$4.95 well spent

It was $4.95 well spent.  I found it at a toy store at the mall.  It was called an echo mic.  A plastic microphone that echoed as you talked into it.  It was nonelectric, not sure how it worked, but it was fun.  I stuck it in my bag before I went to school and hoped it would make for a fun day.

            After the kids arrived and we finished with our morning self-care, I decided to do a little song for them using the echo mic.  I really hammed it up and enjoyed the varied responses—jumping by Joe, Patrick rubbed his ear hard, Eric with his eyes closed moved his head back and forth, growling by David, Darryl stood back pointing to me while looking away and said, “Jo, look!”, Cate and Michael danced, Shyna and Kathy sat and laughed,  Deena unfortunately was having an unhappy day so she just slapped herself and whined to the beat. 

            The kids were dying to have a try at it, so our music time turned into a small talent show.  Eric did his best BB King imitation and was the only one who sung into the mic.  Joe  repeated his name over and over, jerking back and forth to the echo.  Michael asked if it was time for lunch.  I gave an echoing “no” in response.  Cate fretted about a possible fire drill.  David wouldn’t even give us a growl and Patrick didn’t engage at all.  But it was fun.

                        Later in the afternoon, we were all relaxing after working on individual goals and workshop skills.  Joan and I decided to do a “talk show” with the kids, using them as our guests.  We set up the room with the desk being the spot for the "host", and a chair for the featured guest.  We positioned the other kids in rows in front of the desk to act as our attentive audience.

       Joan was my first guest as we modeled the question/answer format for the kids. After her performance as a guest, she became my co-host. 

      Eric sat in the guest seat and crossed his legs.  I peppered him with questions about his favorite singers and movie stars as well as with questions about the weather outside (might as well throw in some season identification, eh?).  He leaned into the echo mic and answered my questions with his nonsense words but his mannerisms were so appropriate that I knew he had spent a portion of his life watching talk shows with his mom.

       Joe was excited to be our next guest and did a demonstration of can smashing for our audience (Joan’s idea).  Then we started talking about money. 

            “Hey Joe,” I said, “you know, I’m a bit low on cash.  Could I borrow a couple dollars from you?” I held the echo mic out for his response.

            He nervously pulled his two side pockets inside out, and replied, “I’m flat busted.”

            Joan and I looked at each other and burst into laughter as the kids danced their individual jigs while chanting their mantras. 

            It was a fun day.

            …Definitely $4.95 well spent.   

Sensory is the key...

Life settled in our classroom.  Pretty soon, my students seemed “normal” to me and I noticed how boring the rest of the world seemed.  I would talk to people at church and walk away feeling as though “something was missing” because I could sense they didn’t share their true feelings. 

            There was one man at church, however, who gave me his true thoughts after my husband, Michael, had preached for the first time as the associate pastor.  As I mentioned in an earlier blog, I grew up in a fairly conservative denomination.  As a child, I was raised in a home without swearing and that was certainly a standard I held for myself at this time in my life.  Even though I was more comfortable when people swore after hearing it all day, every day in my classroom, it still caught me off guard outside the classroom.

            This particular Sunday, Michael had preached a very nice sermon.  His delivery was excellent and the words he shared were memorable (even though I have NO IDEA what the sermon was about now).  After the service, Tommy approached me.  Tommy was a man small in stature of Hawaiian and Japanese descent.  He came up to about my shoulders and immediately got into my space, pointing his index finger at my chin.

            “I want you to know,” he said, “that Son of a Bitch is going to be a great man someday!” 

            It was one of those moments that renders one speechless.  I didn’t know whether to say thank you or to punch him out.   I think I tried to be gracious and then looked for an escape route.  In addition to learning to be a teacher, I was also in training for being a minister’s wife.  I thought learning to be a teacher at this point was  easier and definitely a lot more fun!!

            Our routine at school never became boring.  Joan and I worked hard to find ways to make experiences as sensory as possible.  I had talked to other teachers and had read a bit on my own.  I learned “sensory” was the key.  If an experience was sensory, it was more likely to integrate the learning content into the student’s knowledge base.  The question we asked ourselves constantly was “what senses will the students have to use in this activity?” 

            We tried to engage the sense of sight first, eventually moving to the sense of touch.  The more extreme the experience, the better.  So, on the first day of snow, my mind began to turn.  What could I do to make this an “experience”  for my students? 

            After we settled in the classroom and completed our morning routine, I told Joan, “Take all the kids over to the window and make them watch the snow for a few minutes, I’ll be right back.” 

            I bundled myself up and went out into the falling snow.  It was one of those magical snows where it was coming down so hard I felt I was the plastic character in a snow globe that someone had just given a good shake.

            I stood in front of our classroom window and waved to the kids looking out.  I caught snowflakes on my tongue and walked in circles, pointing to my boot prints.  I laid on the ground making a snow angel and generally acted like an idiot.  Then it was time to take it to the next level.  I made soft snowballs and threw one at each face in the window.  They laughed and pointed each time I hit someone’s face.  They were so tickled and excited.  When I hit Joan’s face, I could hear Darryl’s “Jo, look  cold” through the class.  Ok, now the next level.  I grabbed an armful of snow and headed for the classroom.  I had no sooner entered the classroom when Mr. Brock’s voice came over the PA system, “Excuse me teachers for the interruption.  Students let me remind you of our rule regarding the snow.   There are absolutely NO snowballs allowed on school grounds.  If you are caught throwing or making  snowballs, you will be sent home immediately.  Thank you.”

            I looked at my armful of snow, now a puddle on our carpeted floor.  “So much for that sensory experience.” I said as I tried to fit my mind in the small rigid box presented to me through that announcement.  Joan, my ever present cheerleader smiled, “Don’t worry!  The kid’s loved that and we can scoop in some more snow through the window.  Some rules are okay to break—but maybe no more snowballs at the window.”   I laughed as we scooped some snow in through the window for the kids to touch.    

