things money can’t buy.
George Horace Lormier
“I don’t know how you can stand being in that classroom all day,” people say to me when I tell them that, after two years of substituting in my local school district, I like being in the elementary emotional support classroom more than all others. I’ve substituted at all levels: elementary, middle, and high school; for secretaries, learning support aides, library assistants, and receptionists. Each position offers a certain amount of responsibility, but most of them leave me feeling as though I only put in my time. I’m the warm replacement body for a day. I’m a parking space filled. Some days, those positions are dull, with little to accomplish, and so few challenges that I feel as though I lose brain cells by the second. Sure, I still get paid, but it is demoralizing to watch the clock ticking hour-long seconds. But as an aide in an emotional sup- port classroom, I never stop moving. Never. And even if my body does stop for a brief period of time, my brain is still racing. I’m watching, no, more than watching . . . observing . . . ready to intercept, redirect, call for reinforcements if one of the students becomes overwhelmed and needs more help.
I might spend hours with a group of boys who struggle to read and balk at writing anything, including their name. Getting them to sit still and stay focused is an energy-draining job most days, virtually impossible on others. There might be a few girls who only want to lay their heads on the desk all day long. How many times can you say, “You need to sit up . . . you are in school now”? Hundreds? Millions? Yes. For these children, life is tough. We only see their outside behavior. We don’t see what is happening in their heads, their hearts, their souls. We repeat and repeat and repeat the same direction dozens of times, only to be faced with vacant looks when we ask why they are not following directions.
Parenting five kids full-time for eighteen years is nothing compared to working for twenty minutes on math with three of these struggling kids. Setting the bar high enough to stretch them and low enough so that they are not instantly discouraged is a constant challenge. Watching a child struggle every day of his life to spell two words correctly is disheartening.
Then one day, almost out of the blue, after you work with one of them over and over, he gets his very first 100 percent on a spelling test. And you fly right along with him, higher than you or he ever thought possible. Emotional support classrooms present the greatest challenges— and the greatest rewards. The final bell rings. The day is over, but you can’t imagine how it’s possible because you never once looked at the clock.
Mary Mooney
While living in Jakarta, Indonesia, for three years, Mary Mooney conducted team-building workshops throughout Asia and edited the American Women’s Association of Indonesia magazine. She is a certified multicultural diversity trainer, a professional actress, public speaker, and a playwright. She has worked in emotional and learning support classrooms in her Pennsylvania school district, and has produced a theatrical musical addressing the needs of people with mental illness and their families. Please contact her at
[email protected] What’s the Truth About Thomas?
Put love first. Entertain thoughts that give life, and when a thought or resentment, or hurt, or fear comes your way, have another thought that is more powerful—a thought that is love.
Mary Manin Morrissey
Nothing in my ten years of teaching children from low-income, non-English-speaking families had prepared me for the day Thomas arrived in my second-grade classroom. I had dealt with tantrums, medicated children, disabilities, and poverty, but never had I dealt with such an emotionally disturbed child as Thomas. I knew from his school files that he’d been taken away from his mother, who had exposed him to pornography, among other things. Now he lived with a couple who were one step away from being homeless, living in a cramped, dingy hotel and often lacking food.
Deep in my heart, where the sun doesn’t shine, I sometimes hoped this child would not return to my classroom. Each morning, Thomas showed up ready to destroy my last thread of patience and sanity. How do you tell a child that it’s not acceptable to expose his private parts to other classmates? I tried to get Thomas to sit in his seat, follow instructions, and do his work. But most days, he’d scream, refuse to sit in his seat, and run off to a corner.
Trying to maintain order and teach the other children left me drained. I developed chest pains and high blood pressure. I pleaded for help from the principal, the vice principal, and the school psychologist. No one had an answer. When we sent notes home, Thomas was severely punished by his guardians. I stopped sending notes home.
