Tal

Tal is a student who has never been in my class. However, I’ve known him for over seven years now. He’s one of those kids who gives me high fives when we cross paths in the hall. Tal has very significant intellectual disabilities. He also has Downs Syndrome. It’s a funny thing with Downs Syndrome. Some folks with it have only mild intellectual impairments, while others truly struggle. Tal struggles. Tal is also significantly overweight. I’m not sure if packing on extra pounds is part of Downs Syndrome or if added weight comes from the medications he takes. You see, many people with Downs have poorly developed hearts and lungs. It’s common for many to be on a regimen of steroids to help their lungs function as well as they can. Needless to say, steroids can cause very significant weight gain.

I have no idea where Tal’s girth comes from, but he is a big boy. Even when he was in the elementary school section of Hartvigsen School, he was big. If he decided he wasn’t going to do something, he was quick to plop down, defying anyone in authority to just try and sling him over their shoulders to get him from point A to point B. When Tal decided not to budge, it became clear in a hurry who was in control of the situation.

One Friday I walked into the lunchroom only to see a group of long-time staff members cajoling Tal. He had planted himself confidently under one of the lunch tables. He wasn’t going anywhere. Tensions were rising because it was less than a half hour until it was time for him to get on the bus to go home. Those poor women were trying every threat they could think of to get him to move.

“Tal, if you don’t get out from under there right now, you won’t get any chocolate milk for a week.”

“You get yourself up from there this instant. You’re going to find yourself doing laps the whole time when you go swimming next.”

One of the ladies turned to me.

“Tom, can you see if you can get him out from under there?”

“Well,” I whined rather in protest, “he doesn’t really know me. I don’t think I can do much more than you guys are doing.”

I didn’t feel like I had the time. If I remember right, one of my own students had just pooped his pants. He is the only person I’ve ever known who could poop on demand. He did it frequently just before it was time to get on the bus. My guy seemed to have the compelling need to be in control, too.

A couple of my staff members were taking care of our little forest fire, so I didn’t have to get in the middle of that particular mess. I went back to the lunchroom to see if I could lend a hand after all. I got there just in time to see Phil, one of the staff, raise his hands in that sort of “Whoa, stop” gesture:

“Ladies, ladies. Go back to your classes. I’ll get Tal up and going here in a minute.”

“Phil, don’t you dare cave in to him. You are just too soft. Tal needs to learn who’s in charge.”

“I’ve got it, ladies. Don’t worry.”

I stepped back into my classroom for a couple of minutes, but I had to go back to the lunchroom to see how Phil was going to handle this.

There was Phil, sitting with Tal under the table carrying on a one sided conversation. Tal didn’t talk much. He just grunted once in a while and smiled a lot.

“What do you think, Tal? Is it going to be a great weekend?”

That garnered a big grin and a grunt.

“What’s say I walk you to the bus. Can I sit with you on the bus until the bus driver kicks me off?’

Another grunt and a big belly laugh.

Phil slides into a mock Chicago gangster accent, speculating how the driver will kick him off the bus.

“Hey, Phil. You’se needs to get offa my ride, or I’m gonna make ya wear some concrete over shoes.”

Another big laugh from Tal as he and Phil walk out of the lunch room, hand in hand. The last I see of Tal that day is him sitting with Phil on the bus laughing at Phil’s antics.

Let’s see now. Who was in charge? Well, Tal, of course. He was always in charge of himself and the situation. Phil just worked his magic to help Tal move in the direction he really wanted to go in the first place. I really think Tal wanted to go home as badly as everyone else that afternoon. He just needed to be given the chance to show it and to do it on his own.

I Can't Help Myself (click here to see original in Salt Lake Tribune)

Inept

Inept: the state of having or showing no skill, clumsy.