The Winner's Circle

I seriously considered quitting my job as a teacher.  I felt like a loser and a failure.  I kept asking myself if there was something I could have done differently.  Could I have used a different behavior modification plan to help Rich?  Could I have tolerated more, complained less, given more, or required less?  But no matter how I looked at it, I knew it was true.  We could not possibly compromise the safety of the other students to save one.  It was a tough lesson, but one I have had to face many times throughout my 22 years of teaching.

            After Rich left the classroom, school became fun again.  We returned to our previous routines, dancing together in the mornings to Hap Palmer records, teaching individual self-care skills, and tallying how many cans Joe could smash in a minute.  We continued our walks outdoors and even successfully made cookies   in our classroom a couple of times.  But then something really BIG happened!  Something so big that I knew I would never give up on teaching--Darryl independently made a circle!  At first I thought he just accidentally accomplished his goal, but then he was able to do it successfully  80% of the time.  Oh, it was a wonderful day!

            “Lona, look!” he said, pointing to his circle that finally looked like mine. 

            “Darryl, my friend,” I put my arm around his shoulder, “you did it!”

            “Ya!  Lona, look!” he pointed again. 

            “C’mon, buddy—let’s go show Joan!”  We carried the piece of paper ceremoniously into the classroom.

            “Jo, look!” Darryl said, pointing at the paper as he turned his head away.

            Joan studied the paper carefully.

            “Good Job, Miss Lori,” she teased.

            “No Jo, me!” Darryl straightened her out.

            “What?  YOU made these circles Darryl?”

            “Jo, look!”

  There were high fives, low fives, handshakes, hugs, dancing, laughing, and more dancing.  Joan put a blank sheet of paper in front of Darryl and he covered it with circles.  We danced some more.  It was honestly one of the happiest moments of my life.

            After school, I sat at my desk, reliving the moments.  I felt like a winner and a success, but I also felt ashamed. 

            I am so selfish.  I don’t deserve to be with these wonderful people every day.  Every day I go about my life with no thought for what blessings I have.  I forget to be thankful for the many things I am able to do without thinking.  I have joined the ranks of millions who take all of life for granted.   I cry and complain when I don’t get my way.  I forget to smile at others and every day the sun rises even though I don’t appreciate it.  I fret over how my furniture looks or about what someone might have said to offend me.  I struggle to find happiness because I don’t look right, feel right, or behave perfectly.   But today, I watched a young man find supreme happiness in being able to make a circle.

Turning Traitor

I began teaching special education in 1983.  This was only 8 years after the Education for All Handicapped Children Act (EAHCA) was passed.  This act allowed all school districts to educate children with disabilities (later renamed Individuals with Disabilities Education Act, IDEA in 1990).  The final federal regulations requiring school districts to adhere to a set of rules when providing education to children with disabilities was not passed until 1977, merely six years before I began to teach special education. 

            I learned this information when I met with Colleen about my home visit at Rich’s house.  She put into perspective the fact that most of these parents were going it alone for most of their child’s life and now all of the sudden they had to fit into a different box.  Obviously Mr. and Mrs. A had found ways of dealing with Rich that worked for them, but they were not ways we could use in school. 

            “Technically,” continued Colleen, “what they are doing to Rich is abusive and we are required by law to report it.”

            My heart dropped.  The image of Mrs. A stroking Rich’s forehead entered my mind and I could hear her tender words, “…just so nobody takes my Richie away from me.”

            “What do I do?” I asked.

            “Nothing.  I will make the call.”

            I walked back to the classroom, heavy in heart and spirit. 

            After my home visit to Rich’s house, his behavior deteriorated significantly.  He was trying to run from the room 3-5 times every day.  He peed in the corner regularly and exhibited constant anger by biting his hand.  Joan and I had a terrible time sticking to a routine because he was so unpredictable and kept the entire classroom in spontaneous chaos. 

            One day he arrived at school with enormous anger.  It felt like a dark force entered our room when he walked through the door.  Joan and I both noticed it.  We tried to ignore it, greeted Rich calmly, and then went about our normal routine.

            I was working with Kathy on some goals at a table when all of the sudden Rich ran to her, put his hands around her neck and began choking her.  It required Joan and I both to take him down.  I sat on him while Joan ran to the office for help.    She returned with Mr. Brock, Colleen, and Mr. Kurt, the janitor.  Mr. Brock and Mr. Kurt took Rich out of the classroom and kept him in a chair in his office until it was time to go home.   Colleen set up a meeting with Child Protective Services.  By the time we were able to have to meeting, a week had passed since my home visit.  Daily, Rich would come to school angry and daily he would try to choke at least one or two of my students.  Mr. Brock and Colleen started driving him home.  By the time I went to the meeting, I gave a summary of his behavior and stated that I felt he was a danger to the other students.   My eyes met the eyes of Mrs. A.  I felt like a traitor.  No school system could pay me enough to feel good about having to say what I had to say.

            I went back to the classroom and we all carried on, going through the motions of education.  I received a note from Colleen asking me to stop by after school.

            “So, what’s going to happen?” I asked her later that day, standing in the doorway of her office.

            “Lori, Rich is going to an institution.  We can’t possibly house him here if he is a danger to the other kids.”

            House Him? I thought, like he is an animal? "Maybe we should give him another chance?” I half wondered and half begged.  “Maybe if we did things differently.”

            “The decision has been made.  They are taking him out of the home immediately.”

            I sadly turned to go.  Colleen called me back.

            “Lori, I know this is hard, but you can’t save them all,” she said.

            I walked to my classroom, put on my jacket, and drove home.

Into yet another world

Although nowadays, it is recommended you never visit the home of a child alone, twenty-seven years ago when I went to Rich’s house, I went alone.  Mr. Brock had approved of my idea to do home visits and I was able to confirm a date and time with Rich’s mom via notes (no phone in the home).  So, off I went one day after school about to enter into yet another world. 

            It wasn’t in the best part of town but when I found the home, I gathered my notes, locked my car and took a deep breath.  Little did I know that was the last “deep breath” I would take for an hour. 

