It's a cloudy spring day in Montana. I keep the windshield washers on Intermittent, spreading little sprinkles of water across the windshield, where they quickly dry. I detect the slightest tinges of green along the bare tree limbs as I drive to the Elementary School where I volunteer.
I tug on the heavy front doors of the old 1940's building. They are very heavy. I idly wonder how little arms and little muscles get these big old doors open. Lunch , sweaty children, paper smells crowd my nostrils as I sign the volunteer book in the front office. It has been almost a month since I last helped in the classroom. I was away on vacation, the teacher was out, and then last week I slept through the day; all plans superseded by my body's need to heal.
I have brought my small Handwriting Without Tears chalk boards with chalk and small squares of sponges. Mrs. D had said that she wanted me to pull out kids and work on handwriting with them. All my talents as an Occupational Therapist specializing in Behavior distilled down to that one note song of OT as hand writing instructor. But, I will choose my materials and do it my way.
The kids are in transition from lunch. Mrs. D greets me with a smile and a "Long time no see!" I grimace, words of apology coming from my mouth. Mrs. D picks up a paper clipped stack of papers. The top paper has names and numerals beside them. "I'm going to have you work on numbers with the kids. " I pull out my chalk boards. "Is it okay if I use these?" I ask. Eyes wide, she nods the affirmative. "Whatever works."
Rolando and I move to the desk and chairs in the hallway. Rolando was one of the first three kids I met in this classroom. I recall that he does not know his letters and is very distractible. Rolando is boneless. He swans into the chair. He loves the chalk and chalk board and responds very well to my verbal directions, however he seems unable to resist gravity. Rolando is left-handed and does not hold onto the chalk board with his right hand. He sits on it, I think in an attempt to keep himself in his chair. Three times I have to help Rolando retrieve himself from the floor and return to sitting in the chair. And no...the chair still does not fit this micro-mini child. He responds with giggles and smiles when I grab his right hand and mock yell at it to "Help us! Help us! Hold onto the chalk boardddddddd!."
Next is bright eyed Marisol. Marisol has Pippi Longstocking braids.She makes a variety of interesting faces as if she can't quite figure out the world. I ask Marisol if she is right or left-handed. This way I can sit so she can see the numbers I demonstrate. Marisol responds with a jumble of words that I can't seem to make sense of. I think I hear the words "color" and "paint". I ask Marisol to pick what color chalk she wants. She does so and plonks her hand, palm down in the middle of her chalk board like she is going to trace it. "No." I say. "We're going to write numbers today."
The way Handwriting Without Tears works is 3-part. 1. Write the number with chalk, always starting at the top, utilizing the wooden boundaries of the boards to help form the numbers and letters as appropriate. 2. Erase the number by tracing over the chalk, starting and ending exactly like you formed the original chalk number. 3. Dry, tracing again, using a small piece of paper towel.
Marisol is confused. I am confused. First she holds the chalk like she's holding a cigarette. When I try to help her correct her grasp, she stacks her first two fingers on top of each other, opposite the thumb. We finally get her grasp corrected. I find that I have to break down my directions even further. "Stop. Put down the chalk. Pick up the sponge...no, pick it up with the same hand. No, you have to put down the sponge before you can pick up the towel." I'm not sure where Marisol's body is, but she seems to have been caught in some land between dimensions where things don't fit together. She does not seem terribly distressed by her difficulties and actually comments on how much she likes "writing with chalk." We struggle through. Mrs. D asks me "How did it go?" when I come in with Marisol. I pause. Breathe. "Interesting." I say. "I'll e-mail you about it."
I work with one more child on numbers in the hallway, before I return to the classroom in preparation for leaving for the day. Mrs. D is instructing the class on word endings using the dry erase board in the front of the class. There are flowers with the endings "ig", "ip" and "id" in the center. Each petal is meant to hold words beginning with different consonants, but with the same ending, i.e. pig, jig, fig, etc. I look. Rolando's paper is on the floor. Rolando is very carefully making a crayon train on the table while Mrs. D and his classmates fill petals with ig, ip and id words. I sit down beside Rolando. We work together for a while before I realize that there is too much noise, movement and distraction for Rolando. Rolando's eyes and attention buzz around the room like a hive of bees in search of nectar. I interrupt Mrs. D to ask if Rolando and I can work in the hallway on his errant flowers. She agrees. I notice that there is a woman talking to Marisol. This woman asks Mrs. D how Marisol did today. I look back and say, "She had a really hard time following directions today." On the way out of the classroom, I hear Marisol's mother tell her, "If you don't understand the directions, you have to ask for help." My heart goes into my throat for Marisol. I think to myself that direction repetition may not be enough to help Marisol find her way.
