Michael threw stones in the playground during recess and lunch hour.
He hit some kids and a teacher.
He keeps fidgeting and won’t sit still when asked.
He walks around the classroom.
He kicked two kids after they teased him.
He doesn’t follow instructions, and willfully disobeys the teacher.
He doesn’t move from one classroom activity when asked.
He won’t get involved in group activities.
He’s more interested in “parallel” play than actively playing with the other children.
I was going to meeting after meeting to discuss these issues with Michael’s teacher and the principal. They called and asked me what to do about the problems. “How should I know?” I wanted to say, “You’re asking me? You’re the professionals,” but I didn’t. The best I could do was to describe the successful strategies Michael’s Montessori teachers had used during the three years he was there:
Don’t make Michael work in groups. He is a loner and can at best “parallel play.”
Don’t let him “just play” or be left on his own during recess in the playground. He needs structure and programmed activities.
Have him clean blackboards or put books in bookshelves…
Repeat instructions. He doesn’t understand them the first time he hears them.
If an instruction is multi-stepped, have him do one thing and come back for a reminder of what the next step is. He doesn’t remember steps that follow.
Give Michael advance notice and repeat warnings before he has to move from one activity to another. He gets stuck and needs time for transitions.
Give him a small ball, play dough or clay to play with in his hands at all times. It controls his fidgetiness and helps him concentrate.
Let him get up and walk around every fifteen minutes or so.
Reach out and connect with him. Have him sit close to the front. Make eye contact with him. He wants to please.
And, most importantly, find creative ways to demonstrate to the entire class how each of them is “different” in some way, and that it’s okay to be different. Teach tolerance, appreciation of diversity. No bullying or teasing allowed.
To underscore the last point, I pleaded to Michael’s teacher. “Please don’t make Michael the example of a ‘bad’ kid to his classmates. It isn’t right to say, ‘If you act like Michael, I’ll make you sit outside with him.’”
I had asked the Montessori teachers if it would be too difficult in a large classroom to do what they were suggesting? “I can’t imagine they’ll have time with so many other kids.”
They didn’t think so. “All kids are different,” they said. “Once you figure out what a child needs, it makes it easier for the teacher, not more difficult. There was nothing difficult or time-consuming about what we did with Michael.”
Unfortunately, that’s not the way they saw it at Michael’s new school. I provided Michael’s new teacher with a copy of the Montessori strategies, but the teacher didn’t feel she’d have time to implement them. Actually, she soon forgot I’d ever given them to her, and reminders during meetings never twigged any response.
One change that would have taken time and school policy was to address teasing. When it happened, Michael responded like a caged animal, fighting back for his life. I doubted the school would be successful in getting Michael to change his reaction to bullying, so a well-thought-out plan to tackle the broader issue was needed. I was optimistic, presuming that if Michael wasn’t bullied, he’d just keep to himself, exactly where he wanted to be.
It wasn’t looking good for Michael. His young teacher was inexperienced, over her head and too proud to admit it. The principal meant well but didn’t call upon other professionals for guidance. I tried to be understanding. The teacher had the needs of thirty kids to look after. Michael was difficult. Teachers were overworked.
But my anger was building. Since the school didn’t know how to deal with Michael, why didn’t they get help? Why couldn’t they say: “Michael has problems and we don’t have the resources or training to deal with them. We’re not clear what the problems are, so let’s find out.” Why should this be so hard?
Instead, they let him fail day after day in the classroom. He was behind in his school work, had problems with his teacher, didn’t know what to do during recess and lunch, and was still teased by classmates, whom I suspected liked seeing Michael’s highly volatile, dramatic responses. In turn, he was scolded, caught in a cycle beyond his control, continually bullied, punished and isolated. He was failing at everything he did. And the principal was calling me for answers? What was I supposed to tell her? I felt like I was being interrogated by the secret police. They wouldn’t believe I had already told them everything I knew. The only thing left to say was, “There are people more knowledgeable than I am.”
Michael’s continuing failures made him fight going to school every morning. I dreaded waking up to a new day. After cajoling, manipulating, bribing and threatening, we were generally able to get him off to school. But after he left the house, I lived in fear that the telephone would ring, the principal at the other end saying: “Trouble again.”
Three months after he began school, the principal ordered the school board’s psychologist to do an assessment of Michael. She spent several hours with him over two days, then wrote her report: Michael had severe behavioural problems. He is aggressive, unable to control himself, lacking in social skills. Did we need her to tell us that?
I had started to read about difficult students like Michael and possible conditions at the root of their behaviour. The psychologist’s report had no reference to possible causes of his problems or recommendations for remedial actions to address them. Both Robin and I thought she was one more young and inexperienced person in over her head who didn’t have the good grace to say, “Let’s get help for Michael.” I refused to accept her simplistic finding that Michael was “bad.” He remained, as ever, difficult.
After I railed at him to get the phone, Robin put down the coffee and picked up the receiver.
“Can I speak with Linda, please?” Robin put his hand over the receiver, and whispered, “It’s the principal. Here…” he said passing the phone on to me.