            Because I went to the house right after school, Rich and his brother had not arrived on the bus yet.  This gave me a chance to talk to Rich’s mom before Rich came home.  Rich’s dad sat in an armchair watching a loud television in the living room while drinking a coke.  Mrs. A and I sat at the kitchen table a few feet away from the noise of the TV.   Mrs. A was a small, simple woman.  Her clothes were several sizes too big and her hands and fingernails were filthy  I could see she was uncomfortable with the situation and her discomfort along with the smells in the house (stale cigarette smoke, urine, and last night’s fried dinner) heightened my desire to get this meeting over with quickly.

            I started our time together by trying to find something in the house I could compliment her on.  There was a ceramic crucifix hanging on her kitchen wall.

            “I like your crucifix,” I said.  “Did you paint that yourself?”

            “No.  My sister made it in one of those classes at the hospital.”

            “It’s very nice,” I told her.  She lowered her eyes.

            “Mrs. A.” I jumped right in.  “I’m very concerned about Rich running out of the school to sniff gas fumes.”

            “Yeah, he tries that here at home so we put him on a leash so he can’t leave the yard.”

            “A leash?” I question.

            “Yeah.  He every day want to be outside, so we put him on a chain leash on the clothesline so he can move up and down.  He like to eat the grass,” She explained.   

            “Can I see where you do this?” I asked.  She eyed me suspiciously.  “It’s okay, I’m just curious.” I assured her.  We walked outside to the backyard.  I was amazed at how the stale smells of the house followed us out the door.  She quickly showed me the clothesline that she attaches her son to in order for him to graze.  We had just walked the 10 foot length of the clothesline when we heard the bus toot its horn, ready to drop Rich and his younger brother off.  We returned to the kitchen, Mr. A was standing inside the doorway watching Rich’s younger brother leading him down the sidewalk.  Mrs. A and I returned to our seats. Without speaking to him, Mr. A took Rich’s hand, led him to a kitchen chair, sat him down in the chair and then secured him with a rope. 

            “Hi Rich,” I said through my shock.  If this was something that I experienced today, I would run to the nearest phone and call child protective services, but as a young untrained 23-year-old, I was much more cautious and unaware of my obligations.  But I noted it and intended to have a long talk with Colleen as soon as possible.

            I realized at this point that I was not going to receive any expert advice from the parents on how to handle Rich.  Rich sat next to me twirling his fingers and shyly smiling at me every once in awhile.  Ten minutes later it was time for some fresh air.

            “Well, Mrs. A and Rich, I need to get going.  Thank you so much for letting me come into your home and meet with you.  Did you have any questions before I leave?” I asked.

            “No.  You can tie Rich up at school.  I don’t see no other way you can keep him in the school.” She offered.

            “Mrs. A, I am a brand new teacher and there is a lot I don’t know, but I DO know I could never tie up a child for any reason anytime.”  I saw a look of panic cross her face.  “But, what I am going to do is talk with the school social worker and see what ideas she might have.  Is that okay with you?”

            She reached over and stroked Rich’s hair lovingly.  “Yes” she said sadly, “as long as they don’t take my Richie away.”

            I could feel myself suffocating.  I needed space.  I needed fresh air.  I rose to leave.

            “Bye Rich.” I said as I prepared to leave.  I took one last look at the untidy home, the loving mother, and the young man tied to the chair.  I turned and walked out the door.

            After taking a life-saving deep breath, I drove my car to the back lot of a local park, rolled down my window and taking in big gulps of fresh air, I laid my forhead against the steering wheel and sobbed.

                

You say a lot when you say nothing at all

            As a communications major, I was intrigued with my nonverbal students and their ability to convey pleasures, needs, and wants without words.  Four of our ten students were nonverbal.  Deena was a thin girl with a constant whine.  She would continuously slap herself in the face on her “unhappy days” unless she was physically restrained by an arm brace that would not allow her to bend her elbow.  On her “happy days,” she would walk around the room, patting her classmates on the arm and laughing. Unfortunately, her “unhappy days” outnumbered her “happy days” five to one. When she needed to be toileted, she had a specific cry that was recognized by Joan.  My constant prayer was that Joan would never be absent!

            Kathy was usually very happy and showed little interest in anything other than watching the other students.  She did love music and would clap her chubby hands during our music time.  There was one song in particular that she loved.  Joan and I would sing it to her every day and she would laugh whenever we sang the last phrase ending with the words, “fly, fly. fly!”  Imagine our surprise one day when Kathy, sitting quietly after getting her teeth brushed and attempting to wash her own face with a wet washcloth, suddenly burst out singing, “fly, fly, fly!”  At that moment, I felt anything was possible. 

            I often entertained myself with the thought that maybe these kids were really normal, but just acted as if they weren’t for the “fun” of it.  They sure received a lot of attention.  But, I was having a great time being the school caregiver and knowing that I was there for an entire school year empowered me to give even more of myself to my students.

            Patrick was the most severely handicapped of our ten students when it came to IQ level.  He could do absolutely nothing for himself except assist in pulling up his trousers after toileting.  I was amazed at how affectionate he could be when 99% of the time he seemed totally unaware of the people around him.  Only occasionally would he initiate contact with other people.   In all the time I was with Patrick, he made eye contact with me less than five times.

            Rich was probably the most intriguing of my nonverbal students.  When he was frustrated, he would bite the side of his hand angrily.  After he finished off my bulletin board, I decided not to replace it.  So, instead, Rich would tear off pieces of our calendar to savor.  All paper on my desk was vulnerable to his impulses.  In addition to eating any paper he could find, he started peeing in the corner of the room.  I found this intolerable and set up a system of consequences—usually sitting in a chair with a staff person beside him for 5-10 minutes.  He would randomly complete a workshop task, but violently resisted our attempts to teach him self-care skills.  As the weeks progressed, I saw Rich change into an angry, angry person.  The hand biting happened more often.  Peeing in the corner became a common occurrence.  Then he started running out of the room, out of the school to the nearest car and gas cap.  I was usually the one that ran after him.  Bringing him back into the school, I always noticed he had a smirk on his face. 

