by Brad Cohen
As people who knew of someone with Tourette’s or who had Tourette’s themselves read the article and called for advice, I kept track of the names and numbers. So many people needed help, especially children in school. To this day, whenever anyone contacts me to learn more about Tourette syndrome, I always take the time. It is my way of giving back. I can’t always help the people who have helped me, but I can help others. If I can help make the life of a child easier, maybe prevent him or her from experiencing some of the things I did, then I have done well. I can’t tell you how important this has become to me.
Because of the tremendous response from the article, I decided to start a Tourette syndrome support group in Peoria. I remembered my first experience with a support group—the small dark room where everyone was very negative and depressed, and where few were trying to lead normal public lives. That meeting had turned into a series of pessimistic complaints. I vowed that for everyone involved this time, the experience would be different. I wanted to show people that while there were limitations involved in having Tourette’s, they could still have a full, fun, and productive life.
At our first meeting we had ten people in the group. At the next meeting there were fifteen, and then there were twenty.It was really interesting for me because many of the people came from rural areas and had never met anyone else with Tourette’s before. At first they all just stared at me, but soon the questions started and I was drilled from all sides—by kids and parents alike.
After a few meetings I planned a social for the members with their families. About fifty of us went bowling, and everyone had a really good time. It was also a fundraiser for the group and we did extremely well. Today, I am very proud to say that this support group is still going strong in central Illinois.
The summer between my junior and senior years at Bradley, I needed to find something to do. The previous summer I had taken a trip to Europe with other Bradley students for class credit. It was a culturally rich program that included visiting castles, museums, casinos, clubs, and other attractions, and I wanted to do something equally as fun—if not quite as exciting—this summer. I had a friend who was going to Emory University and another who had an internship at CNN. Both friends—Jordan Hirschfield and Bob Steinback—were located in Atlanta, as was my dad. I had no idea what I would do in Atlanta, but one of my friends suggested that I could be a counselor at a kids’ day camp. A few days later, after just a few phone calls, I was hired over the phone as a counselor at Camp Alterman. So I loaded up the old Volvo that my dad had handed down to me, and headed southeast.
I was excited about being a counselor, but I had a bit of a nagging fear that it wouldn’t work out because of my tics. When I got there, it turned out that the staff members were already familiar with Tourette syndrome because they had another counselor with Tourette’s. That was a big relief. Other than my usual two-minute speech on Tourette’s, I didn’t have to explain myself to anyone, and I threw myself headlong into the summer.
Each week at Camp Alterman the staff members chose a Counselor of the Week, and the very first week I was surprised to be selected. All the unit heads, plus the camp director, voted on who would be chosen, so it was a real peer-voted honor. At the end of the year I was even more pleased to be chosen as Camp Alterman’s Counselor of the Year. I kind of felt like the new guy who came in and stole the show, but I can’t tell you how much I appreciated the award. Awards to me are like the icing on the cake for doing a great job—never necessary, but always nice.
On another level, awards are important to me. For people to see past the Tourette’s and see me, they often need a reason. An award gives them one, and often puts me back on a par with everyone else out there. Plus, it’s one thing when one person chooses a winner; it says a lot more when, as with this award, your peers choose you.
That summer, the three of us—Jordan, Bob, and I—shared a small apartment. During the day I was a camp counselor, but in the evenings I got to know the city of Atlanta, and I fell in love with it. My friends and I went out almost every night, and we thoroughly enjoyed all that the city had to offer. I began to think I might want to relocate to Atlanta after I graduated, so in my few free moments I even scoped out some schools that might hire me as a teacher.
Another plus for Atlanta was that Georgia had reciprocity with Illinois for teaching certificates, while Missouri did not. If I moved back to St. Louis, I would have to take another twelve hours of classes before I could be certified there. I was excited just to be even thinking about these things. I was exhilarated to think that in a little more than a year, I might finally have my own classroom.
Much of my senior year at Bradley was spent searching for a job, but I was also busy with a new responsibility. Since my freshman year, I had been attending the annual AEPi national conferences along with many local and regional conclaves and student meetings. The AEPi fraternity’s international board was comprised of all adults, plus two student members. My senior year, one of those two lone students who were chosen from all the student members all over the world was me! My responsibilities were huge, as I had a vote on the board, and my vote represented all the student members of the AEPi fraternity. I did not take these responsibilities lightly, and I made sure I heard from as many students as possible before I cast my vote. We voted on budgets and policy and on many other things that affected not only current undergrad members but also those who would come after us.
During my term, I traveled to several national meetings and discussed topical issues with the adult members of the board. At all times I was taken seriously and respected; not once did Tourette syndrome become an issue or turn into a problem. I was very encouraged by this and hoped that the trend would continue when I began searching for my first teaching job the next summer.