I was furious. Why hadn’t he said, “It’s Robin, Michael’s dad, can I help you? I’m up-to-date on what’s been going on.” But he didn’t. He didn’t want to talk to the principal any more than I did. But someone had to. Why did I have to always intercept, wheel, deal, bargain and cajole? I was getting sick of it — and him.
“I’m really sorry Linda,” the principal said. “You’ve read the report. After discussion with the psychologist and Michael’s teacher, we’ve decided it’s best for Michael that he not return to school this semester.”
I was struck by her clever phrasing “it’s best for Michael…”
“Are you telling me you’re kicking him out of school?” I asked. “Expelling him? Wouldn’t getting proper help be better for Michael?”
It was November. A new semester wouldn’t begin until January. I felt like a total failure. I hadn’t been able to stop the train wreck. Robin and I thought full-time school for Michael might be good for both him and us. We were looking forward to the structure, discipline, socialization and stimulation Michael would get. Obviously, it turned out to be the wrong structure, wrong discipline and wrong stimulation.
The principal paused before answering. She didn’t like the way I had rephrased her comments and used the words “expel” and “kicked out.”
“We’d like you to attend an IPRC, an Identification, Placement and Review Committee meeting in the new year so the school board can decide whether to place Michael in a special needs class in a different school next year.”
Because the meeting wasn’t scheduled for several months, Michael had to stay home every day. That’s when I learned that expelling children from school was more of a punishment for parents than children. He didn’t c
are if he stayed home from school. I had returned again to work part-time after Sarah was born, so being home with Michael posed the first problem, solved once again by our Yolanda. Though she already had a full complement of kids in her daycare, she willingly took Michael along with Sarah on my work days. Robin and I weren’t the only ones with a soft spot for him.
But I was worn thin on the days I was home with Michael and Sarah. I tried to keep Michael busy and out of mischief from the second he awoke until Robin came home, but it wasn’t easy. He lived fast and furiously. Fortunately, he still loved making major constructions out of his Lego that kept him occupied and in one place long enough for me to get some housework done. Otherwise, he was busy every second, curious about everything he could get his hands on and touching everything in his sight.
After a few weeks at home, Michael began losing interest in things that once brought him pleasure, even his beloved Lego. Not even my exhortation “Let’s go kingfisher hunting along the lagoon” rallied him. Something was going on inside of Michael and it wasn’t good. Not surprising. What was there to feel good about?
During this time, I was often desperately overcompensating to ensure that Michael didn’t keep me from giving a much less demanding Sarah her due. I only partially succeeded, though. I had to keep my eye on him constantly. Fortunately, Sarah had an inner life that soothed her, and she was very connected to the outside world, either through play or people.
Michael’s weren’t the only spirits flagging. I felt terrible that I didn’t know what to do to help my busy son be more relaxed in his own skin. I was so used to fixing things, making things better for the people I loved. Why not my son? He was already six and still, no answers. Was it possible I might never have any?
It was progressively harder and harder to do things like clean the house or do laundry. I became depressed. The cumulative worry was catching up with me. I could barely drag myself out of bed in the morning. Taking care of Sarah and Michael was my only reason for getting up.
Besides being occupied by my teetering mental health, I had to prepare for the IPRC meeting. Since my experience with the school system had been less than idyllic, I couldn’t leave anything to “experts.” If Michael might be considered “special needs,” I needed to know what those needs were and ways to get help for him. “Special needs,” according to the school board, was categorized in two ways, as having a “Behavioural Disability” or as having a “Learning Disability.” There were classes for each.
I never heard the public school teacher or principal mention the possibility that Michael might have a learning disability, and berated myself for not knowing to ask that he be tested. But since he hadn’t been, how would we know if he had a disability or not, and if so, which one?
I called the special education consultant at the school board to ask whose reports, tests and observations the decision would be based on. The consultant’s response: “The committee has its own autonomy, so there’s no set protocol for their decision-making.” He did however tell us that we were welcome to make a presentation at the IPRC. “You can raise your questions then.”
I started reading voraciously about kids with special needs, repeatedly hearing that most kids with learning disabilities have behavioural problems, and kids with behavioural problems usually have learning disabilities. They get in trouble because they can’t learn like the other kids; they fail in the classroom, feel stupid and develop confidence problems; they “act out” because of their frustration and unhappiness. I repeatedly read, to my surprise, that it’s typical to have social disabilities along with learning disabilities too.
I assumed members of the IPRC committee were reading the same literature. There was no reason for me to believe that, however. Since our experience with educational professionals in the school system had been so unimpressive, Robin and I decided it was time to get Michael tested for everything and anything. Though our pediatrician had previously felt Michael was nothing more than a highly energetic boy who was small for his age, our recent concerns encouraged him to give us a referral. Michael’s differences were beginning to impede his life. And ours. If there was something actually wrong with him, it was time to find out.
Our pediatrician referred us for testing at the Child Development Clinic at Toronto’s Hospital for Sick Children. Unfortunately, the appointment was one week after the IPRC meeting.
