story time

I'll call him Darius.  First grade, beautiful brown skin...the color of creamed coffee.  Eyelashes so long and curly, over dark brown eyes.  Eyes that...hold knowing.  Eyes that mask the depth of pain and anger churning deep inside this little boy.  Eyes that betray that he has seen and heard and experienced things that most little boys his age haven't. When I meet him, he keeps those eyes on the ground and declines my offered hand as we walk to the classroom.  The school social worker gives me a look, trying to convey a message about this kid. It was communicating something complex, challenging...and a faint relief that I would be taking over for the day.  She explains to me Darius' quirks and tendencies, in a quick attempt to familiarize myself with this unknown child.  We both know that it takes more than the two minute walk to class to really understand someone.   

My assignment was simple:  Accompany Darius to his classroom and stay with him the whole day.  Encourage participation in class activities, monitor his play time, lunch time, specialty classes and make sure he doesn't hurt anyone.  

The social worker stays with us for the first few minutes of class, using months of experience with the boy to communicate aptly with him.  Soon she leaves, and tells Darius that "Miss Suzy" will be hanging out and if he feels he needs to take a break, to tell me.  She shoots me an encouraging glance and then glides out the door.  I go from feeling semi-confident to feeling completely unprepared.

Immediately Darius gets up from the morning-meeting circle and looks for a fidget (an object that he can use to help work out his sensory touching needs if he is beginning to feel restless).  We find one, but it quickly goes from tool to toy (which is the point we find another fidget, less distracting.)  Of course Darius refuses to give it up and starts to get defiant.  I try coaxing.  I try using redirection.  I try making a deal.  I try stern words.  In fact, I use my entire repertoire of communication skills, and he just isn't responding.  Then I remember one thing from that two-minute intro the social worker mentioned:  he loves teaching and showing people how to do things.  

Bingo.  I had him show me how his classroom works, how to follow the rules, how to do his work, how to sit criss-cross-applesauce on the rug...and it worked.  And I realized quickly just how brilliant this little guy is.  Nothing gets by him.  He will be sitting in the back of the classroom, refusing to participate and seem totally into whatever game he is playing with, but when the teacher asks a question to the rest of the class that no one answers, he pipes up confidently and says the answer, with a bit of a condescending tone.  

The rest of the day is spent figuring him out.  Trying to get him to talk to me.  Keeping him from shoving kids, pulling papers off the wall and yelling out answers.  

I find myself getting frustrated.  How can such a smart, beautiful boy have so many problems in the classroom?  Why can't I get through to him?  He looks me right in the eye and says, "I don't like you, leave me alone!"  or he worse, he sits in sullen silence, grabbing at things and refusing to acknowledge my existence. 

After one episode of supply destruction, hitting students and running the hallways, I finally get him in a chair, put my hands on either side, so he can't run and move him to the middle of an open area so there is nothing in arm's reach that he can grab.  He is mad.  Seething, in fact.  He refuses to be stopped because I asked him to.  He is grunting angrily, trying to get my arms off the chair so he can run.  

"Darius. Stop it.  This is unacceptable for you to hit the other kids and mess up the teachers things."

He grunts and twists his body around, trying to reach for the scissors on the desk just out of his reach. 

"Look at me, Darius."  I gently turn his chin my direction.  He studiously avoids eye contact.  I try to keep the exasperation from my voice.  "Darius, listen.  I am here to help you.  I can see that you are upset right now, but I don't know why.  I need you to use your words to tell me why you are upset.  I can help you and we can work to make it better, but that can't happen unless you talk to me and tell me what is going on." 

He stops flailing and the grunting stops.  The anger in his eyes dissipate and all I see is a little boy, lost and hurt.  Tears fill his eyes, and the anger returns, as he clearly does not want to cry in front of me.  

My heart breaks.  I reach up and wipe the tears from his cheeks and whisper, "It's gonna be okay.  We'll figure it out.  It's been kind of a rough morning, but it'll be okay." 

There are so many layers to this boy that I cannot understand in one day.  or possibly even by the end of the school year.  

The next day, administration decides that he needs to be out of the classroom, as he is too disruptive.  I am assigned to him again, working in a separate room.  The difference is night and day.  He is eager to show me things, to have me read with him.  When he gets a bit antsy, I ask if I can scratch his back.  He nods shyly.  The rest of the afternoon, he edges close to me and says in a quiet voice, "Miss Suzy, can you scratch my back while we do this?"  It may seem small, but it is a huge victory for our delicate relationship.   He teaches me to play "chess."  And after I let him beat me several times, I finally "beat" him.  He says,  "I let you win, Miss Suzy.  Because I didn't want to be beating you the whole time."  He gives me a hearty "Good job!" and a resounding high five.  

Ah, so he does pay attention. 

Later on the playground (it is just the two of us, since he isn't allowed at recess with the other kids), I ask him to show me his favorite parts of the playset and how to use them.  He explains carefully and demonstrates in detail the slides, the climbing wall, the various steps and swings...following each one up with, "Be careful, I don't want you to fall"  or "Use two hands to be safe, Miss Suzy!" or "Good job you did that so well!"  My heart is almost bursting to see this completely different side of him.  He has genuine care and concern in his eyes and voice as we play.  Back inside, we finish up the day.  We only have once incident of a bad attitude, which he quickly fixes with a little prompting.  We give high fives, I tell him I am so proud of him...and even get a hug and a smile.

That was the last time I saw Darius.  I came back the next week and he was gone.  He had been transferred to a day program "better suited to his needs."  I wanted to go to administration and beg to have him back.  Beg to be his personal aide/tutor.  I didn't want to think of how alone he must feel in a new place with people who only know him by an IEP.  I didn't want to think how they might not see that sweet side of him and might just say he is "unteachable."  

I still get people at school who ask me about him...or rather, refer to him.  "Yeah, that Darius was...well, he had a LOT of issues."  or "It is so much better that he has a place that will work for him, because he was a nightmare!"  

And even though those may be the facts, my heart still hurts for him.  I want to see him again.  Make sure he is okay.  Scratch his back and read about sharks.  Practice saying the letter "R" to help correct his little speech impediment.  Play chess with the master...("The card says my...what is this pointy guy called again, the bishop? the card says my bishop takes out SIX of your pawns!"). 

*sigh*  

All I can do is say a prayer and keep investing in the next kid they send my way for however long.

this is the nature of the job I chose.  

It is glorious.

It hurts.