I work in the special education department of an elementary school. As an instructional aid I have held multiple positions working with children with varying levels of need.
Several years back I was working with a child who tested me on a daily basis. Most teachers will tell you they don’t have favorites, that they love all their children, and we do. But we all know that there are those kids you feel more protective of, or you enjoy interacting with just a little more. Conversely, there are those kids that push your buttons. That know just how to max out your frustration levels. This was one of those children.
We were walking back to her classroom, when she suddenly stopped moving.
“Let’s go.” I encouraged, “Mrs. M is excited to see what you did today.”
She instead looks right at me and, never breaking eye contact, sits down in the middle of the hallway. I held out my hand for her to grab so I could help her rise, “Mrs. M told me, she hopes you get a star for today so you can earn extra recess Friday. Let’s get you back to class so you can get that star.”
She looks at me, a smile curving over her mouth, lighting her eyes. “You can’t touch me, you can’t touch me.” she sing-songs, fully aware I want her to go back to class and that I am powerless to make her go. “You can’t touch me; you can’t leave any marks.” she continues singing. Her head sliding back and forth as she taunts me.
Here it is, the moment I’d been dreading. I start to sweat. I see a class leaving their room. They’ll be walking by in a moment on their way to lunch. I wonder what that teacher will think, knowing I can’t get this kiddo back to class. I have another group starting soon, I have to get back. Will her teacher be wondering what’s taking us so long? It takes seconds for my mind to flip through a rolodex of options. I already reminded her of her star chart, I already mentioned her favorite teacher waiting in the room. She continues to stare at me as if saying, “It’s your move.” I close my eyes and take a breath, calming my racing heart. I remind myself the other teachers will think nothing of it, we are all in this together and we all know how this job can be.
I look down at the girl and what she said hits me. I sit down, cross legged in front of her. I lean in and whisper, “I would never hurt you. I care about you and would never hurt you.”
She looks unconvinced. I block out the other people and quickly dash off a text to my partner that I will be late for the next group, then I just sit with her. I know she likes My Little Pony and I ask who’s her favorite. “Apple Jack.” She mumbles looking at me from the corner of her eye.
“I like Rarity.” I say and she looks up, her eyes wide.
We start to talk. She’s testing me, trying to see if I really know anything about My Little Pony. I answer correctly and she smiles. We chat and then I say how cold the floor is and stand. She stands too. I start walking slowly, my body turned toward her as we continue to talk about My Little Pony. Outside her classroom I lean down and tell her I enjoyed talking to her, that I hope we can talk more tomorrow. She tells me she is going to color a picture of Rarity for me. Gasping in surprise, I tell her I can’t wait. I open the door for her and she walks in. The teacher catches my eye and we nod to each other.
I close the classroom door and race down the hall, chuckling because now I’ll have to do some research on My Little Pony. Walking as quickly as I can, I end up only two minutes late for my next group. Smiling, I sit behind my desk, “Hey, guys, how’s your day going so far?”
I wish I could say that everything was great from there on out, but it wasn’t. There were good days and bad days. Days where I didn’t handle it as well and needed to call in reinforcements, but ultimately it was about meeting the needs of the child when she needed it. That morning she needed someone to be there for her, outside of the confines of learning she needed someone to take a moment and talk to her about what she liked. Sometimes she missed breakfast and just needed a carton of milk from the cafeteria to set her right, sometimes she went back to class, no problems at all. I have to admit, I may have done a little celebratory dance on those days. She always had me guessing and was never an “easy” student.
I’ve had kiddos with severe trauma that are incapable of feeding or caring for themselves. I’ve worked with kids that struggle with social interactions, and I’ve tutored kids that are struggling in classes and meet the criteria of a child with the pattern of strengths and weaknesses that qualify them for special education services.
My husband is always mystified at how I handle this work.
“Don’t you just want to scream, yell, hit something?” he always asks me. I get similar reactions from friends, “I don’t know how you do it.” I’ve heard time and again.
But, here’s the thing. No, I don’t want to yell, scream, or hit something. What would that solve? How would that make anything better?
How do I do it? That’s a trickier question. I can’t say for anyone else, but I cannot do this job without patience, that is key. If the pandemic has taught us nothing else it is that teaching kids is hard work and patience is absolutely necessary. But even more necessary is humor.
Many times, as educators, we are left with only two options, laugh or cry, and nine times out of ten, I laugh. Finding the humor in a situation takes a willingness to understand, process, then let go. The situations that are out of our control, the times we did all the right things and still we failed to get through. They would haunt us if we couldn’t find the funny and laugh.
In the year to come, as we try to forge relationships with students via computer screen, I don’t know exactly what to expect. What I do know, it’s going to require a little patience and lots of laughter.
Rebecca Lamprey 