On the day of the IPRC meeting, Robin and I, along with Kathleen, Michael’s previous Montessori principal, walked into the dimly lit corridor of a1950s-built elementary school and up the stairs to the second floor. As we entered the conference room, a thin woman in a dark-grey suit motioned for us to take a seat.
We sat facing a long table occupied by six people looking like bone-tired members of a jury who had just delivered a guilty verdict to their previous guest. The woman introduced herself as the chairwoman of the IPRC. No one else gave their name, smiled or said hello. Robin and I looked at each other and telegraphed to each other “What the fuck did we just walk into?”
“We’ve had a look at Michael’s files and have made our decision,” the woman said. I was dumbfounded. We had spent hours preparing our presentations. What was going on? I felt compelled to say something before she went any further. There was no time to confer with Robin or Kathleen.
“Excuse me,” I said, “but we’ve each prepared a presentation for the panel. We were told we would have the opportunity to speak before you made your decision.”
The chair looked at the other panel members, several of whom gave her minimalist nods. “All right then,” she said, not sounding pleased.
Kathleen spoke about various accommodations made at Montessori for Michael, how easy they were to make, how little time they consumed. “He was so creative and fun, he inadvertently became a leader,” she added. “We just had to be careful what he was leading the other kids into,” she concluded, with a good-natured chuckle, “but all in all, he was a real asset.”
Kathleen spoke so assuredly, it buoyed my spirits. Robin and I then talked about Michael’s strengths, our concerns that he may have an undiagnosed learning disability and our desire to get proper help for him.
There was silence when we finished. No one on the panel blinked, spoke or asked a question. Eventually, a voice broke the silence. “Thank you, Linda and Robin. Thank you Kathleen,” said the chairwoman, barely moving a muscle on her severe face, eerily reminiscent of an imperious Queen Elizabeth delivering her yearly Christmas message.
“As I mentioned before you spoke, we have made our decision about Michael’s placement. An opening has come up in a behavioural class in this district. Our funding formula dictates that the classroom has to be filled, so Michael will be labelled behavioural.”
She was clear. The sheer inappropriateness of their placement, our willingness to take Michael to a school in another district or to wait for an opening in a learning disability class had no bearing on their decision.
I clenched my hands. “Is there anything further I can say or do to convince you that Michael belongs in LD?” I asked.
“To get him labelled LD, you would have to attend an IPRC next year and make a case to get the label changed on his official record,” she advised.
What happened to this year? “Even if a learning disabilities class comes up next week, we can’t put Michael in it?”
“Correct. He wouldn’t be eligible.”
“Can we appeal your decision?” I asked.
“Yes, there is an appeal procedure,” the chair said, noticeably stiffening into her chair. “I can explain the process after our meeting.” Her mild display of displeasure — the first crack in her well-fitted armour — fuelled my resolve.
“I understand you’ve made your final decision,” I continued, attempting to sound conciliatory. “However, we’re not really clear that you have taken all the relevant factors in Michael’s case into your decision-making. We’re likely to appeal. So may I suggest something?” I paused, then continued. “I’d
like you to consider a dual designation for Michael. Instead of labelling him ‘behavioural,’ label him ‘behavioural/learning disabilities.’”
They could put Michael into the behavioural class for now, but we’d have the opportunity to get him into LD if space came up. “It would spare us all the cost of an appeal or another time-consuming IPRC meeting.”
Until that moment, committee members had appeared so utterly bored, I wondered if the proceedings had overlapped with morning naptime. But they were now rotating their heads, scanning from left to right, like owls waking in the night. The lay of the land had changed.
“Yes, all right,” she said. “The committee can do that. We have dual designations.”
I wanted to scream, “Oh, you can do that, can you? You uncaring cows. Why didn’t one of you let me know I had the right to appeal? Why didn’t one of you suggest a dual designation?” It was a pure fluke that I came up with the term. I had no idea if such a thing even existed. I wanted to ask, “What will happen to the next poor fool who sits in front of you?” Instead, I said, “Thank you. So Michael will be designated LD/Behavioral.” It was a victory, of sorts. We should just get the hell out of there.
Robin, Kathleen and I rushed out of the school. It wasn’t long before we came to the same realizations. Michael’s needs had not been on the committee’s agenda. It wouldn’t be the last time this happened. If Michael was to get what he needed in his life, it would be up to Robin and me to get it for him. This was likely just the beginning.
“It’s ironic,” I said, as we walked to the street. “In the sixties, I was fighting for other people’s sons — the demonstrations, picketing, sit-ins, marches. We were all desperately trying to stop the war in Vietnam and bring our troops home to safety. Well, look how times change. I don’t have to fight for other people’s sons anymore,” I continued, “I have to fight for my own.”
The first cracks in our marriage had begun to show. The differences in Robin’s and my temperaments started to dramatically clash, exactly where once they complemented each other. The cups of tea Robin once brought to me in bed each morning had long ago stopped.
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