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A Special Kind of Box©

My favorite career was as a special education teacher for youngsters with developmental delays and disabilities. Teaching in a pre-K inclusion class was the best! Many of my kiddos had autism. Several had Down’s or sensory processing difficulties. All had challenges with relating, communicating, and thinking.

This poem is set (names changed) in my pre-K inclusion class in Stamford, Ct..

I look out at the circle of little faces looking up at me.
Or most of them anyway.
Ali, soft and sad, is not looking at me.
He is slithering along the rug beneath our feet.
Ali is always a platypus or seal, as he tells us,
And I often wonder where his dreams take him.
“Ali, sit in your chair,” I say, hoping he doesn’t cry.
He crawls up onto the cube chair and puts a hand on his head.
“I am a unicorn,” he says.

I look out at the circle of little faces looking up at me.
Hmmm…Joshua, my silent child, is not looking at me.
He is digging gold out of his nose.
With each treasure removed, his self-esteem rises.
Satisfied at last, he smiles, turns the cube chair upside down and sits.
“Oh, dear,” I say. “Can someone wash Joshua’s hands?”

I look out at the circle of little faces looking up at me.
Well, Sam is certainly not looking at me.
In fact, he’s not even sitting in the circle.
Sam is cruising the room, an unanchored steamship lost in the fog,
Emitting a low frequency “hmmmmmm” as he does so.
He picks up a book, “My First 100 Words,” dog-eared and torn.
Sam has memorized all 100 of these words – in order; he is three.
“Apple,” “hmmmm,” “baby,” “hmmmm,” “car,” “hmmmm”, “doggie,” “hmmmm.”
Ms. Rita, my assistant, gently guides him back to his chair.
She slowly counts to 10, Sam stops humming, and all is quiet.

I look out at the circle of little faces looking up at me.
Brian, who speaks in a whisper, is definitely not looking at me.
He has his head between his legs, his forehead nearly touching the rug.
Brian appears, once again, to be tying knots in his shoelaces.
He will come to me later, woebegone and muddled.
“Ms. Amy, why do I have knots in my shoelaces?”
I know I will want to scream as he asks me to untie them.
Tight. Little. Defiant. Knots are not my thing.
I. Will. Not. Scream.

Wait! Someone is screaming and I’m fairly sure it’s not me.
I look out at the circle of little faces looking up at me.
My eyes follow the direction of this piercing, synapse-snapping sound.
It’s beautiful, skinny, big-eyed Davey, hunkered down under a table.
Yesterday he screamed for 12 minutes, trapped in a body bombarded by sensation.
Lights, sounds, movement around him are like shards of glass in his tender brain.
We know Davey cannot help himself and we mourn his pain.
My other assistant, Mr. Joe, cradling our tormented child, comforts him.
But Davey’s screams continue and I feel desperate.

I look out at what’s left of the circle of little faces looking up at me.
Some of my students do not notice Davey’s screams.
Others are sticking their fingers in their ears as they twist, turn and wiggle.
Still others are crawling under their chairs: I see backsides and legs.
How long will this last today, thinking of yesterday and the day before?
Davey’s screams drill holes in my cranium. Today is the day we all crack up.
But we will not crack up: we will crack the code that is Davey.

“In space, no one can hear you scream,” it said in the Alien movie.
I begin to wish I was in space as I look around the room.
And then I see it: a cardboard box with Glendale Food Pantry printed on it.
I hear the box calling to me: “Ms. Amy, Ms. Amy, together we can save Davey.”
Redemption begins to surge through my veins: I am Wonder Teacher!
“Ms. Rita, bring me that box, a blanket, a pillow, two Thomas trains and three Legos. NOW!”

Time is running out: Sam’s humming is urgent; Brian’s leaned so far over he’s face down on the rug.
Ali has slithered off his chair and lies in the fetal position under my desk.
Joshua’s nose is bleeding: his finger has become a pickax.
The box and its companion pieces finally arrive at my feet.
In go the blanket, the pillow and the toys.
“Mr. Joe,” I call dramatically. “Put Davey in the box.”

Suddenly the room goes silent – except for Davey, of course.
The children have heard my call to action: the boss is in control!
Bodies slide out from under chairs, ears are unplugged, the humming stops.
Mr. Joe gently places Davey in the box, on the blanket, against the pillow.
It is large enough to hold him and small enough to hug his body.
Mr. Joe hands him a train and a Lego and Davey carefully examines them.
His screams are less piercing now. Wait for it, wait for it, wait—
Mr. Joe repositions the pillow. The screams soften. Wait for it, wait for it, wait—
Davey pulls the blanket over his legs. The screams become whimpers.
And then Davey, cradled by cardboard, snug as a bug in a rug, just…stops.

It is a day like no other and a day like every day.
We take it one day at a time, one moment at a time.
Teaching children that hum, slither, scream, meander,
Lie under desks to feel safe, think far away thoughts they cannot express.
The so called “special” kids. The ones with different brains and quirky minds.
Vulnerable, with tender nerve ends, and slightly lopsided.
Our soft hearts wrap around them and warm them with blankets of love.

I look out at the circle of little faces looking up at me.
Well, not all of them are looking up at me.
But I will take what I get as I laugh inside my head.
They are my little warriors, my little puzzles, my babycakes.
Fighting to understand books and knots, words and love.
And I will thank the world for 16 beautiful faces looking up at me.
Or not.

Yes, dear readers, teaching in a pre-K inclusion class is the best!

Photo by tommyvideo from Pixabay

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