Saturday, November 10, 2012

teaching faux pas... feel free to laugh at me.......

In what feels like another lifetime, I taught a severely handicapped class of 12 kids under the age of nine. I was required to teach the class as part of my credentialing program, so I applied to teach a summer session. I was not qualified, didn’t have the appropriate supervision and had no idea of what I was walking into or what to do, so they hired me. I was supposed to teach them, entertain them and give them a solid curriculum for six weeks, four and a half hours a day, 135 hours total. I was terrified.


Two days before the summer session was to begin I was sent a list of twelve names with a disability code next to each name. In special education there are thirteen categories in which a child can qualify for services. These categories do not explain the child’s full self, limitations, strengths or needs. Many of the kids in that class were labeled with Multiple Disabilities (MD), Orthopedic Impairments, Autism and what then was called Mental Retardation. This was all of the information that I was given other than the classroom number in which I would be working in for the next six weeks.

The first day sprung on me like a lightening hitting my soul. I was 22 and greener than the rolling hills in the Sound of Music. 12 children appeared one by one in the doorway with a parent in tow. One of the kids, who I will call Charlie, brought me one of my favorite teaching faux pas stories.

Charlie was an active kid with multiple disabilities and some cognitive delays. He loved the playground! As soon as we would leave the classroom he would bolt off down the hallway, turn right at full speed, bust through the front doors of the school, down the six steps, across the playground and jump head first into the play structure. He was fast. He was quick. He was the bane of my palpitating heart. Charlie terrified me. Most nights I went home thankful that he was not wounded or dead and that I didn’t have to call his parents with this news of his physical demise.

Those first few days of teaching this class were all but entertaining and Charlie was not helpful in this matter. I found that I was constantly saying that phrase, “Charlie, no!” I must have repeated this phrase 350.2 times in 4.5 hours a day in hopes to stop Charlie from doing something. Charlie would hear me say, “Charlie, No!”  and he would look at me, flash his dirty hands at me, smirk and run the opposite direction. He made my 22 year old self so frustrated and angry. He would not stop. I was being outwitted by a damn 5 year old. No matter how many times I told him ‘no,’ Charlie would not stop!

I finally relented and decided that I was going to have to admit defeat and call Charlie’s parents. I was going to have to ask them for help. I could no longer pretend to manage this little boy’s behavior. I was defeated.

That night I went home, grabbed the phone receiver, put it between my ear and shoulder, pulled out the list with all of the kid’s names and phone numbers on it that the principal gave me upon request, found Charlie’s name and dropped the phone, the list and my jaw into my lap. I sat in utter shock staring at the wall. I could not cry, I could not laugh, I could not speak and I could not move. That five year old boy that had tortured me for 7 work days, 31.5 hours, and mocked me when I exclaimed, “Charlie, No!” over and over each day actually had a reason. His name was Charlie Noh.

This was clearly not my finest moment as a teacher. For 7 work days, 7 days of summer session, 31.5 hours this five year old boy simply thought I was saying his name and greeting him. Not once did this child think that I was trying to get him to stop what he was doing. Simply, I was saying, “Charlie Noh!” Simply I was just saying his name. Charlie must have thought I really liked him. Charlie must have thought I was nuts. For 31.5 hours I called his name, over and over and over again … Charlie Noh.

The following morning I took the kids out of the classroom to head to the playground, and Charlie bolted off down the hallway, turned right at full speed, busted through the front doors of the school, down the six steps, across the playground and jumped head first into the play structure. When I finally caught up with him I said loudly, “Charlie, stop!”….. and he stopped.




Saturday, November 3, 2012

they cheered as the kid hit the police officer.....

I recently found an old journal of mine from many years ago. I thought I would share this entry about a boy and his schoolmates and their aggression for authority.


It hasn’t been a good day for the education system. In San Diego a student opened fire in a school. Two dead, thirteen wounded and hundreds scarred with the memories and fears.