            “I know you’re in there Rich,” I would say softly, “what can I do to help you?”   He would make eye contact, smirk again, and then bite his hand.  Upon entering the room, he would run to his chair and sit down.

            Since I had been informed that I would be staying for the entire school year, I was toying with the thought of doing home visits.  And on this day, I decided the first home I should visit was the home of Rich.

Rewritten expectations

            Every day seemed to get easier with my students.  I appreciated their honesty and loving spirits.  Even Patrick who sat sucking his thumb most of the day would lay his head on my shoulder on those occasions when I might be sitting beside him. 

            We had broken up our day into manageable segments:  self-care, group music, group activity, lunch, annual goal focus, workshop activities.  Our schedule was complicated, trying to maximize the “womanpower” of two staff in order to meet the needs of ten students.  But everyone was enjoying the variety of the day and how much quicker the time seemed to pass.

            After the firedrill fiasco, we knew that going for a group walk outside was going to be a challenge with just two adults.  So, for our first attempt at this, we decided to walk out one building door about 200 yards to the building door where the buses dropped the students off each morning.  Most of the kids could walk on their own and would stay with the group, but I armed myself with Shyna and Deena while Joan took Kathy and Patrick.  Off we went with the others dancing, jumping, or waddling next to us.  We were about 20 feet from the door and about 30 feet from staff parking when Rich suddenly took off running to the nearest car, ripped open the gas cap and began inhaling the fumes from the tank.  I unhooked Shyna and Deena and walked up to Rich.  He immediately began biting the palm of his hand, but walked calmly back to the group with me.  We proceeded to return to the classroom, exhausted by the time we entered the door.  Hmmm, I thought, maybe there are reasons for these students to remain inside our classroom.

            Later that afternoon, Darryl and I found a quiet spot in the cafeteria to work on his circles.  We sat together at a lunchroom table, me modeling how to make a circle.  He kept trying to imitate what I could do very easily, but couldn’t quite match up the ends.  We tried making circles in the air, on the table, on the carpet, and any other surface we could find..  We found circles on bulletin boards to trace.  Darryl approached the  lesson with such enthusiasm I was convinced he was intentionally refusing to learn because he wanted the extra attention from me.  We worked on circles for awhile and then returned to the room.

            “Lori,” Joan said, “you need to go see Colleen in the office.”  Colleen was the school social worker/psychologist/assistant principal.  I thought, “This is it.  They heard about Rich sniffing the gasoline fumes—I’m gone.”  Actually, I had every intention of letting Mr. Brock know what happened, but planned to tell him after school.  I never felt comfortable leaving the classroom unless I had to.

            “Hi Lori, Come on in.”  I stood at Connie’s office door.  She was a very personable, breath of fresh air in our school.

            “What’s up?”  I asked.

            “Well,  we heard from Amy (the teacher on maternity leave)” she began.

            “Here it comes,” I thought.

            “She is not coming back this year at all.  We were wondering if you would be willing to keep on teaching until the end of the year?”

            I just about fainted.  “Of course,” I said.  “I would love to, but…”
            “But?” she raised her eyebrow s in question.

            “I need to tell you what happened when we went for a walk outside today.”

            Connie was supportive.  She liked the changes we were making in the program and suggested we keep going for the walks, but maybe borrow an aide from another classroom for extra support.  She encouraged me to keep making changes, set up a time when she could help me write and prepare individualized education plans for upcoming annual reviews and then sent me on my way. 

            I danced into the classroom, feeling as though my life had been rewritten and shared the news with Joan.  Then we all had a spontaneous celebration before approaching Joe’s weekly hairwashing task.

“Goddammit Joe, don’t you cuss…”

"We got a problem..."

          “Be meticulous in all you do because you know it represents you.”  This is a mantra I say to my students presently and I try to follow it in most areas of my life.  When I watch a movie that is “based on a true story” I sometimes perseverate on what is fact and what is fiction until I’m able to tell myself, “relax and enjoy the story.”  So, imagine my anxiety at 3:00 a.m. when I suddenly woke up and realized I had made a major factual error in my blog.  I guess I forgot to remember before I forgot.  So to correct my very first blog…Rowena could not have asked me to sub when I was working on a paper mache donkey for Palm Sunday because we came to that church in June, 1983 and I started teaching in September, 1983.  I didn’t make the paper mache donkey for Palm Sunday until spring, 1984.  So, maybe we were working on Solomon’s Temple made out of sugar cubes?  I don’t remember exactly, I just remember she referenced my work with the 5^th grade Sunday school class and said because of my creativity, I might enjoy filling in for this teacher on maternity leave.  Suffice it to say, my blog is “based on a true story.”

            Even though we had made huge strides by presenting our ideas to Mr. Brock, I still arrived at school every day with a degree of naiveté.  One morning I arrived ready to silence the beasts within and have a great day. 

          “We got a problem,” Joan greeted me.

          “What’s the problem?” 

          “Firedrill today.”

          “Good!” I replied, “it will give a chance to get outside with the kids.”

          “No, Lori, you don’t know Cate.  She is scared to death of those things.”

          “Don’t worry about it Joan, we’ll just talk about it ahead of time,” I assured her.

          She looked at me, chuckled, and I thought I heard her mutter under her breath, “good luck.”

          The students arrived.  We waited until everyone was in the room and as quiet as they could possibly be. 

            “Okay everyone,” I said while Joan looked on with expectant eyes, a smile on her face, and a body posture braced for action. “Today we are going to have a firedrill,” I said the words with excitement, hoping my tone would convey the feeling of a fun event.

            The scream was primal.  Cate curled up on the floor in a fetal position, tears streaming down her cheeks, and the sound coming from her throat was one I could only imagine hearing in the jungles of a rainforest.  “Noooooooooooooo,” she moaned.  “Please, Noooooooooooo!”

            I stood there and watched in horror.  What had happened in her life to cause such fear of a loud noise?  Joan got her up finally.  I went to her. 

            “Cate,” I said.  “You are going to stay right beside Miss Lori all morning, okay?”

