Commentary

A lesson in learning

July 16, 2026   ·   0 Comments

By Anthony Carnovale

Truthfully, I’ve forgotten most of what I was taught in Teacher’s College. I have managed to hold onto a few interesting practices and ideas. The idea of the open classroom, scaffolding, and transgressive ideas around de-schooling have always stuck with me.

My favourite is the concept of ‘the hidden curriculum’: the unwritten, unofficial lessons beyond the curriculum. Lessons like: how teachers interact with students, school rules, classroom routines, peer relationships, and institutional culture.

Here’s a recent example:

It was the last day of exams. I had just finished marking the multiple-choice component of my Grade 12 exams. We had just wrapped up, and students were in the halls clearing out their lockers. I was headed to the staffroom, mulling over my year-end to-do list, when a colleague entered the intersection of the hallway.

She was walking beside a student, guiding him by his arm. As they turned to walk in the direction I was headed, the boy looked back in my direction. He looked so calm, serene. At the same time, he turned his face away from me, the teacher whipped her head around and yelled: “Sir, I need your help, right now!”

Now, this being high school in 2026, I was used to fights, accidents, fire alarms, hold-and-secures, and lockdowns. I wasn’t sure what she was asking of me, so I picked up the pace and followed her. It wasn’t until I almost slipped that I realized that something serious had happened.

Drops of blood covered the entire width of the hallway. Just then, a student ran past me and up to the teacher and student/victim and pleaded: “It wasn’t a knife. I swear, I don’t have a knife.” He looked back at me before running out of the building.

Friends of the student/victim (a few were students of mine) were frantic. They were screaming. Yelling. I could see it in their eyes — somebody was going to pay. I put my hand on one kid’s shoulder; he was stiff as a board, tense. I told him to be smart, to please not do anything stupid.

We got the student/victim into the office. Administrators cleared the room, drew the curtains, and sat the boy down. I stood outside the office to make sure no one entered. I remember taking a peek through the office window and seeing a pool of blood around a pair of Nike shoes.  

I mean, what does a teacher do after an incident like this?

Well, one suggestion might be to turn it into a teachable moment.

I could use it to teach the meaning of ‘irony’. After all, our school motto is:  ‘Justice, Love and Peace’. Maybe I could design a lesson around the role that guilt plays in the Catholic community. Like the guilt I felt, and still feel, at not having been able to do more to help. The guilt hit hard. For me. My colleague. The custodian.

Me (to my colleague): I’m sorry I didn’t do more to help. How was I supposed to know?

Colleague (to me): I’m sorry I didn’t better inform you. How was I supposed to know?  

Custodian (to police): Yes. Officer. I mopped up all the blood before you got here. How was I supposed to know?

And then I got to thinking: what if some of the students/witnesses were inspired by the incident/crime?

So, I did a little research. Did you know that there are programs at the post-secondary level that study this sort of thing?

Bloodstain pattern analysis is the investigation of the size, shape, location, and distribution of bloodstains. Did you know that a blood stain could be passive? I learned that passive blood stains are the result of gravity — they form circles wherever they fall.

The higher the fall, the larger the drop (like the large drops I walked through). And that these types of drops will form a pool beneath a motionless victim (see Nike shoes). I’m going to forward this information to our guidance counsellors.

Maybe they’ll consider a career in medicine. What about forensics, emergency services? What about art? After seeing all that blood splatter on the hallway floor, maybe they’ll come to appreciate abstract art, try to emulate the drip paintings of Pollock, or smear paintings of Richter or De Kooning. Art is so not dead!

A civics class would be the perfect place to examine the role of politicians in this province. They could examine the Ontario government’s new ad campaign promoting their plan to make Ontario safer by building more jails, reducing auto theft, and restoring safety to parks and neighbourhoods. In media class, they can talk about the role of media in politics, and maybe ask the question: why no mention of safety in our schools?

Or maybe they’ll see my colleague as a hero, someone who intervened in a violent altercation to help a student/victim. Maybe, they’ll consider a career in education. (I highly doubt it. Teachers are never thought of as heroes. Not like our police officers or military personnel).

If anything, maybe we — teachers and students — can see it as another lesson in resiliency. With all the money that’s been cut from the education system, we can all learn to do a little more with so much less. I think my colleague using a piece of tissue paper to stop the blood gushing from the boy’s wound is a perfect example of this. Don’t you?

A teacher once told me that it’s important to meet students where they’re at when dealing with individual students.

At my school, that means in the port-a-potty, out in the field, where students are smoking dope. In the bus shelter, across the street from the school, where students are smoking dope. In the school washrooms where students are vaping, fighting and, you guessed it, smoking dope.

Three years ago, a student of mine was out pulling robberies before coming to class to work on his personal narrative assignment (which would explain his 23 absences and 38 lates).

And yet, I show up every day, not because I have to, but because I want to. I’m where I need to be. I’m where I’m needed. If you knew what these kids had to live with, what their lives look like, inside and outside of the classroom, maybe you’d be compelled to show up too. Maybe you’d see that they’re unhealthy, in need of our help, our love, our compassion.

Did I ever tell you about the mother in prison for selling guns? Or the grandmother who beat her granddaughter with a coat hanger?

When I got home that day, I did something I’ve never had to do in my career before: I checked the bottom of my shoes — I didn’t want to bring any blood into my home.

After taking them off, I set down my bags and made myself an espresso. I emailed my colleague to check in on how she was doing (and to apologize for not doing more).

After pressing send, I settled onto the couch, closed my eyes, and waited for my children to come through the door, eager to hear about everything they had learned at school that day.

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