by Liane Shaw
I’d rather have an air conditioner than an intercom, but no one asked me.
I head down to the office feeling like everyone is watching me and wondering if I’m in trouble. I wonder if the students know that we feel exactly the same way they do when the principal calls us down to the office.
“You wanted to see me?” Opening with redundancy. I know she wanted to see me, or I wouldn’t have been publicly invited.
“Yes, come on in and sit down.” Mrs. Callahan has painted a bigger-than-usual smile on her face, and it instantly raises my suspicions. We have never actually been on smiling terms. Not real ones anyway.
“Mr. Norton has been telling us that you’re interested in taking over for Peter,” she says, her smile growing even larger until it completely bisects her face. I stare at her, fascinated by the geometrical impossibility of her visage and astonished by the astronomical impossibility of her words.
“Pardon?” I hadn’t even noticed Norton sitting there. He’s so still; he just kind of blends into the chair. More 007 training.
“I was telling Mrs. Callahan how passionately you feel about the boys and their needs and how I felt you would be a good fit for them. Peter has decided to take an extended leave, and it would be easier to find someone willing to do your job than his.” He smiles at me. I feel like I’ve been sucker-punched, and the wind’s knocked out of me so that I can’t speak. I just sit for a moment watching them smiling at their brilliant solution.
I look at Mrs. Callahan’s bisected face and a sudden image of her running around the room after two angry little spider monkeys pops into my head. I smile in spite of myself.
“I’m glad we’re all in agreement!” Mrs. Callahan says. I still haven’t said anything except “pardon.”
I wipe the smile off my face and try to get my mind in gear. They want me to take over Peter’s job. Teaching those two louder-than-life boys who spend more time threatening the teacher than doing anything resembling schoolwork.
All because I shot my big mouth off in the library.
I don’t want to change my job. I’m good at it. My students like me. Why would I want to change things for two wild boys who will likely hate me on sight?
My personal life is a total disaster right now, and I don’t need my professional life to end up the same way. This is a very bad idea. I need to tell them that I don’t want to do it.
“Okay. I’ll do it,” my mouth says out loud, completely ignoring my mind.
They both smile brightly.
“I’ll arrange a visit to a Section 19 school so you can get some ideas from the staff there. They’re the experts,” Norton says, looking at Mrs. Callahan who nods cheerfully.
“Section school?” I have no idea what he’s talking about. A section of what?
“The self-contained program over at the psych hospital. Students with significant behavioral or emotional issues sometimes need more intervention than a school can provide and are referred to a program outside of the regular system, which is covered by a specific section of the grant allocation system for spec. ed. It’s a little more intense than what you’ll be dealing with here, but it still might be helpful to see how they do things there.”
The psych hospital? He thinks that I’ll learn how to teach these boys by visiting a psych hospital?
“That sounds wonderful,” Mrs. Callahan chirps happily.
No it doesn’t. It sounds terrifying.
They both look so very pleased with themselves. I’m glad they’re enjoying mapping out my life.
It seems I have just agreed to a job that I don’t want to do.
Maybe that Section school can help me with my mental health issues. My mind seems to have left the building. Maybe if I run out of here fast enough, I’ll be able to grab it before it’s gone completely.
Maybe I’ll even catch up to Peter.
Chapter 3
Non-violent sounds good
I wake up the next morning to find brilliant sunshine pouring in my bedroom window. I lie still, letting it wash over me, lulled by its warm rays into a general feeling of contentment. If I could, I would purr. Only a cat can truly express the ultimate feeling of basking in the heat of the sun.
The ringing of the phone interrupts my pursuit of doing nothing. Before I answer, I take the time to wonder who would be calling me at 6:30 a.m.
“Hello?” My heart is beating a little faster. Calls this early can’t be good news.
“Hi! It’s Mrs. Callahan. I hope I didn’t wake you. I figured you’d already be up and getting those lovely daughters of yours ready for school.”
“Just getting ready to do that.” Callahan is calling me at home? Now what does she want?
“Well, you can take your time today, because you don’t have to come in to school.”
“Excuse me?” I heard her, but she isn’t making sense. Maybe I’m still asleep and dreaming. Maybe yesterday was a dream too, and I didn’t really agree to turn my life inside out.
“You don’t have to come to school today.” She repeats it and continues speaking. “You’re going down to the psych hospital to take a look at their Section class. It was set up for you last night, but I didn’t get the message until just now. You are expected any time this morning, so just get there when you can. You’re going to spend a bit of time with a teacher there to get some ideas. Not that we’re starting a Section class.”
No, of course not. After all, according to Norton, a Section class is for students who are removed from the regular school population because of extreme emotional-slash-behavioral issues. Cory and Donny are right there in a regular school—hidden away in the other half of the Resource room.
“Okay. What happens to the boys today then? Is Peter back?”
“No. Peter’s taking a bit of time off. The boys are just going to be at home today.”
