I’m lugging some big, black bags to some large bins, through a globally warmed monsoon. It is mid-morning. I spot some “youths” huddling behind said bins, failing to hide. Five of them, two girls, three boys, probably 6th formers bunking the local, whizzo Academy. They regard me sheepishly – an intrusive, glum pensioner in the toxic rain – through a fug of thick smoke. They’re smoking dope.
One boy rolls Rizlas, skins up. They giggle stupidly with illegal smiles. Shall I shop them? Shall I lecture them? Probably not. I don’t need the grief or the verbals and, besides, I’ve paid my debt to society. Now it’s your turn.
I hurl the bags in the bins and turn to go.
My goodness, they cut a sad sight. Is school worse than this? They should be dry and warm and learning things. They’re going to need every C grade they can get in Mr Osborne’s Grim New World.
My dilemma returns. I ponder the ethical nuances. I start to feel even more sorry for them. There but for fortune go you and I. Whatever, I must confront them. I go into teacher mode.
“Good morning boys and girls!” They stare at the ground.
“I think you should be in school.”
Truculence. Panic.
“Look, I know what you’re doing.”
Silence.
I rehearse some familiar territory. “It’s too early to be out of it ... skunk ... research has shown ... drugs dangerous ... illegal.”
Two community coppers waddle by. Shall I call them?
One boy inhales his spliff very deeply in my face. Not easy, because the paper is quite sodden.
“But we ain’t doin’ nothing!!”
Ah, the legendary phrase. I’ve heard it for 40 years. That flat denial of a misdemeanour as it is being enacted. All those negatives. They’ve always not been doing nothing, not ever, not nohow, not once in their whole lives. It’s what they do.
“What exactly are you not doing?”
“I ain’t doin’ no weed!”
My eyes and nose suggest otherwise. Perhaps I’m hallucinating? I could well be passively high. I threaten to call their headteacher. The girls look very scared. The boy finishes his joint and drops it a puddle.
“Evidence?”
He stares at me. I’d like to have him, but the others just seem so lost and lonely. If I shop them, it will go on their files.
They could get a criminal record.
“Please, please don’t!” begs one of the girls. She has a concave, undernourished face. I linger. I pause. I let them sweat. I shrug. They dawdle sadly off, smirking that I’m a soft touch. Well, am I?
Should I have called the head?
Would you?
- Ian Whitwham is a former inner city London teacher.