I send Rolando into giggles when I tell him he can "P" all over the paper Rolando is actually able to finish a whole flower before he is sent to recess by Mrs. D. While Rolando and I are in the hallway, we spy Mr. L, the Mental Health Aide and Mauricio (he that hideth under the table). Mauricio turns to run away. Mr. L grabs his arm. Stark terror lands on Mauricio's face and he starts struggling and kicking Mr. L. Mr. L scoops Mauricio up and bodily carries him to the office. I cannot tell which hurts more, my stomach or my heart.
I return to the classroom to retrieve my coat for my trek back home. Marisol is standing at the table. She has a pencil in one hand and a lost look on her face. Her mother is sitting in a child's chair at the table with Marisol's paper and a look of desperation. As I'm putting on my coat I hear the heated words "Look at the BOARD!". I look up, and see Marisol's mother grab Marisol's head in both hands and turn it forcefully so she is looking at the board. My gut knots up. I count to ten.
"May I make a suggestion?" I quietly ask Marisol's mother. She nods. I continue, "It's so noisy and distracting in here, it might be easier for both of you if you finished the paper out in the hall."
"She is going to have to learn to deal with distractions." Marisol's mother responds with force.
Big pause. I inhale slowly, thinking as I sit down beside M's mother. "Yes. I understand that, but you don't put a baby who is just learning to walk, on a tread mill."
Instant anger and defensiveness radiates from Marisol's mother. "Who are you?" M's Mom explodes. "You have no idea what we've been doing and what you're coming into the middle of! Marisol has Attention Deficit Disorder and I've been asking for help all year!"
Instant regret. I glance down to see if indeed my foot is in my mouth, or is it in a can of worms. "I'm so sorry." I pause. "I did not introduce myself." "No, you didn't" She says. Big breath. "I'm Kismet, a volunteer, but I'm a trained Special Education Teacher, as well as a Pediatric Occupational Therapist. I've worked a lot with kids with Attention Deficit Disorder and their families. I know how frustrating it is when your children are struggling and it feels like you can't get any answers. I've treated kids, worked with parents and am also a parent of a child with learning disorders so I have many different perspectives." I grab a piece of paper and start scribbling frantically, "Here are my numbers. If you have any questions about how kids learn and the different choices you have to help your daughter, I would be glad to act as a resource if you're interested."
M's Mom takes the paper with the numbers on it. "She has Attention Deficit Disorder, " she repeats. " I understand," I say. "I think something else might be going on too, because she was really struggling today." I stand up. "Good luck." I say with my mouth and wish with my heart as I exit the room.
I have worked with so many parents. Sometimes there is no pain greater than loving your child and watching them struggle. Understanding and then accepting if/when your child has a developmental disability or learning disorder can stir up a myriad of feelings; denial and anger included. Most parents, though, realize when things are not right, and are usually relieved when there are explanations and resources made available. The hardest is when you struggle without relief.
I was completely unprepared for the e-mail which I received from Mrs. D. It was sent Friday after school, but I did not open it until after breakfast on Saturday morning.
E-Mail from Mrs. D to me: "Hi! I just wanted to say that I've appreciated your help with the children, the times that you have been here. Although, your one-on-one assistance with the children was very helpful, there are other concerns. Unfortunately, after today we will not be able to have you back. You shared some things with one of the parents that she did not ask for. She was very upset about this and asked me if you were an official school employee. I think the boundaries were crossed and you're giving unsolicited advice, which comes across the wrong way. I realize that you are trying to be helpful, however, addressing parents is my responsibility and is a confidentiality issue. I hope you are able to find a place that can use your passion and knowledge! Thanks again! :D"
I scan it once. I read it again. As I read it the second time, understanding dawns. A pit begins to yawn in my stomach. I understand. I mourn. I rationalize. I question. I call a friend.
I have made a promise to myself that I will listen to my heart. If I see someone in trouble, I will help them. Mrs. D was busy, so I made a choice to involve myself to defuse an escalating situation. My friend said it sounds like the parent went to the principal. Looking at the wording on the e-mail and remembering my discussion with the principal, I agree. I review my actions. If I would do anything different, I think it would be to introduce myself and my position (or lack thereof) in the classroom. Otherwise, my heart tells me I would have said the same things.
So. An official "AFGO." (Another Fucking Growth Opportunity.) Perhaps I know too much to be a mere classroom volunteer. I doubt I will be welcome elsewhere in this same School District. It is small and word gets around. I will miss the kids. The giggles, the hugs, the requests to be tickled. Most of all, I'll miss myself when I'm with the kids.