Some days in special education leave me feeling inept, to say the least. Take last Monday, for example. I had my day all worked out—in advance, no less. First thing, I was going to take a few minutes to get ready for a parent meeting in the afternoon. After that, at 9:00 a.m., I had a meeting with another teacher and our social worker with a new, incoming student. That should take about a half an hour. When that was done, I had it on my list to go back to the class where one of my staff was conducting part of our campus day. That’s the day when we get together in small groups to work on classroom discussions and activities revolving around social skills, practicing money and time skills—that sort of thing. I figured I’d do that until noon, and then it would be lunch with the students, which would then blend nicely into our afternoon activities, which, in turn, would run until the end of the school day. That was my plan. That’s what I had written down. My neatly written plan crumbled immediately in the face of reality. In fact, last Monday’s reality was a whole civilization away from my “plan.”

The weather report called for scattered clouds and occasional light rain showers. Mr. Weather Man didn’t mention the steady drizzle, mixed with that Styrofoam looking snow-like stuff--and a howling wind. Beside all the reminders to the students, let alone the staff, to dress according to the weather, guess how many students and staff showed up prepared for the rain. Exactly NONE! Yes, none! (Well, it seemed like none.) Believe me, our students are fair weather workers. With sunny skies and highs in the mid-70s, they just might go to their work sites willingly—maybe even happily. But mix in some cold-from-the-sky water and temperatures hovering around 45 degrees, and you have a surly crowd on your hands.

It would be quite enough if some of the students were plain old surly. Then you’d know what you were dealing with. But, no, some of them have to pull out all the behavioral stops to get out of work. There’s something about the first nasty weather day of the year that brings all their goofy strategies to the fore. One kid suddenly developed an “awful stomach ache.” Another went into the bathroom and proceeded to throw up. I had no idea he could puke on demand. You learn something new every day. One girl, who weighs at least 325 pounds, decided to just shut down. I mean, it’s as if she has an on/off switch in there somewhere. If she were a computer, she went into a hard shutdown. “Leave her where she sits. We ain’t budging her, no how.”

About this time one of the staff members came to me to report she needed to go home. She said she had to stop twice on the way to work to throw up. Whatever. “We’ll see you tomorrow. Hope you feel better.” (Stupid rain.) Great. Now we’re short handed. Time to do the shuck and jive staff shuffle to make sure everything is covered. Oh, I almost forgot. I’ve got to change Rod. He’s the kid with spina bifida who needs help toileting. Translation: he needs help changing his adult diaper. He is also on anti-rejection meds because he received a new kidney about two years ago. These meds sometimes cause the worst diarrhea you can imagine. Rod and I jokingly call them “blowouts.” Today, however, he had an industrial strength blowout. Time to put on the Mother Teresa hat, hold on to the old stomach-flutter muscles, and dive in. In the end, that change job was quite a workout. Oops. Almost forgot. Time to head out for the 9:00 meeting.

“I’ll be back in about a half an hour.” Famous last words. The student we meet with was very pleasant and seemed quite bright. But man, what a life she has led. She just moved into a group home three weeks ago. That’s after having moved about 40—yes, forty (40) times in the last ten years, bouncing from one professional parent household to another. Mixed in all that was a stint living in a mental health facility. Let’s see here. Oh, good. Behavior problems. Ya think? It ends up she has pummeled someone in every household she’s lived in. It took an hour and a half to sort out all of her “stuff.” Luckily, I didn’t get her. She’s too capable for my crowd. Whew.

I get back to the class around 11:00. One of our groups has already returned from the work site. There was nothing to do there today. Pretty soon everyone is back. The old relo is getting crowded—with surly kids and staff. Tensions are rising. Some of the kids are picking verbal fights with each other. Time for action.

“You, you and you, and you three over there. Let’s go to the choral room. You six, go with So and So and play basketball.” That leaves just a few in the classroom who are busy with other things. Well, the day came to an end, and, oddly enough, it felt like a successful day. Maybe it felt successful because it was all so typical. But is sure wasn’t what I had in mind.