            “No firedrill,” she moaned over and over.  I held on to her hand as we went through our morning routines.  We had just finished brushing our teeth when the alarm sounded.  Three other adults ran into our room to help us walk our group out of the building quickly.  The biggest relief in the firedrill was not being able to hear Cate’s heart-wrenching moans.  We walked outside and parked along the sidewalk.  When I told Mr. Brock we wanted to start walking outside, this was not what I had in mind.

            Finally it was time to go back into the room.  As we walked into the room, I noticed something really odd.  The entire class was quiet.  It was as if we had come together to survive a major trauma.  We felt connected.   It was a magic moment as I felt intense love for each of my angels.  I savored the seconds until the spell was broken.  “Joe.” Jump.  “Joe.”

Facing fear

Joan is my hero.  She had worked with these same students for several years and had keen insights to what they would respond to.  We sat down to talk.

“Okay, Joan, what are we going to do?” I opened the discussion.  “Our room is a nut house, we don’t even have time to work on the annual goals, Darryl thinks he is the room mother, and even though we are ‘surviving,’ I don’t think we are making progress.”  I felt excited.

“I agree.  And we have to get these kids out of the room!  The other kids get to go out for recess but we’re in the same room all day long.  I don’t think that is fair!”  she was warming up to the subject of change.

“What do you think of our lunch process?” I asked her.

“That’s a tough one,” she hesitated.  “It’s good to be in the room for some of the kids that we have to feed.  We don’t want them to be embarrassed, but I don’t see why some of our kids can’t eat in the cafeteria with the other kids.”

“So you don’t think we all could eat in the cafeteria?” I asked.  “I really want to get the kids out of the classroom as much as possible.”

“Let’s think about that.  I guess our kids probably wouldn’t really be embarrassed, but would the other kids be grossed out?  Actually the visual stimulation of being around other kids might even encourage our kids to eat better.  We could work on some table manners, too!”  I was glad to see her thinking ‘outside the box’ while upping the expectations of our own students as well.

“And we have to start working on annual goals.  I know I will only be here for another 3-4 weeks, but we need to give the students a chance to get started  working on their goals.” I said, cringing at the thought of leaving in 3-4 weeks.

“What if you take the students out of the classroom one at a time and work on goals in a quiet spot, like in the cafeteria?” she suggested, “and while you are doing that, I can work with the kids in the classroom on workshop and self-care skills.” 

I felt burdens rolling off my shoulders with each idea we put forth.  We made a list of the changes we wanted to make and then she ruined it with, “Okay, now you just have to get Mr. Brock to agree.”  The burdens landed heavily back on my shoulders.

Now, Mr. Brock was not a bad person and I believe he ultimately had the best interest of students at the front of his thoughts, but he was intimidating to me and I wasn’t sure I could muster up the courage to present the changes we had in mind.  But then, what did I have to lose?  I was leaving soon anyway.  So when it was time for my lunch period, I spent 10 of my 20 minutes working up my nerve to knock on his door. 

He invited me to come in and sit and talk while he himself finished up his lunch.

“What’s on your mind, Ms. Tupper?” he asked.  So much for small talk.

“Mr. Brock,” my voice actually wavered.  He smiled as if satisfied with his ability to intimidate me.  “Joan and I came up with some different things we would like to try with the class and I wanted to present them to you in order to make sure you knew what we had in mind.”

I started going over our list, expounding on our reasons when it came to ideas I thought he might not like (eating in the lunchroom, going for walks outside, etc.).  I finished the list.  He finished his lunch.  Then he leaned back in his executive chair, looking at me.  “Ms. Tupper.  You understand that you are a sub and that you will not be here that long, right?”

“Yes, Mr. Brock, I understand that.”

“Why would you want to change the entire structure of the program  if you will be leaving before you can see if it will work?”

I was shaking in every fiber of my body and my stomach was growling—loudly.

“Mr. Brock, my desire is not to cause confusion for anyone but to provide a learning environment for the students I am responsible for.  I know I am clueless on most things going on here, but Joan isn’t.  She is an excellent worker and she knows these kids well.  She and I both feel these changes are best for these students.  Even if I am here just for a short time, my job is to help meet the needs of these students…”

“Ms. Tupper,” interrupted Mr. Brock, “I want you to implement your ideas but please be informed that there is no guarantee they will be continued once you leave.” 

My stomach growled loudly again.  “Thank you, Mr. Brock!” I replied as I repressed the urge to kiss his hand.  I turned to go.

“Ms. Tupper?” he said, as I reached for the door, “make sure you eat lunch today.”

“I will.” Hardly able to contain my excitement at not only exiting his office in one piece, but leaving his presence with permission to make some changes, I did a little dance in the hallway before rushing to the room to tell Joan.

“How did it go?” she asked, intent on feeding David another spoonful of his pureed food.

I shrugged my shoulder and replied nonchalantly, “oh, he was putty in my hands.”

“Right,” she was doubtful.

“Really, Joan.  He gave us permission to try all of our ideas!”

“No way!” She took David’s bib off and tossed it into the laundry basket. “Yes, way!”  I danced around the room.  Within seconds Eric, Joe, Darryl, and Michael were joining Joan and I as we danced.  Following our spontaneous celebration, Joan smiled and said, “Now, go eat your lunch.  You’ve earned it.”

The Informant

As I reread my blog entries, I realize I make it all sound so "quiet."  It was NEVER quiet in our classroom.  But if I documented the incessant noise, my writing would not make sense.  And since the population of students I was teaching were all between the 25--50 IQ range (with 100 being average), the noises they were making did not always make sense in our world.  Suffice it to say, it was NEVER quiet in our classroom.

The one student I had closer to the 50 point IQ was Darryl.  From day one, Darryl viewed himself as my helper, pointing out all the items in our classroom for my perusal introduced with the phrase "Lona, look!"  Initially, I thought Darryl was just interested in showing me "around."  Little did I know he was setting up his identity as "the informant."

