43- Mexican Junk

The first voice I heard this morning was The Intimidator’s. She was living up to her nickname by intimidating children. Her booming voice wound through two hallways and traveled over 400 feet to reach my ears. Her yells were muffled, but as I neared the mad woman, her words became clear.
“DON’T YOU EVER LET ME HEAR YOU SPEAKING THAT JUNK IN MY SCHOOL AGAIN. OH, NO! NOT IN MY SCHOOL!”
I figured that some kids must have been caught using profanity, giving The Intimidator a perfect excuse to exercise her iron lungs of discipline. As I approached the commotion, I started to get a little nervous. It sounded like The Intimidator’s voice was awfully close to my classroom.
“THERE IS NO ROOM FOR THAT KIND OF LANGUAGE IN THIS SCHOOL. IN THIS SCHOOL, STUDENTS SPEAK ENGLISH. ENGLISH! NONE OF THAT MEXICAN JUNK.”
Mexican junk? What was The Intimidator talking about?
My fears were confirmed as I turned onto the hallway of my classroom. Backed against the wall, next to my classroom door were two of my ESOL (English as a Second Language) students. The Intimidator had crouched down to be at eye level with the girls. She wagged and waved her arms in the air while she ranted; taking breaks only to point a menacing finger in each child’s face. One of the girls, Yocelin from Cuba, had started to cry. The other, Linda from Mexico, defiantly held The Intimidator’s stare.
“AH! YOUR TEACHER WILL TELL ME IF SHE CATCHES YOU SPEAKING THAT MEXICAN TALK IN YOUR CLASSROOM.” The Intimidator’s white teeth gleamed in my direction. I gave a little nod, because unless I wanted to find a new job, I had to pretend that I supported The Intimidator.
Even though I had no idea what was happening, I paused outside of my classroom door and put my hands on my hips. I looked at my students and tried to send them apologies with my eyes.
“These students know that they are not supposed to speak Spanish in our school. Unless they are in ESOL or Spanish class, they must speak English. I can’t be having my students run around here speaking the wrong language. Oh, no!” The Intimidator’s finger wagged in the children’s faces. “WHAT LANGUAGE ARE YOU GOING TO SPEAK AROUND HERE?” She poked the girls in the chest with her fat finger, “I’M ASKING YOU!”
Yocelin began to stutter. “Ingles! Ingles! Ingles!” The small girl had barely lived in the United States 6 months and was struggling greatly with her English.
Linda coldly allowed one word to slip from her lips, “English.”
“ENGLISH!” The Intimidator barked back. Then, the blubbery battleaxe turned and marched briskly up the hallway and out of sight.
Normally, my students sit in the hallway outside of the classroom until the homeroom bell rings. This morning, I allowed Linda and Yocelin to come in early. I didn’t say a word about the incident with The Intimidator, but I did give them each a granola bar and a juice box. I turned on the TV and let them watch cartoons until the bell rang.
How could The Intimidator, a school administrator, be so ignorant and so cruel?