'Nuf Said

"We are a warlike people, easily distracted from our assignment of preparing for the coming of the Lord. When enemies rise up, we commit vast resources to the fabrication of gods of stone and steel—ships, planes, missiles, fortifications—and depend on them for protection and deliverance. When threatened, we become anti-enemy instead of pro-kingdom of God; we train a man in the art of war and call him a patriot, thus, in the manner of Satan’s counterfeit of true patriotism, perverting the Savior’s
teaching. . ."

Spencer W. Kimball. June 1976

Too, many, commas . . .

Man, oh, man.

I was just reading, some of my posts, and I noticed, just how many commas I use.

Geez. This reads just as if Adam West, the old Batman from the 1966 TV series, was doing the talking.

I need to pull out an English grammar text and review the use of commas.

Otherwise, besides Batman, I, may forever, sound, like Robin Hartl, the lady on, Hometime, who talks in fits and starts, as she strains to install, a light fixture in the remodeled, bathroom on PBS. (I think I need to get out more on Saturday afternoons.)

Here We Go Again!

We've all experienced a numbing trip to the dentist; we've also experienced trying to drink from a straw when we're all numbed up, too. Now, think of having the same difficulty when you're not full of novocaine. How can that be, you ask.

Try a bout of Belle's Palsy. I had that wonderful experience eight years ago. What a pain. Being a guy, I put off going to the doctor for a day, which allowed the nerve that controls the facial muscles on my right side to swell up all the more, making things worse.

I started the tale-tale signs of another episode this afternoon. I headed for the nearest InstaCare place lickety-split. The doctor gave me a prescription for an anti-inflammatory drug. Hopefully, this will head a full-blown problem off at the pass.

Luckily, it is on the left side this time. That means I can still squint out of my right eye to see through my camera's view finder.

Banana Hands

I’ve wondered how to approach telling about my adventures in special education. Should I do it chronologically or topically? Neither approach seems to make much sense, so I’ll just fire off stories as they come to mind or as they come up in real time.

Stanley was something else. I put this in past tense because he moved away quite a while ago. He was one scary dude—John Coffey scary, if you’ve ever seen the movie, The Green Mile. He stood six foot five and weighed in at a svelte 380 pounds. His hands were as big as any two of yours and mine. Hal Larson (Jack Black) in Shallow Hal makes fun of Tony Robins’ banana hands. I didn’t laugh at that gag in the movie because I lived every working day with a set of big, meaty hands that could come down on you like a load of hay bales without a moment’s notice.

Let me explain.

Stanley came to my class sight unseen. He was registered in July. His old teacher from another district came to Hartvigsen and talked with our lead teachers and the principal. Alex wasn’t there at this meeting. His former teacher raved about how gentle he was and about his amazing memory. Stanley really was a savant. Give him any date in history, and he could tell you what day of the week it fell on without fail in about one second. Staff members even pulled out perpetual calendars to check him out. He was, indeed, amazing.

“You’ll love him. He’s just a big Teddy Bear,” she gushed, “We’re really going to miss Stanley.”

Conveniently, she left out the part about his dangerous fits of rage.

“Oh, he’s a bright young man,” our committee of teachers concurred. “Sounds like he’ll fit right in with . . . Tom’s class.”

I think secretly none of them wanted to get anywhere near John Coffey, er, Stanley as his file–holding teacher. By default they had first refusal rights, so to speak, and they took them. You see, fits of rage or no, Stanley has autism, and that is a hard sell under the best of circumstances. If I had a choice clearly handed to me to take a student with autism or pass, I’d pass, thank you very much.

For the first day or two of school, Stanley was pretty quiet and got along. On the third day of school, I was off campus with some fellow teachers checking out a vending machine we wanted to buy for the school. I had left my class in the capable hands of my four para-educators. Then I got an urgent call from our behavior specialist, Cheryl, the same teacher who rescued me from Todd on my first day at Hartvigsen. She told me Stanley had gone off on some poor kid, slamming him head first into the tiled wall in the boys bathroom, and how it took six big, male staff members to negotiate Stanley into one of our floor-to-ceiling carpeted quiet rooms.