After Christmas vacation, Thomas didn’t return. As much as I had wanted to ask God to remove this child from my classroom, I could never pray those words. Now, it seemed my problems were over. Each morning, I cautiously drove to school, wondering if this would be the day that Thomas came back.
After two weeks of bliss, Thomas walked back into my life. A few days later, I became so ill that I missed a week of school. It’s Thomas, I told myself. That child is ruining my health. Stuck flat on my back in bed, I began to pray. “God, I can’t take this anymore. No one can help me. I need your wisdom. I need your love for this child.”
A week later, I forced myself back to school. Nothing had changed. Thomas began to throw his usual fit when I asked him to do his work. Speaking in a gentle, yet firm voice, I said, “Thomas, come here.” I walked to the side of the classroom and motioned for him to come over.
With head down and eyes on the floor, he came to me. I squatted down to eye level and said, “Tell me your name.”
No response. Again, “Tell me your name.”
Refusing to look at me, he said, “Thomas.”
“That’s right,” I said. “Your name is Thomas.”
Still looking at his downcast eyes, I said, “Tell me what is true about you.” He didn’t answer.
“Then I will tell you what is true about you. Your name is Thomas, and you are a good boy. Now tell me what is true about you.”
He did not answer. I continued, “You are Thomas, and you are a very smart boy. Now repeat that to me.”
He said in a whisper, “I am Thomas, and I am a very smart boy.”
“What else is true about you?” I coached. “I am Thomas, and I can make good choices.”
His eyes lifted to my face. “I am Thomas, and I can make good choices.”
I took a breath and said, “I am Thomas, and God gave me a good mind.”
By now, his body had relaxed, and he said, “I am Thomas, and God gave me a good mind.”
Looking into his eyes, I said, “Thomas, I want you to use your good mind. Now go back to your desk and finish your work.” To my amazement, Thomas completed his work without any disruption to the class.
Every day, I’d take him aside and say, “Thomas, what is the truth about you?”
He’d answer, “I am Thomas, and I can make good choices. I am Thomas, and I have a good mind.”
One day, as I was working with some students, I noticed Thomas hiding behind a pocket chart near our group. In a voice hardly loud enough to hear, he kept repeating, “I am a bad boy. I am dumb.”
I listened for a few minutes, and then said to the children I was working with, “Boys and girls, what is the truth about Thomas?”
One little girl piped up, “Thomas is smart.”
Another child said, “Thomas can make good choices.”
One boy raised his hand. “Thomas has a good mind.”
“That’s right,” I said. “Thomas is smart, and he can make good choices. Thomas is a good boy.” Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Thomas taking in every word.
Now, I’d like to tell you that all my problems with Thomas disappeared overnight, but they didn’t. But, ever so slowly, his behavior did begin to change. One day in the teachers’ lounge, the vice principal said to me, “You never send Thomas to my office anymore. What happened?” The school psychologist was grabbing a cup of coffee and turned to
listen.
“Well,” I said, “let me tell you the truth about Thomas.” And I told them the story.
When the children were leaving my classroom later that afternoon, I stood at the door saying good-bye. Thomas managed to be the last child out and turned to give me a quick hug. As I watched him race down the hallway, unexpected words tumbled from my lips, “Luv ya!” I doubt that he heard me, but it didn’t matter. I walked back to my desk, sat down, and sobbed. I had no idea when I had started to love Thomas, but I did.
Laura Dean
As told to Jeanne Pallos
Jeanne Pallos is a published author for adults and children. A resident of Orange County, California, Jeanne is a member of the Christian Writers Fellowship and a key producer of their annual conference. She and her husband, Andrew, are parents of two adult children. You may reach her at
[email protected] Kids Amaze Me
My daughter, Jaimie, was my miracle girl. She reminded me of one of those little babies you see in photos from the early 1900s—big, wondering, blue eyes, poker-straight strawberry-blonde hair, and creamy porcelain-doll skin.
Looking down on her each night as I watched her sleep, my heart filled with pure love I didn’t know existed before she did. She was perfect. But as she grew, she became increasingly more introverted and scared of her surroundings. Something was terribly wrong. After two and a half years of her behavior getting worse, she was diagnosed with sensory integration dysfunction (SID).