Each student had an IEP.  This is the acronym for an Individualized Education Plan.  This document contained goals for the child to work toward throughout the year.  When composing an IEP for a student with a severe handicap or very low IQ, the goal is broken down into small segments.  For instance, the ultimate goal for Daryl was to be able to write his name.  That could not even be started until he learned how to connect lines--i.e. making a circle.  So, one of his goals for the year was to make a circle.  In writing an IEP, inappropriate behaviors displayed by the student were often listed or mentioned.  As a new and inexperienced teacher, it was much easier for me to focus on stopping unwanted behaviors than it was to focus on accomplishing a goal, especially with all the chaos in the room.  I found that to be true of Joan, too.  She spent most of her time telling the students to stop this behavior or "don't do that."  I fell right in with her for the first few weeks.  Afterall, I was only a sub for six weeks, right?  But, Darryl was responsible for changing my attitude about that.

"Lona, look Eric!"  I turned to look at Darryl and he was pointing to Eric who was in the face of Deena agitating her.  I noticed that as Darryl pointed to Eric, he turned his head the opposite direction.  Did he think if HE didn't look at Eric, Eric wouldn't notice that he was the informant?  I had no sooner redirected Eric when I heard it again, "Lona, look David!"  Once again Darryl was pointing (to David this time), but turning his own head in the opposite direction.  I looked at David.  He was scooting toward the classroom door.  I moved him to the other side of the room.  "Lona, look Pat!"  Patrick was the next victim of our classroom informant.  Patrick was sitting quietly, staring at his fingers.  "Patrick is fine, Darryl."  After a few more days of this and several false "Lona, looks" I decided it was time to confront Darryl on his tattletale antics.  I wish I could say we sat down, had a chat, he considered my point of view and decided to change--but we all know that didn't happen.  Instead, I assigned him the task of watching himself and telling me if HE did something wrong or needed help.  This was difficult for him to change as the informant role had been his for several years.  It was at this point that I decided it was time to take charge.  Joan was a wonderful person and so gracious in welcoming me.  She was a very hard worker and was supportive of every idea I threw at her, so why not go crazy and make this a totally different program?  The kids were tired of just sitting around and putting pegs in a pegboard.  Heck!  I was tired of sitting around and WATCHING them put pegs in a pegboard and I was tired of being in the same classroom all day long.  Why were these kids even at this school if they were going to be tucked away in a back room, never to interact with others?  I was tired of serving them lunch out of their own portable hot oven that was rolled into our room everyday at 11:00.  Even if I was only going to be there for six weeks, I could try to make the program better in that time, couldn't I?

It was time for some changes...Joan and I sat down to talk.

Euphoria in a can

When Rowena invited me to sub for six weeks, I was thankful for a change in my routine.  We had only lived in our northern Indiana town for about 3 months.  I had just graduated from Avila College in Kansas City, MO with a degree in Communications and Psychology.  My desire was to be a writer, so my husband set me up with a Kaypro computer, The Writer's Handbook, and a desk.  But something had happened to that desire with each rejection slip I received and pretty soon I was spending my days making homemade brownies and eating them.  So,  every morning I woke up excited to face my unique angels.  I found the job amazing because as much as I planned, every day was a surprise.  I grew up in a conservative home and a church with a lot of rules, so swearing was not something I heard on a daily basis or practiced at all in my own life. But my students knew no inhibition.  I faced them each morning with intrigue as I watched them live on the raw side of life.

Joe was a tall, thin adolescent with a dash of freckles tossed across his nose.  He was in perpetual motion from the moment he hit the door until he returned to the bus.  He reminded me of Tigger from the Winnie The Pooh series and I was in awe of his energy level.  Along about the second week of school, we decided to address his annual goal of being able to assist in washing his hair without swearing.

He came in that morning engaging in his ritual dance of jumping across the room, singing his favorite words.
"Joe," he would say in different pitches, finding comfort in his self-identification.  "Joe,"  jump, "Joe," jump, "Joe, don't you cuss at school today," jump.  chuckle.  jump.  I was lucky in that most of my students could toilet themselves at the bathroom across the hall.  "Joe, why don't you go to the bathroom so you can get started on your day." I suggested.  Joe jumped across the room and into the hall.  I focused on getting Kathy settled on her chair so she could enjoy her daily entertainment.  I set Daryl in front of a pegboard and bucket of pegs and instructed him on the pattern I wanted to see.  I was in the midst of changing David's diaper behind a privacy screen when I heard Joe return to the classroom.  "Are you back Joe?" I asked.  "Goddammit Joe, did you plug up that toilet?" he answered. 

"JOE, SHAME ON YOU!" yelled Joan.  "YOU SIT IN THIS CHAIR AND DON'T YOU MOVE UNTIL I GET BACK! Lori, I'm going to go find Mr. Kurt and tell him about the toilet.

Do I need to tell you how convenient it is to have students who tell on themselves?  Then there was also the convenience of Mr. Kurt--one of the "obvious angels" in the school.  An older man of about 60, he was the school janitor who seemed to take everything in stride.  Joan returned with the problem on the road to solution.  David was changed, Michael was convinced it was not lunchtime for at least another 30 seconds, Eric was parked with a book, and the others were somewhere in the room entertaining themselves.  I had the sink area cleared with towels and shampoos on the side.  When Joe noticed the shampoo, he immediately jumped up, running across the room.  "No wash hair," he whined.  "No wash hair.  Goddammit Joe, don't you cuss!"  

"Joe," I tried to reason with him, "you have to wash your hair sometime.  Here, let Miss Lori help you.  It will be okay."
"Soap in Joe's eyes?" his voice was an unnatural octave higher than usual. 
"No, Joe."  I promised.  "I will not let soap get in your eyes."  I gave Joe a wet washcloth to hold over his eyes.  It took Joan and I both to coordinate accessories enough that he emerged with a clean head of hair. He had sworn the entire time.  Let me explain something.  Joe had a buzz cut.  Running a washcloth through his hair probably would have been good enough, except that his contact with water at home was obviously so limited, it was felt he needed the shampoo experience to maintain a basic cleanliness level.