I flew back to school. When I got there, he was still in the quiet room, crying his eyes out. Cheryl was standing at the secretary’s desk going through Stanley’s just-arrived student file. Sure enough, there was a big notation about his aggressive behaviors: hitting, biting, slamming people around, head butting, trashing classrooms. Yikes!

After a while, Stanley calmed down.

“Am I in trouble?”

(I wish I could convey in writing how he talked. He spoke in short, staccato bursts in an even, high-pitched monotone voice that rose briefly at the end of each sentence, making them sound like questions. When he was really excited about something, when he actually was in a Teddy Bear mood, his words came out in one long slur.)

“No, we’re just waiting for you to settle down a bit. Are you ready to come out?”

“Are you going to call my mom?”

“Not necessarily. Do you want us to?

“No. Are you going to call the group home?”

About three weeks before school started, Stanley was placed in a group home. Some students with disabilities qualify to receive funding from the State of Utah so they can receive group home services and live in an apartment away from home. He qualified as an emergency case. It turns out that he was becoming very aggressive toward his parents and siblings. Understand, folks with autism do not tolerate change very well. Stanley was struggling with at least two huge changes: he was away from home for the first time ever, and he was in a totally strange school. Unfortunately, he had been set up for problems. That should never have happened.

“Yes, we’ve already done that.”

“Are they coming to get me?”

“Yes, we can’t have you on the bus this afternoon. Can you tell me why you were upset?”

“That one boy was screaming.”

"Which boy?"

"That one that I pushed his head."

Word had it that the boy in question was merely making some odd vocal sounds, the kind no one took any notice to at Hartvigsen—except for a kid with autism.

“This is going to be a long year,” I thought, as I rubbed both temples with my fore fingers.

It was.

Banana Hands (continued)

I guess I ought to finish the story of Stanley. Like John Coffey in The Green Mile, Stanley more often than not was a gentle giant—one who possessed unusual talents. There really was more favorable than unfavorable about him. Shock of shock, he really was a Teddy Bear like his former teacher said—most of the time—although we had several more dangerous bouts with him over the next two and a half years. The biggest stressor in having him around was the total unpredictability of his outbursts.

Once we were in an assembly; I think it was during the Christmas season, and one of the high school Madrigal troupes was performing. Stanley was sitting right in front of my co-teacher when he suddenly turned in his chair and came down on her with those huge hands. In a flash, several of us were on him. It was all we could do to get him out of the gym and into the hall. There we were, six or seven of us, each trying to control an arm or leg, or both. Even the principal was in the thick of things. All the while Cheryl was there talking us, and Stanley, through the situation so that he could get what he needed, and more importantly, so that no one got injured. Finally, after about 20 minutes, he decided he wasn’t going to get anywhere and said he wanted to go outside. Two minutes later he and I we were sitting outside on a bench in a show shower with him rehearsing Mormon temple dedication dates. He knew them all.

We had episodes like that every couple of months. In all fairness, though, he calmed down tremendously. Eventually we felt safe taking him into the community on a regular basis. One time the whole class went to the Gateway District in downtown Salt Lake City to watch a 3D Imax movie at the planetarium. As we walked from the light rail stop to the theater, Stanley stayed unusually close to me. As always I was wary of him, my muscles tensed, ready for anything. Was he getting ready to blow? I had my hands tucked into my coat pockets. It was pretty chilly. Suddenly I felt a huge hand sneak into my pocket and take mine.

“Are you cold, Stanley?”

“No.”

“Oh, I get it,” I thought to myself. He was feeling a bit insecure; he needed some reassurance.

We went into the theater and took our seats. We were the only group there. It was all of 10:30 a.m., and we were it. We filled one entire row right across the center of the theater. There in the middle was Stanley, sitting about two feet higher than everyone else, the only one wearing those goofy paper 3D glasses. I started laughing out loud at my own mental image of how this scene must have looked from the front.

“What are you laughing at?’” asked one of the staff.