“You suspended them?”
“Not officially. They’ll be back Monday. I will see you Monday, as well. Have a good day.” And she hangs up without waiting for a response. Which is just as well, because I can’t think of a polite one.
The students are unofficially suspended because they were doing the things that brought them to our school in the first place. They’re staying home because no one is there to teach them.
And I’m spending my day at a school in a psych hospital because I don’t have the slightest idea how to teach them.
Monday should be fun. I can’t wait. Cats don’t go to school. No wonder they can purr and we can’t.
What am I getting myself into?
This is probably really, really bad timing. I’m going through a divorce and trying to adjust to life as a single mother. My daughters need me to be on my A-game so I can help them through this time without their being scarred for life.
I already have a job that I’m good at and that I like, one that’s challenging enough not to bore me, but not so challenging that it wipes me out.
I don’t think I’ll be able to say the same about the non-class. I mean, I’ve had troubled students in my Resource periods. I’ve had to sit in on meetings that talk about home lives that make me want to cry in front of everyone in the room. But these boys? They redefine the concept of troubled. They’re the angriest, most damaged little guys I’ve ever seen outside of a TV screen. What can I possibly do for them? I’m a mess. I don’t even know who I am these days. I need to get myself figured out so that I can be a decent mother to my girls. Is this the right time for me to be taking on a virtually impossible task at work?
I take advantage of the extra time and keep both girls home until school time. It’s nice to have a leisurely breakfast with them. Teaching is the world’s best profession for a mom—decent hours, same holidays as the kids—but it’s still hectic enough trying to get one to school and the other to daycare without forgetting to feed them or make sure t
hey’re both wearing shoes.
✘
I arrive at the hospital at around nine. It’s a throwback, a large, ugly building that looks like something left there by mistake. Gray, regimented walls hold rows of haughty windows staring disapprovingly at the frilly gardens and pretty fences decorating the more frivolous homes lining the rest of street. A thin edging of precisely cut grass stretches across the front of the building, bisected by a pathway of pavement that matches the walls. Large, forbidding double doors stand at attention, making sure that no unwelcome visitors find their way in—and that no one who belongs there manages to find their way out.
It’s hard to imagine a school in there. Even harder to imagine children actually living inside.
Maybe the inside is nicer than the out. Can’t be worse.
I walk up to doors so big that they make me feel a bit like Alice down the rabbit hole, shrinking into nothingness. What am I doing here? I’m awkward and out of place. Nervous.
Stop it. Grow up! This is a hospital. Inside there is a school. Filled with children. I’m a teacher. I can handle this.
I grab the handle and pull. Nothing happens. Of course not. It’s locked. Keeping me out or them in?
There’s a buzzer with an intercom over at the side. I press it and identify myself to the disembodied voice that welcomes me. I’m told to wait until someone comes to escort me to the school area of the building.
This is not making me less nervous.
Several more minutes pass before the door finally opens and a rather stern-looking man gestures for me to come in.
“I’m John Hansen, Principal. I’ll give you a bit of background and then take you down to meet the class. I understand you’ll be teaching a behavior class at your school.”
“Well, they aren’t exactly calling it that, but it’s close enough, I guess.”
“Do you have any background in behavioral strategies? Non-violent crisis intervention?”
Non-violent sounds good.
“Um, no. This is all rather sudden. And not really all that well planned. That’s why I’m here, I suppose.” I try a self-effacing smile, but it doesn’t seem to impress him any more than my words do. He just looks at me like I’m nuts—which is about right.
“Well, perhaps we can speak to your principal about at least getting you the weekend course. In the meantime, we can try to give you a few helpful ideas.”
Weekend course does not sound good. On weekends, I’m a mom. I don’t say it out loud though. He’s already unimpressed with me.
“We have six classes here at the moment,” he says, unlocking the next series of doors before leading me down a quiet hallway. There’s still no feeling at all that we’re anywhere near a school—or a child. So far, the building is as gray inside as it is on the outside. Sterile and quiet.
“All of our students currently live in the cottages. We have no non-residents at this time. We’re at full capacity with a rather extensive waiting list. All of the students are under psychiatric care, and we work closely with medical and social services staff on programming.”
“That sounds…good.” That sounds good? A school full of pint-sized psych patients sounds good? I think I’ll just tape my mouth shut until I go home again.
“It’s the only way to help the children. They need full care. It’s not just about learning how to read and write. They have to learn how to live.” His words are colored with compassion, and for a second I see the teacher underneath the administrator.
“Here we are.” We’re at another set of locked doors. I guess they don’t have too many runaways. He unlocks the doors and opens them. The noise hits me in a wave, and it’s obvious that we’re finally at the school. Voices come flying out at us—yelling, laughing, talking, crying, and some screaming, all blending into the symphony of childhood. The sound makes me smile, and my nerves settle at last.