In Peace and Hope, always learning, even when it's painful,
Kismet
I tug on the heavy front doors of the old 1940's building. They are very heavy. I idly wonder how little arms and little muscles get these big old doors open. Lunch , sweaty children, paper smells crowd my nostrils as I sign the volunteer book in the front office. It has been almost a month since I last helped in the classroom. I was away on vacation, the teacher was out, and then last week I slept through the day; all plans superseded by my body's need to heal.
I have brought my small Handwriting Without Tears chalk boards with chalk and small squares of sponges. Mrs. D had said that she wanted me to pull out kids and work on handwriting with them. All my talents as an Occupational Therapist specializing in Behavior distilled down to that one note song of OT as hand writing instructor. But, I will choose my materials and do it my way.
The kids are in transition from lunch. Mrs. D greets me with a smile and a "Long time no see!" I grimace, words of apology coming from my mouth. Mrs. D picks up a paper clipped stack of papers. The top paper has names and numerals beside them. "I'm going to have you work on numbers with the kids. " I pull out my chalk boards. "Is it okay if I use these?" I ask. Eyes wide, she nods the affirmative. "Whatever works."
Rolando and I move to the desk and chairs in the hallway. Rolando was one of the first three kids I met in this classroom. I recall that he does not know his letters and is very distractible. Rolando is boneless. He swans into the chair. He loves the chalk and chalk board and responds very well to my verbal directions, however he seems unable to resist gravity. Rolando is left-handed and does not hold onto the chalk board with his right hand. He sits on it, I think in an attempt to keep himself in his chair. Three times I have to help Rolando retrieve himself from the floor and return to sitting in the chair. And no...the chair still does not fit this micro-mini child. He responds with giggles and smiles when I grab his right hand and mock yell at it to "Help us! Help us! Hold onto the chalk boardddddddd!."
Next is bright eyed Marisol. Marisol has Pippi Longstocking braids.She makes a variety of interesting faces as if she can't quite figure out the world. I ask Marisol if she is right or left-handed. This way I can sit so she can see the numbers I demonstrate. Marisol responds with a jumble of words that I can't seem to make sense of. I think I hear the words "color" and "paint". I ask Marisol to pick what color chalk she wants. She does so and plonks her hand, palm down in the middle of her chalk board like she is going to trace it. "No." I say. "We're going to write numbers today."
The way Handwriting Without Tears works is 3-part. 1. Write the number with chalk, always starting at the top, utilizing the wooden boundaries of the boards to help form the numbers and letters as appropriate. 2. Erase the number by tracing over the chalk, starting and ending exactly like you formed the original chalk number. 3. Dry, tracing again, using a small piece of paper towel.
Marisol is confused. I am confused. First she holds the chalk like she's holding a cigarette. When I try to help her correct her grasp, she stacks her first two fingers on top of each other, opposite the thumb. We finally get her grasp corrected. I find that I have to break down my directions even further. "Stop. Put down the chalk. Pick up the sponge...no, pick it up with the same hand. No, you have to put down the sponge before you can pick up the towel." I'm not sure where Marisol's body is, but she seems to have been caught in some land between dimensions where things don't fit together. She does not seem terribly distressed by her difficulties and actually comments on how much she likes "writing with chalk." We struggle through. Mrs. D asks me "How did it go?" when I come in with Marisol. I pause. Breathe. "Interesting." I say. "I'll e-mail you about it."
I work with one more child on numbers in the hallway, before I return to the classroom in preparation for leaving for the day. Mrs. D is instructing the class on word endings using the dry erase board in the front of the class. There are flowers with the endings "ig", "ip" and "id" in the center. Each petal is meant to hold words beginning with different consonants, but with the same ending, i.e. pig, jig, fig, etc. I look. Rolando's paper is on the floor. Rolando is very carefully making a crayon train on the table while Mrs. D and his classmates fill petals with ig, ip and id words. I sit down beside Rolando. We work together for a while before I realize that there is too much noise, movement and distraction for Rolando. Rolando's eyes and attention buzz around the room like a hive of bees in search of nectar. I interrupt Mrs. D to ask if Rolando and I can work in the hallway on his errant flowers. She agrees. I notice that there is a woman talking to Marisol. This woman asks Mrs. D how Marisol did today. I look back and say, "She had a really hard time following directions today." On the way out of the classroom, I hear Marisol's mother tell her, "If you don't understand the directions, you have to ask for help." My heart goes into my throat for Marisol. I think to myself that direction repetition may not be enough to help Marisol find her way.
I send Rolando into giggles when I tell him he can "P" all over the paper Rolando is actually able to finish a whole flower before he is sent to recess by Mrs. D. While Rolando and I are in the hallway, we spy Mr. L, the Mental Health Aide and Mauricio (he that hideth under the table). Mauricio turns to run away. Mr. L grabs his arm. Stark terror lands on Mauricio's face and he starts struggling and kicking Mr. L. Mr. L scoops Mauricio up and bodily carries him to the office. I cannot tell which hurts more, my stomach or my heart.