“Picture yourself down front looking back at this lot.”

We both started giggling uncontrollably as one of the docents just then walked down the steps, front and center, to welcome us to the theater. She was clearly having a problem stifling her own giggles.

(I said I should finish the story of Stanley. Well, I didn't. More later.)

On Audacity

Usually, when someone says another person is filled with audacity or that some work of art is audacious, those words are intended to cast an aspersion on the person or object of art.

Last week I had a couple of musical experiences come together at an enlightening intersection. First, I encountered a relatively “new” musical artist while listening to a local radio station. I had never heard of Brandi Carlile before, but her song, The Story, hit me like a ton of bricks. I really liked it—and here I am, an old fogey who just turned 54; Ms. Carlile must be all of 25. When I got home, I looked her up on the Internet, downloaded her first album, and collected a few songs from her new one. There was something in her voice and style I couldn’t quite place, yet it seemed oddly familiar. The Story soon became one of those songs I am compelled to listen to over and over again. The ‘Song Count’ thingie in iTunes says I’ve listened to it 34 times on my iMac. I’m sure I’ve listened to it twice as many times on my iPod, which I run through my car stereo. Hmmm? That’s about 100 cycles of The Story. You’d think The Story and Brandi Carlile would get old after a while. Well, they haven’t.

The other element passing through my recent musical intersection was a long overdue listen to Janis Joplin’s album, Pearl, from 1971, I believe it was. Now, back in the day I wasn’t a big Janis Joplin fan. I just didn’t get it when it came to her persona and her music. She was hard to figure out. Unlike most female singers at the time, she didn’t exude anything close to the feminine “ideal.” She was a bit heavy, had a double chin underneath round cheeks that highlighted her acne-filled complexion, and she sweat a lot. And her singing? That voice certainly didn’t belong under the

Soft and Pleasing category. Maybe she was ahead of her time in that she presented herself just like she was without any idealistic pretensions. There's no need for young girls to go into hazardous cycles of bulimia in order to look like Janis. But to me, way back in 1971, Janis Joplin was too raw, too out there, and, well, too audacious for my overly conservative tastes. (I'm more than a little surprised at how much I appreciate her music now!)

Ha! That’s it! That is what I now find so compelling with Brandi Carlile’s work. That's what makes it resonate with me. Somehow it just works. To my ear, her voice and style are an amalgam of Patsy Cline and Tammy Wynette with a dash of k. d. lang thrown in for good measure, along with just enough Joplin-esque audacity to stir things up and keep them interesting. The element that made Janis Joplin a musical force to be reckoned with, and which makes Brandi Carlile’s music so compelling to me now, is the presence of audacity.

Audacity. Now, there’s a word. Yet, it’s one I find very positive and filled with hope. 

Huh?! 

Indeed, audacity and positive hope seemed to go together, but I couldn't say why at first. In such moments I turn to my trusty dictionary for help. Here’s the first definition of audacity: the willingness to take bold risks. To be honest, I have to acknowledge the dictionary’s second definition, too: rude or disrespectful behavior. What is positive or hopeful in that? 

Sometimes we find ourselves in a mire so thick it seems we will never get out. At other times we face challenges that appear to have no solution. All of our old approaches to problem solving don’t work. We’re stuck, we’re frustrated, and we are hurting. What do we need? Frequently we need to assume a willingness to take bold risks. Let’s face it. Some problems and challenges can be solved only by doing something new, something bold, something audacious. 

What about the rude or disrespectful bit? Whether one is rude or disrespectful is a function of other people’s perceptions. Rudeness and disrespect are words that describe the condition when an individual bumps up against the myths, taboos, and sacred cows held by others or by society. Frequently, trying to solve personal challenges using methods that fall within our old mind set, or that of those closest to us and of society, becomes part of the problem. Many times our old strategies and societal concepts of what is proper and improper flat out don’t work. So, when we take a bold risk in order to find resolution, our actions may come across as rude and disrespectful because we’re out of step with the general flow of things. Yet, if we remain true to our societal notions of what the proper path should look like--in other words, if we don't rock the boat--we may be doomed to remain stuck in our hole.