Closer to home, a seventh grade student hit a teacher in the face with the cast on his arm. He hit the teacher several times. The teacher didn’t fight back. He tried to put his hands up in defense of his bloody face. The child taunted him and kept swinging at him. The boy yelled profanities at the teacher and called him names. “Pussy! Chicken! Asshole!”

One of the other teachers called 911. You could hear the sirens coming from a mile away. The squad car squealed to a stop at the front of the school. The boy continued to hit and chase the bloody teacher. The boy didn’t respond to the police officers.

The officer kept yelling for the boy to stop and drop to the ground. Suddenly, the boy ran up to the officer and hit him twice in the face with his cast. He kept swinging until the officer finally was able to get the boy onto the ground. The boy continued to scream and try to fight the officer.

All of this occurred at the end of the school day. The bell rang and the entire student body exited onto the playground as the officer took the boy to the ground. He was trying to control the aggressive boy. The students laughed, some cried, but most cheered for their fellow student to continue to try and hit the officer. Some jumped up and down and screamed “oohhss” and “ahhhs” when the boy squirmed out from under the officer and managed to hit him in shoulder. The kids clapped and cheered. 

I was stunned by the how the authority figures had fallen in the eyes of the children. Children do not hold the same beliefs about teachers or police officers that they did when I was growing up. Never would a student hit a teacher. Never would it be expected by the staff either. It has been as sad, sad day.
(written in 2000)

a childs horror story.....

Several years ago I worked with a young girl. She was bright, a little overweight and fraught with sadness. Some of the days she came into the room and said that her name was Betty. It was forever unclear if the young girl suffered from Multiple Personality Disorder or if she just created Betty to avoid dealing with her own pain. Betty was cruel. 


I worked with her for two years and she had regular meltdowns which resulted in her crawling into a ball in the closest corner and scream wails of inner pain. If anyone came near her she would scream, “Get away from me daddy. I don’t want you to touch me anymore!” Her pain was blasted through the hallways. Tears streamed from her face creating a puddle on her clenched hands that were wrapped tightly around her knees. She rocked back and forth and would swat at anyone if they got too close to her. She sobbed and screamed, sobbed and screamed, sobbed and screamed. 

It would take at minimum twenty minutes for me to calm her down. Once she was calm she would climb to her feet, slap a smile on and everything would be happy and okay again. I called child protection agencies on numerous occasions, but they never did anything for this young girl.
Day after day she would come to my room and tell me of some horrible sadness or wrong that was inflicted upon her. Betty, her imaginary friend, often would hurt her. She would show me bruises and cuts that were supposedly inflicted by Betty. I spent countless hours documenting her pain and making calls to local agencies, but nobody ever came to her aid. 

The girl was never afraid to share her hurt. It was obvious to me that her inner pain was taking over her entire being. One afternoon she wrote me a letter. To this day I wake up at night sweating and worrying about this young girl. I don’t know where she ended up or if she made it out of her own personal horror story. 

I have an imaginary friend named Betty. Betty messes up my room and then blames me. She is my sister and my imaginary friend. She is five years old. She deletes files on my computer and that is what really burns me up.

My dad is attached to me. I don’t know why. He was my primary caregiver when my mom was away (at work). My mom and dad don’t get along. When it happens sometimes I am cranky because I can’t sleep because of the arguing. It makes me sad. 

My mom goes over to other mens houses. She is kissing them and hugging them like they are her own husband. 

My mom spends a lot of time out of the house. I have two sisters. One is older and one is younger. I like them. We talk about when our parents fight. Betty usually makes raspberries at me and I have to hit her to make her stop. It makes me sad, like I will never be cheerful again as long as my parents fight. 

I like writing stories. 

Betty and I fight about who sleeps on the top bunk and who sleeps on the bottom. One night she snuck up to the top bunk and pushed me off. Do you know what happened? I broke my leg. A year ago, one day just for fun I kicked Betty down the stairs and she broke her leg and I said “revenge” real loud.

(names and identifying information have been changed to protect the children involved)