Not wanting to leave the job search until the last minute, I used winter break to drive to Atlanta and check out possible teaching positions. I met with a few principals, made lots of contacts, and basically put together a game plan for the following summer. I left Atlanta that winter with peace of mind. I knew I was coming back.
In the spring of 1996, I graduated cum laude from Bradley University. It was the day I had always hoped for and sometimes thought would never arrive. I was now officially ready to teach! It had been a long, winding road leading to this moment, and I was thrilled to be able to share my graduation with so many of the important people in my life. In addition to my immediate family—Mom, Dad, Jeff, and my stepmother, Diane—also able to attend were my Big Brother, Steve Mathes, his wife, Julie, and their younger son, Joey. I was especially pleased that Steve and his family made the drive. We had kept in touch throughout my college years, and it meant a lot to me that they were there. And, throughout my high school and college years, Dad had begun to change his thinking about Tourette’s and about me. We had a ways to go, but we were headed in the right direction.
The graduation was bittersweet, as I was leaving so many good friends, but I was excited about the opportunities that lay ahead. If the upcoming move to Atlanta didn’t work out, I knew I could always go back to St. Louis, but I was willing to take a chance on my chosen southern city. That chance ended up paying off, but not without a lot of heartbreak first.
BARKING UP THE WRONG TREES
I WAS FRESH OUT OF COLLEGE in June of 1996 when I packed up the old Volvo once again for a drive to Atlanta. I was finally going to do the job search that would begin my life as a teacher. The long drive through Illinois, Kentucky, and Tennessee gave me a lot of time to think about where I might teach. What school? What grade?
I had no expectations of anything being handed to me, but I wasn’t particularly worried about finding a job, either. My stint as a student teacher had gone so well that I had come away from it assured that my dream of leading a classroom was a true calling. I knew that some of my confidence came from spending the previous four years with people I knew and liked—and people who liked me and who understood about my tics. A lot of potential social
difficulties can be avoided in an atmosphere like that. But I had grown so much as a person during my college years that I felt sure I could make people outside my little world understand Tourette’s, too. And so it was easy to drive along reveling in my dream of standing in front of a class of children eager to hear what we were all going to do that day. I couldn’t wait to launch into the ongoing daily battle for their attention, for their learning, and for their respect.
Before I left St. Louis, I happened to hear that the roommate of one of my friends in Atlanta was going to be away for the summer and needed to sublet in order to keep his lease. I jumped at the chance to move in and spend the summer months finding my first full-time teaching job.
In the meantime, during the early part of the summer I had the opportunity to return to Camp Alterman, this time as a unit head—a counselor with supervisory responsibilities.
Leslie Jaslow, my unit head from the previous summer, said she was really glad to see me back. “You have a wonderful relationship with each and every kid,” she told me. “You never sit around while the kids play; you join in all the games and never take a break, and the parents love you. I’m proud to have you on my staff.”
These were wonderful words, and I would draw strength from them later in the summer. From my perspective, the camp job was a stroke of luck, as I could schedule my job interviews around my duties at camp.
Throughout those months, I did what every determined person does when looking for meaningful work—every time I ran into a friend or acquaintance, I asked for leads on teaching jobs. And just in case an interview opportunity popped up at the last moment, I kept my good navy pin-striped suit hanging in my car, along with the appropriate shirt, tie, and shoes.
In most schools within the gigantic Atlanta school system, the formal application process works like this: you put in an application with the human resources office, then wait for school principals to call you for an interview. I hated the idea of waiting for the right school to “find” me, but that was the process. I applied at all the major school districts to increase my chances of getting calls. Then I waited the same long, painful wait known by everyone who has ever sweated their way through a job search, sitting by the phone for a call. Whoever first said “time drags” was probably waiting to hear about a job.
When the first call finally came, it was from a recruiter for one of the largest and most diverse school districts in Atlanta. The woman said they liked my application and wanted to meet me. This was exciting! Wearing my navy pin-striped suit, the shirt, the tie, and the shoes, I charged into the human resources office at the appointed time and eagerly handed over my résumé. The recruiter asked me a lot of questions, and because of other interviews I’d done in the past, I had most of the answers memorized.
“What is your philosophy of teaching?”
I was prepared for that one. “My philosophy of education is to … RAH … allow students a chance to succeed by WOOP providing hands-on experiences …” I talked about how important it is to communicate with parents, to give children choices in the classroom, and to offer them a voice in their own learning. I explained that I wouldn’t let race, income, ethnicity, language difficulties, or anything else interfere with teaching those children. I felt it was my responsibility to use every available resource to be certain that each child learned at the appropriate level.
The recruiter asked how I would maintain discipline. I told her about a flip-card chart I used to hold children accountable for their behavior. Each week I would send a report home to parents, letting them know how their child was doing in terms of both academics and behavior.
I described my work as a camp counselor, told the recruiter about my colleagues naming me Counselor of the Year, and let her know how much the honor meant to me.
