When you see this smile, your day brightens. On the flip side, when you hear, "I'm bored," you better man your posts and prepare the battleship because them's fightin' words. I speak, of course, of my favorite fifth grade student, affectionately nicknamed TB (which is really a name he called me in an "altercation" we had last year, abbreviated to avoid "harsh" words).
Well, a couple days ago, I awoke with a feeling of "ug... it's going to be that day, isn't it?" And I was right. My dear friend TB, simply put, does not have the skills to communicate his needs and wants with words- it's part of his disability- and has learned other ways of getting his point across. Our speech pathologist works with him to use words to help him communicate and this was one of the mornings he was to go with her. But it didn't really work out that way.
Now, you must understand, I work with a group of women who are inclusion assistants for the kids I case manage. There are six of them and they are all fantastic in their own ways. They are also all at least 10 years older than me. Most of the time, they pass information on to me in a gossip format- slightly frantic and... hmmm, judgey? Either way, it doesn't bother me in the least. I rather enjoy it, as it gives me something to chuckle about, despite the news. Anyway, today the message through the grapevine was that TB had stormed off down the hallway, backpack madly swinging at his side, while the speech path watched from a doorway. Not a good sign, to say the least, as hallways and him don't have the best track record, as far as resolving escalation is concerned (I often have flashbacks of crawling, spitting, kicking, screaming, punching, etc etc- but those are for a different post).
All I can do, though, when I hear this is wait. The speech path is trained in the same intervention systems that I am. I must have faith that she can implement her training, right? Besides, surprisingly, I have other kids to worry about. I move about my morning, prepping my classroom for state testing by setting out lap tops and materials. My fantastic fifth and sixth grade students start to trickle out for their math test, taking seats around the classroom and waiting patiently for me to read them the directions (I really do work with the best kids in the world). But then, there is a disruption in the force. TB has entered the portable. And the ripples start to wash over the other kids. The mood of calm instantly changes, simply by his whipping open of the back door and his stomps to the opposite corner.
I sigh deeply, partly mentally preparing myself for how he is going to react to what I know will happen next and partly to help transform me into my alter-ego, The De-Escalator. He is followed closely by the speech path, who immediately attempts to re-direct him to leave with her until he can complete his tasks. This is not going well for her, I can see, as he answers, "NO," with the face I like to call his "back-the-F-off-or-I'm-gonna-bust-your-ass" face. She tries again. A short, firm, and loud, "NO," echoes the room. The kids who are present are staring from TB to me. They know what happens in this scenario and they are waiting with baited breath. I, however, am hoping someone else will be able to handle this.
And that's when it steps up a notch. The student TB works closely with, and often tends to target while escalated (let's call him Dunno), wanders too closely to the seething beast he has become. TB quickly steps in line with Dunno's path to freedom in the neighboring classroom and with a simple stick-out of the tongue and a well-directed "cry-baby," he has Dunno in a tizzy. He steps closer, going in for the kill, or in his case, strategically placed punch.
The transformation is complete. The De-Es takes over. I side-step my table, chair, and student sitting in front of me with a super-human step. My breathing is even, although my heart races. In one swell movement, I have crossed the room, pushed Dunno gently behind me to another assistant who whooshes him to a back corner, far from TB. I am placed between TB and any other child. He will not hurt them now, just me. And I know he will not hurt me intentionally, we have too good of a relationship for him to willingly strike out at me. I see the frantic pain in his eyes and we exchange a glance of "help me stop myself" and a "you are going to be okay." He runs behind the front door to hide from what he knows I want him to do- leave the room. My sidekick and trusted assistant, Benny (named for her favorite mascot), is closely behind me, moving objects he could possibly grasp onto- chairs, shelves, books, pencils. I attempt to use my body to push him out from behind the door and towards Benny who would use hers to herd him out the door. No such luck. He's spinning wildly, slamming his head, and leaning into the wall- a trick he has perfected, knowing there is no way for me to wedge myself in without grabbing him.
I lose focus for a second, distracted by the looks of my other kids who are concerned for TB and me, the five extra adults, and the fact that I have to end this quickly so I can start testing. SNAP. I grab his waistband quickly so he cannot react and we are moving out the door, which Benny has flashed open. He tries to fly back in, hand optimally placed in the door jam so we can't close it without pinching his fingers. A gentle yank and him and I are standing alone on the ramp in front of my classroom in the chill of the morning rain. He is visibly distraught and now crying hysterically and clinging to my hands. I squat down and wait for him to look me in the eyes where he admits through tears, "It's too hard!" "I know, buddy," I say, knowing it's true. He doesn't want to practice talking. It would be the equivalent of me practicing balancing my check book- torture. I can tell he knows that if he works himself up enough, I won't make him go. Any other morning he would be spot on. But not so, today, my friend.
I explain to him that, unfortunately, we all do things that are hard. I have to balance my check book and he has to go to speech... but once he's done, he can do all the normal things he would be doing now, like math and his computer time, which he loves. A shallow breath on his part, as I can see him consider this, before he starts to hyperventilate, repeating quicker and louder, "it's too HARD," all the while blowing snot out of his nose for dramatic effect. He's a smart cookie. He knows my soft side wants him to be comfortable and that I will instinctively offer a Kleenex. A Kleenex from inside the classroom. But I catch myself. And instead grab him by the shoulder and give him a tight side-hug and we just stand there, surveying the playground until he slows his breathing, wipes his snot on his sleeve, followed up with my sleeve, and sighs. And there it is, the break I needed in the chaos. I signal Benny through the window and the speech path slowly opens the door. At the click of the latch, TB is off down the ramp, determined.
I'm not sure at this point if he's going to do the work, but I know at least now he knows that there is someone who cares about his fear. Someone who will listen to him, even if it's just through a hug and a wipe of the nose on their sleeve.
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