I return to the classroom to retrieve my coat for my trek back home. Marisol is standing at the table. She has a pencil in one hand and a lost look on her face. Her mother is sitting in a child's chair at the table with Marisol's paper and a look of desperation. As I'm putting on my coat I hear the heated words "Look at the BOARD!". I look up, and see Marisol's mother grab Marisol's head in both hands and turn it forcefully so she is looking at the board. My gut knots up. I count to ten.
"May I make a suggestion?" I quietly ask Marisol's mother. She nods. I continue, "It's so noisy and distracting in here, it might be easier for both of you if you finished the paper out in the hall."
"She is going to have to learn to deal with distractions." Marisol's mother responds with force.
Big pause. I inhale slowly, thinking as I sit down beside M's mother. "Yes. I understand that, but you don't put a baby who is just learning to walk, on a tread mill."
Instant anger and defensiveness radiates from Marisol's mother. "Who are you?" M's Mom explodes. "You have no idea what we've been doing and what you're coming into the middle of! Marisol has Attention Deficit Disorder and I've been asking for help all year!"
Instant regret. I glance down to see if indeed my foot is in my mouth, or is it in a can of worms. "I'm so sorry." I pause. "I did not introduce myself." "No, you didn't" She says. Big breath. "I'm Kismet, a volunteer, but I'm a trained Special Education Teacher, as well as a Pediatric Occupational Therapist. I've worked a lot with kids with Attention Deficit Disorder and their families. I know how frustrating it is when your children are struggling and it feels like you can't get any answers. I've treated kids, worked with parents and am also a parent of a child with learning disorders so I have many different perspectives." I grab a piece of paper and start scribbling frantically, "Here are my numbers. If you have any questions about how kids learn and the different choices you have to help your daughter, I would be glad to act as a resource if you're interested."
M's Mom takes the paper with the numbers on it. "She has Attention Deficit Disorder, " she repeats. " I understand," I say. "I think something else might be going on too, because she was really struggling today." I stand up. "Good luck." I say with my mouth and wish with my heart as I exit the room.
I have worked with so many parents. Sometimes there is no pain greater than loving your child and watching them struggle. Understanding and then accepting if/when your child has a developmental disability or learning disorder can stir up a myriad of feelings; denial and anger included. Most parents, though, realize when things are not right, and are usually relieved when there are explanations and resources made available. The hardest is when you struggle without relief.
I was completely unprepared for the e-mail which I received from Mrs. D. It was sent Friday after school, but I did not open it until after breakfast on Saturday morning.
E-Mail from Mrs. D to me: "Hi! I just wanted to say that I've appreciated your help with the children, the times that you have been here. Although, your one-on-one assistance with the children was very helpful, there are other concerns. Unfortunately, after today we will not be able to have you back. You shared some things with one of the parents that she did not ask for. She was very upset about this and asked me if you were an official school employee. I think the boundaries were crossed and you're giving unsolicited advice, which comes across the wrong way. I realize that you are trying to be helpful, however, addressing parents is my responsibility and is a confidentiality issue. I hope you are able to find a place that can use your passion and knowledge! Thanks again! :D"
I scan it once. I read it again. As I read it the second time, understanding dawns. A pit begins to yawn in my stomach. I understand. I mourn. I rationalize. I question. I call a friend.
I have made a promise to myself that I will listen to my heart. If I see someone in trouble, I will help them. Mrs. D was busy, so I made a choice to involve myself to defuse an escalating situation. My friend said it sounds like the parent went to the principal. Looking at the wording on the e-mail and remembering my discussion with the principal, I agree. I review my actions. If I would do anything different, I think it would be to introduce myself and my position (or lack thereof) in the classroom. Otherwise, my heart tells me I would have said the same things.
So. An official "AFGO." (Another Fucking Growth Opportunity.) Perhaps I know too much to be a mere classroom volunteer. I doubt I will be welcome elsewhere in this same School District. It is small and word gets around. I will miss the kids. The giggles, the hugs, the requests to be tickled. Most of all, I'll miss myself when I'm with the kids.
In Peace and Hope, always learning, even when it's painful,
Kismet
I'm so sorry Kismet. Sending You Hugs.
ReplyDeleteThank you, Susan! I needed the hugs! It never feels good to get in trouble, no matter HOW old you are.
DeleteOh, Diane. Thank you for your words. I think the teacher wanted me, but was dealing with 'higher powers' who were dealing with an angry parent. (And we ALL know it wasn't ME the parent was really angry at.)
ReplyDelete