So, when all else fails, we may need to screw up our courage, slay some sacred cows, and infuse a dose of audacity into our lives.

Here's a video of Brandi Carlile I like.

Light Is A Weird Thing

Click on image to enlarge

Yes, light is a weird thing. It’s always there, be it particles or waves, or both at the same time.

I’ve only experienced total darkness once. That was in Lehman Caves at Great Basin National Park, Nevada. The guide turned out the lights after the tour reached the belly of the cave. Yeah, it was dark, all right. But other than places far removed from all sources like this, light is always there.

In early June I took off to the Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument in southern Utah. It was during new moon. The only light at night was from the stars. Away from city lights, even the stars cast enough light to see trees and the outline of the red rock cliffs surrounding the campground. Light is always there. At times you just have to look for it.

As a photographer, I am forever chasing after GREAT light. What is GREAT light? It’s light that makes scenes before us come alive and pop. It isn’t hard to find, actually. All you have to do is spend hours and hours (or is it days and months?) trying to be in the right place at the right time. In other words, you have to be willing to place yourself in the presence of GREAT light when most (sane) people--the ones you want to be with--are doing something else.

The best light is early in the morning and just before and just after sunset. At the first glimmer of dawn, most people want to be sleeping. At the other end of the day they want to be eating with family and friends, or sitting out on the back patio. That’s all fine and good, but if you want great photos, you have to chase after great light.

Another time to find great light is just as a storm moves in or as it moves out of the area. Hanging around exposed to the elements is an adventure all its own. Few activities are more ‘fun’ than standing next to camera and tripod--hands in pockets--freezing, waiting for that snow squall to move by just so, kissing the scene before you with magical light. You wait and wait. As often as not, nothing happens, except your fingers hurt from the cold . . . and you see another spot a couple of miles away beautifully showered with magic.

Rats!

Oh, well. There’s always tomorrow.

Maybe.

(Notes on image: I went south to get INTO the heat. What did I get? Several days of cold. When I made this shot at about 7:00 in the evening, the wind was howling and it was about 45 degrees--on June 4th! Yes, my fingers hurt like mad. The plateau in the far distance is the Kaiparowits Plateau. In the late 1970's there was tons of pressure to allow that whole area to be subjected to open pit coal mining with a coal-fired electric plant plopped somewhere north of Lake Powel. That would have been a tragedy of monumental proportions. Many Utahns to this day curse the name of Bill Clinton for creating the Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument by executive order. Fine. But now everything you see in this shot--and everything as far as the eye can see--is protected by the Monument. All you have to do is drive through its vast, pristine emptiness to realize President Clinton did the right thing.)

Routine (part 1--Boredom)

(Be sure to read part 2 immediately after part 1 below.)

One of my favorite Simpson's quotes is something Homer said to Marge in that soft, patronizing voice of his, and I have to paraphrase here:

"Marge, our marriage is founded on a solid basis of ROUTINE."

I don’t think more comforting, nor truer, words were ever spoken in a sitcom.

Routine. What a powerful word. What a powerful concept. Sometimes I think we don’t appreciate the life-shaping impact of routine.

In one of my more lugubrious periods some years ago, I happened upon a wonderful book by Harvey Oxenhorn, Tuning the Rig. He says this:

"Routine: derived from ‘route,’ a line of pilgrimage or travel. How widely must one travel, and how far afield, to discover the value of that word? No matter. To believe in your journey is to have already arrived. And to surrender to the long haul, willingly, is to take it and make it your own."

Sometimes we get bored with what we are doing. At other times so much is going on we are overwhelmed by it all. As I look at the goofiness of my life, I see two possibilities when I’m either bored or overwhelmed.

First, when I’m bored, I haven’t clearly fixed in my mind where I’m going; I have no journey to believe in. My days are filled with sameness, with routine. So what? Of course my routine is going to get boring if I have nowhere to go, no purpose behind it all.