We both knew that sooner or later the subject of Tourette’s had to come up—there was no way to hide the fact that I had TS, and I wanted to be open about it anyway. By law, I did not have to disclose my Tourette’s or even talk about it. By law, prospective employers were not supposed to bring it up, but if I initiated the discussion it was all right to address the issue.
Finally, I felt ready to open the topic. I explained that my technique for informing students about my condition was to give them a frank description of it as a neurological disorder with unavoidable tics that were like sneezes—when you have to, you have to. I also let the recruiter know that the kids were allowed to ask questions about it at any time. She asked how the children reacted to Tourette’s in general, and I assured her that once they got used to it, they were unfazed. She seemed to absorb the Tourette’s stuff more intensely than my views on discipline and teaching. As the interview drew to a close, I felt exhilarated. I was learning how to meet job interview challenges and to anticipate the answers that I needed to have prepared.
Throughout the rest of the session, the interviewer smiled and nodded as if I were playing Trivial Pursuit and getting every question right. It was only toward the end that her voice took on a slightly more subdued tone.
“I think it might be hard for you to find a job, Brad,” she said. “People just aren’t used to the possibility that a successful teacher would have Tourette syndrome. As if teaching isn’t difficult enough for anyone …”
Deep down, I’d expected to hear someone say something like this. It’s the attitude that every person with a disability dreads encountering—when someone just isn’t willing to give us a chance. Even after so many years of dealing with strangers’ reactions, the interviewer’s words still cut me wide open. I knew I could work with children, and I’d been able to prove it many times over. But how could I convince a stranger who hadn’t seen me teach that Tourette’s wouldn’t get in the way?
I tried the direct approach: “I just want a chance to prove to principals that I can do the job.”
She smiled and nodded. “Best of luck, Brad,” she said. Then she signed me up to interview with principals from three different schools. Maybe she couldn’t find it in herself to hold out any hope, but at least she had agreed to let me try the interview process. That was enough … for now. I went home and updated my portfolio, then began to obsess in the process of running every possible question and answer through my mind.
The interview appointments with all three principals turned out to be on the same day, which was a little intense but was the best way to do it while still showing up for my duties at camp. So I went to work as usual, with my suit in the car, and put in a few hours being a camp counselor before leaving early for the interviews.
Atlanta is a huge city, so my first challenge was to navigate the complex highway system, chance the unpredictable traffic, and still be on time. After I left camp, I had to take I-285, one of Atlanta’s legendary frightening and perplexing highways. It was impossible not to be terrified of getting lost and missing the interview. I remembered a story about a Braves baseball player who missed his first game because he kept going round and round on I-285, looping endlessly around the city. Hopefully the same would not happen to me.
My luck held. I found the right exit, pulled into a McDonald’s, and used the restroom to change into my suit. All I needed was an old-time phone booth, and I would have felt like Clark Kent getting into his Superman costume. When I came out, an elderly lady even looked at me curiously and asked, “Were you in there with your twin, or did you change clothes?”
My feats weren’t quite as astounding as Superman’s, but I felt a lot like him as I arrived at the elementary school on time with my résumé in hand. It was really happening. I was finally getting a chance to start my teaching career.
I interviewed first with a principal who needed teachers for either the fourth or the fifth grade. The principal wouldn’t be absolutely sure about the grade assignment until closer to the start of the school year. She told me about her school, emphasizing that her teachers had to work with a diverse population. I assured her that that would not be a problem. Some of my own student teaching had been carr
ied out at a magnet school in inner-city Peoria. Yes, the cultural atmosphere was different, but kids are kids; they all need a positive and supportive learning environment, and they do best under a disciplinary program that involves self-enforcement with reasonable consequences.
Naturally, I brought up Tourette syndrome, and when I launched into my explanation, the principal leaned forward and listened intently. I even showed her the articles about me that had run in the Peoria Journal Star. It felt great to have them, because good newspaper articles written by someone else reflect on you much more positively than you yourself saying how great you are. She looked the articles over, then smiled and thanked me for coming in, saying she’d call me when she had made a decision. I left without being able to judge her response. Her professional demeanor was pleasant but completely opaque. All I knew for sure was that I had one down and two to go.
The second principal was older, a seasoned administrator who said she wanted to see more men in elementary school classrooms because so many children were growing up in single-mother homes. She knew they needed all the positive male role models they could get. She smiled the whole time we talked.
“I see that you have Tourette syndrome, and that you’ve been very successful with it,” she said while she flipped through the newspaper articles in my portfolio.
It was wonderful to hear her recognition. “I’ve been fortunate,” I said. “WOOP, woop, woop, many people with Tourette’s don’t graduate from college.”
She seemed to know more about Tourette’s than most people, and didn’t indicate that she thought it would prevent me from teaching. Like the previous principal, she said she’d be in touch once she had made a decision. Even though she was friendlier than the first principal, once again I found her professional polish to be so smooth that I had no idea what she actually thought.