Although not a life-threatening disorder, it causes her tremendous anxiety and frustration. Essentially, SID is a dysfunction of the nervous system, where information received from the environment isn’t processed properly in Jaimie’s brain. She has no “filtering-out” capability, causing her to get smells, sights, noises, or tactile (touch) signals all at the same time. It would be comparable to a crowd of people coming at you all at once, each demanding a different sort of attention. It can be both scary and overwhelming.
Needless to say, Jaimie’s condition can alienate her from other children, as they’re unsure how to approach her. We live in a townhouse complex where the homes are lined up around a winding road. It’s nice because the homes block out sound from the street, but noise within the complex is quite audible.
One day, Jaimie was in the front yard running and spinning in circles—two things she finds comfort in doing. As Jaimie spun, her strawberry-blonde hair spread out around her like a parachute coming in for a landing. She stopped only when things were spinning without her, and she fell into a pile of giggles on the prickly grass. As I laughed with Jaimie, I heard a young, but husky voice from my right ask, “What’s wrong with her?” Surprised by the sudden intrusion, I turned to see a young blonde girl, her pigtails sticking out Pippi Longstocking–style from under her bike helmet.
“What do you mean?” I asked calmly. I knew what she meant. I’d heard her comment about Jaimie when we’d seen her at the park.
“She’s always spinning around, talkin’ to herself. I tried to talk to her at the park, but she just ran away screamin’. I didn’t even do anything to her. She’s always got a soother in her mouth and she’s not even a baby. Her bike has three wheels, but she’s big. Why is she so weird?”
Ahh, the honesty of little ones. She wasn’t asking to be mean. She simply wanted to know why this other girl was . . . different . . . different from her and her friends. I crouched down and put my hand on Jaimie’s chest while she stared up at the clouds. She seemed oblivious to the other girl beside me. The inquisitive girl stood astride her bike, staring down at me and waiting for her answer.
I struggled to find the right words to help her understand. “Tell me something. Have you ever tried really hard to do something, but it was really hard for you?”
“Oh, yeah, lotsa times,” she nodded.
“And what happened when you tried to do something hard, and you couldn’t do it right away? How did it make you feel?”
She scrunched up her face, as though it helped her to remember. “I remember learning to ride this bike with no extra wheels, and I kept falling off. I hurt myself a lot. I didn’t want to do it anymore because every time I tried I fell. It made me very mad, and I cried,” she said all in one breath. “My dad and mom told me to keep trying and that I could do it. Then one day, I did!”
“That’s wonderful,” I smiled. “Those mad feelings you felt . . . where you cried . . . didn’t feel very good, did they?”
“No. I didn’t like that.” She looked down.
“That’s how Jaimie feels every single day. The hard part is that what hurts her isn’t always something we can see.”
“You mean something invisible is making her like that?” she asked, her emerald eyes widening.
“I guess you could say that,” I laughed. “You see, Jaimie feels things differently than you or I do. Hey! Have you ever been at the park when it’s really busy and loud?”
“Oh, yes. It’s like that every day at recess,” she said.
“Right! Okay, well, it can get pretty busy there, right? So busy you can’t always concentrate on one thing.”
“Yeah, like if I’m trying to talk to my friends, but everyone is running around and screaming.”
“Exactly. That’s how Jaimie feels all the time. Like there are lots of sounds, things to see, smells, or people trying to touch her, and she gets scared. She doesn’t know how to ignore stuff so she can listen to one noise or see one thing. She gets very scared, and she runs, or she stands there and screams.”
The little girl stared at me for a good minute, then looked down at Jaimie. Her eyes rimmed with tears. “Is that why she ran away from us at the playground?” she asked.
“Yes. It wasn’t because she didn’t want to play with you. There was just too much going on for her to feel comfortable enough to talk to you. That’s all. She’s a wonderful girl to know. You just have to be patient with her until she feels safe enough with you.”