"Joe, you did fine," said Joan.  "In fact, you did so fine, I'm gonna have a coke."  I looked at her puzzled as to how her having a coke was a reward for Joe.  "Joe." Jump  "Joe." Jump.  He was on a roll again, but I let him roll.  He deserved some movement time following his 15 minutes of restraint at the sink.  Joan returned with her coke and was sipping it while Joe jumped circles around her.  "Lona, look!"  Daryl had completed his board pattern, stood and pointed to it for me to check.   Joe looked at Joan's coke with anticipation.  "Are you going to give him some of it, Joan?"  She smiled and her eyes sparkled at my ignorance.  "No, he can't have sugar this  close to lunch."  I agreed with her, but I still could not figure out the payoff for Joe.  She finished the coke, rinsed out the can and set it on the counter.  Joe's jumping accelerated.  "Joe?"    he asked, pointing to the can.

"Okay, since you were pretty good when we washed your hair, you can have the can." agreed Joan.
Joe jumped to the can and raised it to his lips, drinking the remaining drops in the bottom of the can.
"Joe, that's disgusting!" he disciplined himself.  Then he took the can, set it on the floor and smashed it flat with his foot. 

I was amazed!  The expression on his face was one of pure euphoria.  He was totally and completely happy.  People spend years looking for that feeling.  Years and money...and yet, we never seem to find the complete and total happiness that equals the euphoria in a can that Joe found.

For you, Mr. Brock

Out of my 22 years of teaching, 16 of those years have been spent teaching students with special needs.  But, I can tell you ALL children (and adults) have special needs.  Some just have more needs than others.  And let me remind you that all of this came about because of a paper mache' donkey!  Prior to teaching, I was a pretty normal person, but spending six hours a day with students who are acting a little "strangely" causes one to allow their own "strangeness" to surface.  One of the skills I found floating to my surface was that of being very honest.  Some people call it being blunt, confrontational, saying it like it is, outspoken, etc.  But, the bottom line is...when you teach kids with special needs, you always know where they stand.  You know what they are thinking all the time and nobody is playing head games with you.  They don't take hints.

For example,  you could stand in front of a group of high school students who have a normal IQ and say, "Wow, someone in here smells really bad."  The response?  Every single one of them would go home and shower and make sure they smelled really good the next morning.  You could stand in front of a group of high school students who are considered special needs and say the same thing.  The response?  Every single one of them would think, 'yeah, my friends around me DO smell really bad' never thinking for a moment that it might be them.  So, I learned to say it to their face,  "You do not smell too good.  You need to take a shower and wash under your arms with soap and water.  Then you need to dry off under your arms with a towel.  THEN you need to put deoderant on under your arms before you put on some clean clothes."  Later in my teaching years, onlookers would think I was being rude, but as a student myself in my very first classroom, I was learning honesty.  Because face it, after I had accepted my "six week assignment"  I really was signing up to be the student and my 11 students labled Severely Mentally Handicapped were MY teachers.

As Joan had told me on that first day of school, we were to meet our students as they stepped off the bus starting the next day.  I arrived early the next day, setting out the pegboards and pegs again.  Joan came right before the buses were to arrive and directed me to the cafeteria where we would sit and wait for our  unique angels.  My thoughts wandered as we waited.  Maybe today I would just focus on Daryl making a circle.  I needed to get a plan for two reasons.  Not only did we need it to survive in our classroom, but I had to turn lesson plans into our principal, Mr. Brock, in two days.  I definitely needed to get a plan. 

Mr. Brock did not strike me as the type of principal that allowed a lot of "leeway" when it came to his expectations.  He seemed to like things his way or no way.  He had made this quite clear at the orientation I had attended.  I don't think he smiled once and his expectations were laid out in the sincerest format of a drill sargent.  Lesson plans due the Friday before the next week.  NO EXCEPTIONS!  Considering I was a sub and had NEVER written a lesson plan, taught, or even dreamed of teaching before, I thought it would have been gracious for him to give me, say, a weekend?  But it was not to be.

"Lona, look!"  Joan was bringing Daryl into the cafeteria.  He sat beside me and I greeted him. 
"Hey Daryl, how are ya?"  I asked, shaking his limp hand. 
"Lona, look," he pointed to Eric coming toward the table.  Eric sat next to me.  "BB King.  Stevie Wonder." he said, eyes half shut.  "Did you listen to BB King last night Eric?" I asked him.  His eyes flew open.  "Mom, mom, mom said 'dance'"  He sucked in his breath and made a clicking sound with his tongue.  I smiled at him.  "Did you dance?" I asked him, putting my arm around his shoulder.  He leaned into me and I could smell the hair gel on his slicked back hair.  "Yes." he answered.

Just then, Mr. Brock strolled down the aisle along the tables.  "Mr. Brock, Mr. Brock!" called Eric.  Mr. Brock stopped and studied Eric, nodded his head stoically at Eric and started walking on.  "F-F-Fuck You! Mr. Brock" said Eric, following his words with hysterical laughter.   I just sat there, stunned.  Mr. Brock walked back to our table, studying Eric.  "C'mon, Eric" he said holding out his hand.  Eric started crying, took his hand and went off with Mr. Brock.   "Godammit Joe, don't you cuss at school today"  Joe had arrived.  Within a half hour the other students had arrived and we made our way down the hall to our classroom.  I had decided to start our morning off with some Hap Palmer music which required getting in a circle.  We did the best we could and I realized at this point--nothing we did was going to be easy.  In the middle of our music time, there was a knock at the door.  It was Mr. Brock with Eric.  Eric immediately ran into the room to Joan, putting his arms around her as he cried.  I stepped into the hall with Mr. Brock.  "He won't do that again," he said smugly.  "I gave him a swat with the paddle.You have to let these kids know who's boss!"  "Oh." was all I said.

The day passed quickly and I found myself energized with each hour.  I worked late on lesson plans and came up with what I felt was a schedule we could live with,concentrating on routine and consistency, setting aside some time to work on specific goals. 

