Matching Tracksuits

at risk

Addition

Thursday 31 August 2006

Such an up and down job I have. If only I had a performance car with the handling of my average day: to say it turns on a dime would be an understatement.

Two boys give me hell in the morning. In the afternoon, one of them comes up to apologize, and the other faces off against me in a friendly game of air hockey. I know the apology was not voluntary, and my participation in the air hockey game was by self-invitation, but let’s not get too picky here.

Progress will be progress in the little things, the program director has told us several times, and slowly the little things will add up.

Prank

Monday 28 August 2006

PenJust before my senior year in college, I invested in a beautiful fountain pen: a Cross Townsend. I later learned that somehow I got the pen for almost half the actual price thought a pricing mistake or something. Now a new one costs roughly four times what I paid.

That pen accompanied me through Europe and was instrumental in recording thoughts about Strasbourg, Prague, Berlin, Amsterdam, and a number of other cities.

For twelve years, I’d never even misplaced it.

Today, at work, it was stolen. Or was it?

I had inadvertently left it by my computer, tucked in a notebook I’d been using for notes during a training session we’d had on Friday. After four of the lads had been using the computer, it was missing.

“Stealing is not beneath some of them,” I’d been told. Still, is that something one really wants to communicate to one’s students? “Alright, you jerks — I don’t trust any of you. Who stole my pen?!” Not the best way to build relationships with young men in need of help.

Instead, I gathered the lads together, told them that my pen was missing, and asked them if any of them saw it, to put it on my desk and then let me know it’s there.

A few minutes later, a boy came to ask me if I’d checked in all the desk drawers. “Maybe someone put it there — you know, like a joke.”

Sure enough, in the second drawer was the pen.

A prank? A bit of mercy? Misunderstanding or malice?

So much of our lives is inexplicable like that. Indefinable. Was this a reconsidered theft? Was it a joke? All I know is the pen was missing and then it wasn’t. Almost like I lost it…

Still, for safe measure, I unplugged my SanDisk memory stick and put it in my pocket.

I want to trust these boys, to give them the benefit of the doubt. But at what point does trust become naivety?

Thoughts on the First Week

Tuesday 22 August 2006

After a week on the job, I’ve already been called names and cursed, yet I’ve also begun building decent relationships. The two, it seems, are not mutually exclusive.

Working with autistic children got me accustomed to the idea that a child can express great joy at working with me one minute and then call me “stupid teacher” the next. Life in the special ed classroom was life on a swing.

The same, it appears, can be true working with “tough kids.” Indeed, the similarities are sometimes overwhelming. The difference is with TKs, I’m left wondering, “Is it a choice  conscious or otherwise or is it something automatic?”

As an example, take the ability to generalize. Some autistic individuals have great difficulty taking something out of its context and applying it more generally. “Don’t run in the hall” should be generalized to “Oh, then I probably shouldn’t run in the school in general.” Perhaps not the best example, because younger, non-autistic children might have difficulty making that leap.

The opposite can be the case as well: the ability to realize that a general rule doesn’t apply in a specific circumstance. “Don’t run in the school,” we tell someone then find she was refusing to run during gym class because, after all, we’d said, “Don’t run in school.”

During the first week with the TKs, I realized that this is a popular method of defiance. Extremely popular. “You never said” was one of the most oft-heard phrases during my first week.

Help II

Tuesday 27 September 2005

It can be a look — eyebrows furrowed and mouth slightly askew, or the opposite: eyebrows raised with eyes opened Bambi wide. It can be a sound — smacking licks, a gasp of exasperation. It can be body language — a staunch refusal to look someone in the eyes, shoulders turned perpendicular to another’s body, a tapping pencil. It can probably be even a smell — pheromones released, but undetected by the blunt human nose.

There must be a thousand ways of telling someone, “I don’t want your help, and I think you’re a fool for offering it” without uttering a single word.

At some point we all need help, so the theory goes. But there are a few stalwart individuals who would rather drown than take a proffered hand. There are a few who will refuse swimming lessons even as they stand on the ever-vertical deck of a sinking ship, not take a parachute in a spiraling plane.

Sebastian

Saturday 14 September 1996

12:17 p.m.

An interesting thing happened in the store today. As I was paying for my stuff I set down my shopping list–in English, of course–and the shop keeper (I’ve no idea what her name is) took an interest in it. “Aggs?” she said. “Eggs,” I replied with a smile, followed by the Polish. She read the whole list–I translated what she didn’t know. It was good–I’m not quite sure how to explain it. It’s just that I’ve often felt an impatient tension when I go in there. This helped dissolve it to some degree, I think.

I think much of these kinds of problems come from the fact that: a) I don’t know what is expected of me in many social settings; and, b) I don’t have the linguistic tools necessary to fulfill those expectations. I fear that people think I am being rude when it’s simply a matter of ignorance. “Stranger in a strange land . . .”

9:35 p.m.

I just returned from Mountain Haven–what a wonderful experience! I’ve no idea how to describe my reaction. I can only record my impressions and what I did.

I first met a group of girls–the only name I remember is Sarah. They were about nine or ten, if that old. They kept asking me for a souvenir–I had nothing to give them. I was with them for a few minutes. Then I met Sebastian . . .

With his snaggle-tooth grin and excitement, Sebastian made an immediate impression on me. He is one of the most affectionate children I’ve ever met. Seven years old, he was a strong boy for his age. When he hugged me and shoved a loving kiss on my cheek, I realized why everyone had told him, “Gently!” I spent a while playing “basketball” with him. “I am a good basketball player,” I taught him to say. I also played soccer, baseball, volleyball, and tennis with him. He was a big energy producer. I was exhausted after a few minutes of trying to keep up with him.

I wonder what the future holds for little, loving Sebastian. His father killed his mother–he’ll probably end up in an orphanage. Who knows what will become of him then? It’s an awful thing to say, but given his present conditions the future doesn’t look bright for him. Yet he is so very bright–maybe he’ll break out and become successful (and more importantly) happy.

How many Sebastians are there in the world? I know that millions of children are worse off than he is, but still, the cards are really stacked against him. The children are always the ones that get the worst of the shit in the world.

It takes a special kind of person to work at Mountain Haven. To se all those kids passing through would kill me. Just tonight I felt so strongly for Sebastian–think if I was with him daily, then suddenly his two weeks are over and he is gone. Yet I want to spend more time there. I guess the risk of attachment is one of that is inevitable. Maybe that’s where the real giving comes from. Yet all my life I will think of Sebastian . . .

Coming back could have been a real nightmare. As I left MH I realized it was terribly dark. I went back to see if I could borrow a flashlight, but they only had one. I began and soon realized that I could only continue on foot: I couldn’t see my hand three inches from my face. After a few minutes one of the MH staff members appeared with a car. He drove behind me with the lights on bright so I could see where I was going.

It rained all day again today–it’s unreal how much rain can fall in a two-week period. It aade me so mad as I struggled up to MH. It does no good, for the weather is certainly out of my control. I realize this fully. Still, I’ve really had quite enough rain . . . So has everyone else, I’m sure. The hay in the fields is rotting; any unharvested corn is likewise rotting on the stalk. At least I’m not taking a monetary loss . . .