The young girl wiped her nose on her arm, then got back on her bike. “I get scared, too, sometimes. That’s not so weird.”
“No, that’s not so weird.” Jaimie got up and started spinning again. The young girl rode back over to her friends, who asked her why she was talking to “the weird girl.”
As I walked back to the stairs to sit down, I heard the young girl’s voice echo around our complex: “Hey! She’s not weird. Her name is Jaimie, and she’s special. And I’m going to be friends with her.” With that, she dropped her bike, ran back over to our front lawn, and began to spin with Jaimie. “See, Jaimie? There’s nothing wrong with being scared. I’ll spin with you until you want a friend.”
Kids amaze me.
Chynna Laird
Chynna Tamara Laird lives in Edmonton, Alberta, with her partner, Steve, and three children—Jaimie (four), Jordhan (two), and new baby boy, Xander. She’s a freelance writer, completing a B.A. in psychology. She eventually wants to specialize in developmental neuropsychology to help children and families with special needs. Jaimie has made excellent progress since her diagnosis. Her verbal skills are strong, she loves music and art, and she’s slowly building up her courage to venture out of the boundaries of her strict routine to try new things. She’ll even be attending a special preschool class with her sister, Jordhan, very soon. Please email Chynna at
[email protected] A Whale of a Time
Last year, we went to Niagara Falls and found out that nearby Marineland had orcas. Our son, Sam, has loved killer whales since he was about a year old. The walls in his room are covered in posters and picture calendars of orcas, and we have dozens of orca toys: plastic, plush, large and small, plus magnets, stickers, and pillowcases. And did I mention books? We have countless books on whales and dolphins, but mostly orcas. Free Willy? He’s a friend we watch nearly every day.
So off we went to Marineland on Thursday, August 16, 2005. Once in the park, we headed straight for Friendship Cove, home of four orcas. I can’t tell you how excited we all were to watch Sam’s face
as he saw, for the first time in his life, a real killer whale. It was a moment to remember, followed by many more that weekend. We purchased tickets to stand with the trainer, and feed and pet an orca.
After a full day of fun with the family at the park, Sam and I returned for a second day—nine hours just standing at the tanks, watching the whales. Sam was in heaven. As we left, he said, “Good-bye, whales. See you next year.”
From the day we departed Canada, Sam started talking about returning on Thursday, August 17, 2006. If you know a child with autism, you know that you have to talk about the upcoming trip daily, like twenty times a day. Fast-forward to this past August. Sam was ready, wearing the same shirt as last year so the whales would recognize him. We got to Friendship Cove, and there were no more ticket sales for feeding the whales! The activity had been replaced with a new Splash Show. Sure, the Splash Show was fantastic and fascinating, but I could see the despair and confusion on my sweet boy’s face. We stayed for two shows, took lots of photos and video, saw the rest of the park, went on rides, and returned to say good-bye to the whales. Sam and I came back again for a second day.
We planted ourselves into position, as we had been last year, to spend the day watching the whales swim around their wide-open tanks. We were literally two feet away from those beautiful mammals. The Splash Show took place every hour and a half. People would start filing into the area ten minutes before showtime, then disperse twenty minutes later, soaking wet.
The trainers noticed we were there—and still there, and again, still there. We started up a conversation with one of the attendants, who asked Sam about the pile of books he was carrying. This young man, Nicholas, recognized that Sam was no ordinary child, and tried to keep him engaged in conversation. One thing became obvious to Nicholas— Sam adored the whales! Then, just prior to the next Splash Show, the “host” of the event, Sean, came over to talk with Sam. I could feel myself leaving my body—you know, that kind of moment you have when something really good is happening. Time stands still, you can barely speak, and tears flood down your face. Sean told Sam, “I could really use a helper for the show. Do you think you could helpme?” What did he just say? Dear God, thank you. If I could have felt my legs at that moment, I would have dropped to my knees.