When Good Snacks Go Bad in Class

Managing a classroom filled with thirty-three lively sophomore students is a test of both patience and ingenuity on its own, but introducing wheeled desks and chairs elevated the experience to a lively, ever-shifting spectacle. Despite my three decades of teaching experience, it took every bit of my expertise to sustain focus and maintain discipline. Each lesson began with the scraping and scuffling of furniture as students found inventive ways to glide across the floor or spin in place, turning the classroom into a scene that would make a choreographer jealous.  It became clear that my standard procedures required adjustment—group activities evolved rapidly as students clustered together and dispersed within moments, and effective supervision now involved monitoring not only for questions, but also for sudden rolling competitions and spontaneous dance routines. However, I found that by directing their need for movement into group projects or physically engaging games—and offering snacks as rewards for attentiveness—I could turn their high energy into productive participation.

A student of mine, let’s refer to him as Mark, tested my ability to manage the classroom more than most others. His restless energy and constant talking often diverted the attention of everyone around him. There was one particular day when Mark showed up late and instantly disrupted the lesson I’d carefully organized.

With enthusiasm, he burst into room 029 and called out, “Hey, Obner! How’s it goin’?”

I turned away from the whiteboard, responding with a friendly, “Mark, please get your grammar book from the cabinet. We’re starting on page seventy-two today.”

He replied, “Do you have a snack?”

I answered, “No snacks today, Mark. We’re focusing on participles right now. Please grab your book and sit down.”

But Mark persisted: “I want a snack. Do you have one? I’m STARVING. I need something to eat. I know you stash snacks in your cabinet.”

At this point, the lesson had come to a halt and my patience was wearing thin. I told him, “Mark, I’m not handing out snacks. Please sit down.”

He shouted even louder, “I NEED A SNACK! I’M HUNGRY! GIVE ME ONE! I’m going to DIE if I don’t eat!”

I let out a deep sigh, exasperated, before proposing, “If I give you something to eat, will you sit quietly and work on your grammar?”

His face lit up, and he assured me, “Definitely, Miss! I’ll tackle grammar like never before.”

Feeling utterly exasperated after a long day of managing chaos, I opened the cupboard, a time-honored solution to countless minor crises, and handed him a bag of mini muffins. Mark's eyes lit up with anticipation, ripped open the bag, and eagerly snarfed down the muffins, barely pausing to appreciate their flavor. In that instant, his enthusiasm was infectious, briefly making me forget my frustrations.

As I turned back to the board to continue the grammar lesson, a sudden chorus of gasps pulled my attention toward the classroom. I heard a disturbing gagging noise, and before I could fully comprehend what was happening, I saw Mark slump forward, collapsing onto his desk. The next moment was chaotic; a puddle of vomit spread across the surface as Mark’s head drooped into the mess. Students recoiled in shock and confusion, some covering their mouths while others scrambled to get out of their seats. The air was thick with the acrid odor, and I rushed to Mark’s side, my heart pounding in my chest, trying to assess his condition and calm the class while immediately calling for the school nurse. The ordinary lesson had abruptly transformed into an emergency, reminding us all how quickly the atmosphere in a classroom can change.

Soon the nurse arrived with a wheelchair, her face taut with concern. The concerned banter and squeals of disgust fell into a heavy silence, each student acutely aware that something serious was happening. Mark, still slumped over his desk unconscious, needed immediate assistance. Without hesitation, I moved to help, gently supporting his left shoulder while the nurse supported his right. Together, we managed to transfer Mark into the wheelchair, making sure not to jostle him. The experience was unnerving, and as the nurse quickly wheeled Mark out of the classroom, I glanced around to see my students wide-eyed and hushed, a sense of worry and solidarity uniting us.

Amidst the silence, I rolled the puke-ridden desk into the hallway, carefully maneuvering it to avoid trailing the mess across the classroom floor. The sour stench lingered in the air, making it impossible for anyone nearby to ignore what had happened. I wrinkled my nose and did my best to steady the desk, hoping it wouldn’t tip and worsen the situation. Once in the hall, I called the maintenance department, knowing that their expertise and supplies were desperately needed to sanitize the area. As I waited for them to arrive, I foolishly attempted to return to the grammar lesson we had been studying before Mark's unfortunate snack attack.

No longer able to focus on grammar, my students shifted their attention to talking about the different substances—namely drugs and alcohol—that Mark admitted to using earlier that day. Our class discussion expanded well beyond past participles as students began to share their own experiences and voice their worries about Mark’s actions. This frank exchange brought us closer together and provided an opportunity to address topics like peer influence and the importance of individual decisions. Accepting that my grammar plan was no longer relevant, I decided to engage in this meaningful, real-world conversation that resonated with my students’ daily lives. By participating in such an open and sometimes challenging discussion, my classroom became a place to explore personal wellbeing and empathy in a supportive environment.

Soon, a pair of heroes arrived wheeling a yellow cart equipped with a wet-vac, absorbent powder, and a bucket of soapy water. All conversation ceased, while with practiced efficiency they sprinkled the powder over any spots on the floor, allowing it to soak up the mess before vacuuming it away and thoroughly scrubbing the area to remove any lingering traces or odors. Their calm professionalism helped ease the tension in the room, and soon enough, the scent of disinfectants signaled that life in the classroom could return to normal. The class let out a collective sigh of relief, grateful for the janitors who quietly restored order amidst the chaos.

After everyone had left and it was just us, I settled comfortably on my high stool and looked at my students. “Today’s events were frightening,” I confessed, “yet it’s your sincerity and kindness towards one another that set this group apart.” There were nods around the room, a few students still looking shaken, yet an atmosphere of togetherness remained—a shared experience that had changed us, if only a little.

Later that day, I received news from the nurse: Mark was at home recovering from the lingering effects of his poor choices. He would be out for a few days, giving him—and all of us—time to reflect.

In the days that followed, my lesson plans made more space for check-ins and real talk. We didn’t just return to grammar; we returned to our classroom as a community that supported each other, flaws and all. Mark’s desk waited for him, scrubbed clean, a quiet reminder of challenge, resilience, and the unexpected lessons that sometimes matter most. And though I still kept snacks in my cabinet, I never forgot how one small act of kindness—and a bag of mini muffins—could be the spark for so much more than a lesson about participles.