Some years ago I worked for a large technical silk screening company. I don’t know how many of you have ever done silk screening by hand before. It can be incredibly monotonous. Because this was a commercial operation we often had huge runs to print, even the ones that were done by hand and not on the big automated machinery in the plant.

I put the monotony--the routine--to good use (at first quite unintentionally, I might add). Silk screening by hand is a constant, rhythmic flow of sliding the material to be printed in place, lowering the screen, pulling a squeegee through the ink, flooding the screen with ink, lifting the screen, placing the printed material on the dryer, and repeat, and repeat, and repeat--thousands of times a day, job after job. Yuck, how boring.

To take the edge off the apparent boredom, I listened to music on my Walkman. I had a friend, Dan, who was very big into music. Had I been left only to my own musical tastes, I probably would have listened to The Beatles all the time. That couldn’t possibly be bad, could it? But because of Dan, who supplied me with cassette tapes of all kinds of music, my horizons expanded exponentially. I discovered that there was more in the world of music than what resided in my limited repertoire of musical tastes. Buddy Guy, Janis Joplin, Elvis Costello, Julia Fordham, Nick Lowe, and, yes, even Frank Zappa ended up on my play list. And because I listened to an ever larger circle of musical styles, my own life of music expanded. I went to more concerts, played more guitar, and surrounded myself with more music than ever before. All that because I had my mind freed up by a heapin’, helpin’ daily dose of predictable routine. Music became my journey to believe in, and silk screen printing became the routine that carried me on that journey. That expanded world of music remains to this day something that brings me a great deal of joy.

More next time about those times when we are overwhelmed and their relationship to routine.

Routine (part 2--Overwhelm)

Living in a state of chronic overwhelm seems to be the bane of modern American society. Sometimes we just feel overwhelmed regardless of the number of things coming at us. Other times we really are overwhelmed by the demands foisted upon us. In those times something has to give. Unfortunately, it is usually us who 'gives.' We experience chronic stress, ill health, depression, sleeplessness, etc. When we are overwhelmed, what can we do? 

In my experience, when I am overwhelmed, it’s usually because the clarity of where I’m going (my vision or muse) isn’t balanced with a sufficient level of routine. Let me illustrate. 

Last school year I had 10 new staff members to supervise, most of whom had never worked around people with severe intellectual and multiple disabilities. On top of that we had only 12 students returning from the previous year and 22 new ones coming from the nine high schools in Granite School District. Then, we were crammed into a beat up, smelly relocatable. In spite of clearly knowing what I wanted to accomplish and having a pretty good idea how to get there, it was chaos.

September 2006 was a waking nightmare. I said that I had 10 new staff members. That’s true. However, we started off with only five of us, including me. It took over six weeks to get completely staffed. The economy was so good no one wanted to work part time for the school district at school district wages. Until we finally were fully staffed, we were outnumbered--badly outnumbered. 

You can’t begin to know how weird things were. One afternoon, about four days into the school year, Karlee, one of the returning students who is typically calm, gentle, and quiet, went off the deep end. At lunchtime I ended up alone with the whole pack. Somehow I made the mistake of sending the entire staff--all four of them--off to lunch at the same time. And I’ve been doing this for eight years? Good move.

Most of the students were having a great gabfest of a time while gobbling down their lunches. Think elementary lunch room when you visualize 34 adult students with disabilities eating lunch around regular school tables in a relocatable that is hovering at 89 degrees Fahrenheit. 

I’m alone, remember. Just at that moment Marisela, who has epilepsy, goes into one of her seizures. Wham! Down on the floor she goes with a dull thud. I’m there timing the seizure and watching for tale-tale signs that aren’t good--blue lips, tongue biting, that sort of thing. 

In the corner of my eye I see Nina, one of the newbies, winding up for a truly world class anxiety attack. You see, many folks with disabilities cannot tolerate commotion very well. This is just great. Also, folks with disabilities tend, as a group, to be very tender hearted. Three or four abandon lunch to soothe Marisela back to reality, and a couple more are hugging and kissing Nina, which just makes her howl all the louder.

