As the boys were getting ready to leave my Form 3 woodworking class one day, one of my students came over to me and whispered to me that Lionel was stealing a chisel. I quickly stood up and told them all to return to their seats. They did, because in Swaziland, when a teacher says to do something, the students do it. No one ever disputed my right to give orders while at school. I could see, as Lionel returned to his seat, that he had something long in his pocket. I walked over to him when everybody was sitting.

Me: Lionel, please give me the chisel that is in your right pants pocket.

Lionel: (looking at me in surprise) Yes sir

He took it out and handed it to me, in the Sam Prescribed Way To Hand A Sharp Tool To Someone Else. I guess he had been listening to that lesson. I walked back and put it in the slot where it lived on the tool thingy. 

Me: Which bench uses the #5 tools? Raise your hands.

All 4 boys at one bench raised their hands.

Me: Good. So boys, I want you to think about this. Had Lionel been successful in …um… appropriating… that 1 inch chisel, the most frequently used chisel in your set, what would you have done tomorrow when you needed it? Please take the security of the tools you have to use seriously. Always check before you leave class that all your tools are back on the rack, and ready for you to use tomorrow. If any are missing, look for them before you leave, or come and tell me. Oh, and one more thing… I have put some muti on the tools that will allow me to find any tools that are missing, even if they are not here at school. 

Muti is the swazi word for magic. Everybody believed in it. Properties near the city had signs that said PROTECTED BY MUTI, and nobody went there. I was not a big believer in muti, as the swazis saw it, not that there is not magic in the universe, but I had some reservations that it was effective for protecting property. Or in making people sick. Which is often how people saw sickness, as something sent upon them by the witch doctors. But though I didn’t give it much credence, I was not averse to using what was available. I doubted that a single student thought that I was BS-ing about putting muti on the tools. Whatever works.

I walked over to the scrap pile, and picked up a long stick that had some whippyness to it, and motioned Lionel to follow me. All the boys were wide eyed. Corporal punishment was the system in Swazi schools, and students got whacked for the most insignificant of offenses. Then I walked around the corner of the loading dock door, and into the other room, where we did drawings of plans for projects. Lionel followed. 

I was hoist on the horns of a dilemma. I do not support hitting a child. For anything. I got hit a lot as a kid, and it just made me resent my dad. I don’t think I ever learned anything from one of his thrashings, except to be more clever next time I tried whatever it was I was being hit for. But stealing a chisel was a pretty serious thing, and I couldn’t afford to replace many, on my $200 per month pay. And I wanted to make a point for the whole class, with Lionel. To nip future thefts in the bud if I could. All the students in the room next door were listening. Maybe I could just give him one swat, to make my point with him, and be done with it. I was really offended that he had tried to steal the chisel. I had Lionel assume the position, with his hands on the teachers desk, bent over, looking ahead at the chalkboard.

Me: Lionel, did you by chance have a project going on at home, for which you needed to borrow the chisel? Maybe something to repair in your house?

Lionel: No sir.

Me: So you were not intending to return the chisel?

Lionel: No sir.

Shit! I thought. Now what am I gonna do? I guess I will have to go through with it. I drew the stick back, and whipped it around in the air, making Lionel, hearing it, shift nervously. I drew back again. My mind was filled with how I felt when I saw my dad’s fist come down from on high, and smash into me. It is an awful feeling. I can’t hit this kid. I just can’t. In frustration, I threw the stick as hard as I could across the classroom, and into an old metal sink there, simultaneously shouting, SONOFABITCH! as loud as I could, expressing my frustration with myself. The stick clanged into the sink loudly, and from my shout and the clanging, Lionel jumped about two feet into the air.

Me: (whispering to Lionel) I am very mad that you tried to steal from our tools. DO NOT say a word about what went on in here out of sight of the class, not one word. Do you understand?

Lionel: Yes sir. I will not.

Me: If I catch you ever stealing another tool, you will not be allowed to return to woodworking, and instead, will sit in the headmasters office every day at class time for the rest of the year. Do you understand this?

Lionel: Yes sir.

Me: Now get out of here. (and more loudly) Class dismissed!

And they all headed like a herd of turtles out the door. The rest of the semester I was heartened to see the boys making a conscious effort to go and check their tools on the rack as they were leaving the class. There were no more thefts by Lionel or anybody that semester. The following semester, someone smashed one of the skylights in the roof and jumped down and stole a whole complete set of tools, and the police got involved, and I had to go to Swazi National Court to testify, but that is a whole nother story.

Never hit a child. Teach them instead.   <3 

That is, after all, what I am here for. In the classroom, and in my life.