“We have the six classrooms, a small library, and a life-skills room. No gym, unfortunately, but occasionally we have use of the facilities at the local recreation center,” he says, as I follow him down the hall. “Here is Ms. Desmond’s room. Ms. Desmond!” He raises his voice at the door of a classroom filled with activity. I can see about ten students in the room, most of them sitting at desks doing some kind of work. One child is being held by a staff member who has his arms wrapped around her from the back. The girl is screaming a rather awesome stream of profanity at him while he calmly talks to her.
“Non-violent crisis intervention.” Mr. Hansen gestures toward the scene as if his words explain everything. They don’t. I see a weekend of learning instead of mothering in my future.
“Hi and welcome.” A young woman is at the door, smiling at me while keeping both eyes on her class at the same time.
“You’ve caught us at a relatively quiet moment. Only Jeanie is having a bit of trouble.” She gestures at the little girl still screaming her inventive list of swear words.
“Who is that with her? An educational assistant?”
“No, I don’t have an EA in this class. Actually she’s a trained child and youth worker. Couldn’t do my job without them. Do you have someone who will be working with you?”
“We haven’t got that far. Only two students, and no one is admitting it’s a class yet. So I don’t have any idea what comes next.”
“That sounds like fun. Anyway, I wasn’t sure what you needed from me, so I figured I’d just try to show you a typical day, and we could talk at lunch.”
“That’d be fine.”
I spend the rest of the morning trying to fade into the background, yet watching in complete fascination. It’s a class full of Cory- and Donny-styled children, all of them continuously edging toward their boiling points, ready to blow the top off of any given situation.
The teacher stays completely calm in the middle of all of this intense emotion. The heat emanating from the children seems to roll up around her and down off her back without leaving any burn marks at all. Either she’s a master teacher or a wonderful actress. Regardless, her calm in the midst of their storm seems to keep the morning moving forward.
“Any questions?” she asks me when lunchtime comes and she has a few moments away from the kids.
“Only about a million!” I laugh and she smiles.
“I know how you feel. I couldn’t believe this place the first day I saw it. I had no thought of anything remotely like this when I started teaching.”
“Me either. But it’s…fascinating, I guess. The kids are so…raw.”
“That’s a perfect word! I’ll have to remember that one. They are exactly that. Raw. Unprepared for life. No false pretenses. No hypocrisy. Everything just comes out the way they think it. Unfiltered. And socially unacceptable.”
“Which is how they end up here. Do they all come from terrible homes? Is that how they become like this?”
“Not necessarily although many of them do have rough backgrounds one way or another. But the reasons they end up so hurt and angry and uncontrolled are so much more complicated than just a difficult home life. Honestly, I wouldn’t know where to start to try to explain what little I know about it.”
“What kind of special training do you have to do this?”
“Not much. Spec. ed., part one. A couple of weekend courses. Non-violent crisis intervention. Behavior management. That kind of thing.”
“Was it enough?” I can’t imagine a couple of weekend courses being enough to cope with all of this.
“No. I had no idea what to do at first. Most days I come in here still wondering what I’m going to do to get through the day. But I keep on reminding myself that they’re just kids.”
“The teachers in my school see them as crazy kids who bring too many problems with them,” I tell her. “They want them to disappear into a place like this.”
“Some kids
do need to be here, in my opinion. They need a safe place, away from everything and everyone, where they can figure out how to survive out there. So many of them just don’t have the tools to do that. I don’t know if this will be helpful or not, but there’s a simple story from a workshop I went to that really stuck with me. Do you have kids?”
“Yes. Two girls.”
“Well, think back to when they were just learning to talk, just trying to figure out how to use language to communicate. Your baby’s thirsty and asks you for juice. She might say something like ‘ju ju’ and point to the kitchen. What’s your response?”
“I would get super excited and run for the juice jug, saying, ‘Yes, juice’ in a really loud, clear voice. And I would declare that my kid was a genius.” She looks at me and laughs.
“Exactly. But imagine if, instead, you just ignored her. She keeps saying ‘ju ju,’ and you keep ignoring her, and she gets louder and louder. Finally, in frustration, she starts to scream and cry. You get her a cup of juice to shut her up. And what does she learn?”
“Screaming and crying gets results.”
“Yeah. It’s a really simple example and only tells one of the endless stories that these kids come with. But it’s a starting point to understanding some of them, the ones who literally don’t know how to behave any other way. The wrong behavior was reinforced so many times when they were young, for whatever reason—abuse, neglect, ignorance—that they don’t know anything else. Of course there are other factors, like mental health issues that seem to have nothing to do with environment at all—kids from nice homes with loving parents who still can’t get through a day without living through a crisis or two. The list is actually pretty endless, and I’m no expert. I do have some books you could try.”
“That would be extremely helpful! And I need all the help I can get.”
We talk some more, and I watch her teach some more and leave feeling even less prepared than before I came. I can’t imagine coming anywhere close to her level of expertise.
Then again, I only have two students.