The next morning, Joan and I once again went to greet the kids as they got off the bus.  Once again, Eric came and sat close to me.  We repeated our discussion about BB King and Stevie Wonder.  Once again Mr. Brock strolled down the aisle along the tables.  "Mr. Brock, Mr. Brock!" called Eric once again.  Mr. Brock again stopped and studied Eric, nodded his head stoically at him and started walking on.  "F-F-Fuck You! Mr. Brock" said Eric, once again following his words with hysterical laughter.   I just sat there, stunned again.  Mr. Brock turned and walked to his office.

...like I said, you always know where they stand!

  

Day 1, 1983, Bulletin Boards & lunch

After Rowena asked me to fill the position for six weeks while the other teacher was on maternity leave, I jumped through the hoops and loops of obtaining an emergency teaching certificate, looking at the IEPs (Individualized Lesson Plans), and preparing the classroom. 

My class was to consist of 11 students that were labeled Severely Mentally Handicapped, all between the ages of 14-26.  Although I had never actually been around a "retarded" person before, I saw this as a "cinch" when I looked at the yearly goals of the different IEPs.  "Daryl will draw a complete circle"  "Joe will refrain from jumping up and down for a period of 5 minutes,"  "Patrick will refrain from self-stimulating behavior."  etc.  How hard can it be to draw a complete circle?  And I will just tell Joe to quit jumping...you can imagine my train of thought, can't you?  I would have these kids whipped into shape in no time!!  Heck, I might work myself out of a job within a week or two! 

But first, I had to prepare the room.  Trying to set up activities based on the goals, I placed pegboards with buckets of pegs around the room.  I organized the chairs and tables neatly and then I spent hours doing what I was sure going to affect the emotional "tenor" of the room--putting up a beautiful, colorful bulletin board.  I chose to do a mountain scene out of loosely torn construction paper.  After spending several hours on the bulletin board project, I pronounced the room ready for learning!

The next morning, I arrived bright and early--ready to show these kids the "right way" to be.  As I walked into the room, I was greeted by a pretty black girl named Joan.  She was short and was about 26 years old.  She had a beautiful smile and an openness that gathered me in immediately.

"Are you ready for this?" she asked, after introductions were made.
"Sure," I said, confident this would be no harder than making a paper maiche donkey for Palm Sunday.
"Delores is going to get our kids off the bus today." she explained, "but starting tomorrow, we will have to meet the kids as they get off the bus."
"oke doke."  I had no sooner offered my response when a young man breezed by me jumping up and down while chanting, "Joe."  Jump.  "Joe."  Jump  "Joe"  Jump.

"JOE, STOP THAT RIGHT NOW" Joan yelled.  "YOU KNOW BETTER THAN THAT!  NOW SIT DOWN AND BEHAVE YOURSELF."

Joe sat in a chair and stretched out his legs, kicking the floor.  "Goddammit Joe, don't you cuss!" he repeated the words as if they were his mantra. 

Do something! I told myself.  You ARE the teacher, remember?  I walked over to Joe and held out my hand, "I Joe, I'm Lori.  I'm glad to have you in my class.  "Joe."   he responded, ignoring my hand completely.

"BB King, Stevie Wonder.  I BB King, Stevie Wonder."  I turned at the sound of a new voice.  "Miss Lori," said Joan, "this is Eric.  He likes BB King and Stevie Wonder, don't you Eric."  Eric, a short, black boy stood close, his hair slicked back and his eyes shut repeating the names over and over.  "Hi Eric," I said tapping him on the shoulder.  He kept his eyes shut, trying to impose the blindness of Stevie Wonder on himself. 

Suddenly, a sullen redhead appears at the door perseverating on his fingers.  "Hey, Rich, c'mon in!" welcomes Joan.  I admire her relaxed posture and comfort level with the kids.  Rich looks up and begins to bite his hand as he moans loudly.  Suddenly he runs to my prized bulletin board, tears off a piece of the paper, puts it in his mouth, chews it up, and swallows it. 

"What is he doing?" I asked Joan.
"He's eating your bulletin board."  she answers matter-of factly.
I looked at her like she had three heads.  "Why?"
"Because that is what he does."

Joe continued to sit in the chair, rocking back and forth occasionally mumbling, "Goddammit Joe, don't you cuss!"  Eric wandered around the room with his eyes shut, pretending he was blind, Rich randomly darted over to the bulletin board for a snack.

Within the hour, I had also met Kathy, a large nonverbal young lady who basically sat in a chair smiling at all the chaos.  Then there was Deena, a young thin girl who cried incessantly and slapped herself in the face; Cate, a young girl constantly stressing over the possibility of a fire drill; Michael, a lanky black boy asking if it was time for lunch every 30 seconds from the moment he came in the room; Daryl who was obsessed with me at first sight, calling me "Lona" and instructing me to "look" as he wanted to show me EVERYTHING in the classroom, such that every 30 seconds or so he would say "Lona, look!"; David was the youngest member of the group.  Because he could not walk, he scooted around on the floor growling at anyone in his way.  Patrick, at the other end of the spectrum, was the oldest member of the group and sat quietly in a chair, sucking the thumb of one hand while the other hand rested comfortably inside his pants.  Then came Shyna, a very large black girl.  She walked in, tears streaming down her cheeks, ran to Joan, hugged her, and then flopped on the floor. 

"SHYNA, YOU GET UP OFF THAT FLOOR!" Joan yelled.  Shyna laughed and rolled around the floor, refusing to get up. 

I stood back and surveyed my class.  Patrick was rocking and sucking his thumb with his hand in his trousers, David scooting and growling, Daryl demanding me to look at yet another one of his discoveries, Michael asking if it was time for lunch yet, Joe randomly jumping and swearing, Rich eating my bulletin board, Deena slapping herself and crying, Cate demanding "no firedrill, please," Eric feeling his way around the room chanting the names of his favorite singers, Shyna rolling around on the floor, and Kathy sitting and laughing at the chaos.

"Hmmm"  I muttered softly, "I guess this just might be a little more challenging than making a paper mache' donkey for Palm Sunday.