I watched with horror as the water turned a steadily deepening shade of red. Within minutes, the tank was filled with a liquid that looked, to the class's delight, exactly like blood. Compounding this problem was a surprise visit later that afternoon from my school's principal, who was less than thrilled by what she saw in the corner, and told me as such in her office later that day. She was graciously forgiving, however, and often jokes with me now about the "aquarium incident." 

*My behavior monitoring system (in teaching parlance, the "classroom management device") consists of a sheet of blue felt affixed to a closet door, on which laminated paper fish, each bearing the name of a student and a square of Velcro, move up and down across six levels, depending on that student's behavior. Students may move up the board (swim) after successfully completing a homework assignment or demonstrating appropriate conduct in the classroom, but are considerably more likely to be moved down the  board (sink) for things like throwing spitballs or yelling at me. The three best-behaved students at the end of the week earned the privilege of not only taking turns feeding the fish the next week, but giving a fish the name of their choice. By a comfortable margin, the most common fish name was "Souljafish." Other memorable names included "Big Killah" and "Fishy the Crackhead." These, mind you, were names dreamt up by my best-behaved students.