I look out the window in the vain hope of seeing one of the troupes returning from lunch. No such luck because--horror of horrors (insert a Christopher Lloyd-Dr. Emmet Brown, Back To The Future scream here)--who do I see coming up the walk? None other than the Special Education Director for the district! I’m a dead man. 

Hey, wait a minute. She needs to see just how nutty things are. I let the powers that be know far in advance that we were getting slammed with a flood of new students. I let them know that one relocatable wasn’t enough space (and these guys need space, let me tell you). I got their clearance to have THEM hire 10 para-educators, which obviously didn't happen. Yeah, Madam Director. Come right on in and get a load of this. In the (literal) heat of the moment, I was feeling pretty snooty.

Now what has Karlee to do with this story? As I give the director (who, by the way, is a very fine, supportive person, which is why she came by for a visit) a wave of acknowledgment as I kneel at Marisela’s side, I see Karlee at the back of the room, stripped down to her bra and panties, rifling through our shelf of games and puzzles. She has a huge pile of empty boxes and lids on her left side and an even bigger pile of puzzle pieces, Monopoly tokens, Uno cards, fake money, dominos, and various odds and ends on her right side. Apparently, Karlee doesn’t handle commotion very well, either.

By this time the staff has returned. They have that deer-in-the-headlights look of terror in their eyes. In fact they have a look in their eyes that screams at me, “You’re the teacher. DO SOMETHING!”

“I am doing something! I’m trying to make sure we are fully staffed so we can get a routine going. These guys need ROUTINE.”

“Consequences. Consequences. They need consequences,” the staff murmurs back.

“No. No. NO! They need routine. Simple, bland, daily routine.”

Some of the staff didn’t believe me until months later. One of them observed in February, “Boy, things are sure a lot calmer around here. I kinda’ like this.” That was on a typical day when one group with staff was off working at K-Mart, another was downtown visiting the planetarium, a third group was doing community service at the Humanitarian Center, and the fourth group was in class working on life skills. 

Ah, the wonderful, glorious, luxurious power of routine. By using its relentless regularity we can discover, explore, and develop new interests. With it we can manage the constant drumbeat of demands on our time and psychic energy. Never, ever grumble about routine. It is necessary. It is a gift. Create it. Embrace it. Work with it. Own it. Life will be much easier if you do.

How did I get here?

Many of my family and friends know that for nearly the last decade I have taught students with severe and multiple disabilities. Just the other day I mused about that. How in the world did I end up here? There was absolutely nothing in my past that would point to this line of work. I was the kind of person who, upon encountering people with severe disabilities in the grocery store, headed down another isle. Now I seek 'em out. One Sunday the family was up in Logan visiting our son, John's, church services on (what else?) family day. The place was packed. As folks were settling down before the services started, I nudged Yvonne and said, "Can you hear that? A customer." It may be politically incorrect, but I call kids with disabilities my customers, probably because I am in the disability "business."

"No, I don't hear anything. What are you talking about?"

"Someone here has a child with disabilities--probably in a wheel chair."

Sure enough. When the proceedings were over, a woman pushed a wheel chair past us with a kid who had obvious disabilities. How could I tell? Well, after a while you develop a sixth sense. Happily, now when I encounter kids with disabilities I seek them out and start talking with them. It kind of makes the parents a bit nervous. Why would anyone seek out my broken kid, let alone talk to her? He must be some kind of pervert. After I explain that I am a special education teacher, parents relax a bit.

Again, how in the world did I get mixed up in the strange world of severe disabilities?

Eight years ago, in August to be exact, I found myself unemployed. How embarrassing. Oh, well. At least I can go and be a substitute teacher to bring in some money and to get myself out of the house. I signed up with both the Granite and Jordan school districts. On the Thursday before school started I got a call from the automated, computerized calling system for the Granite district.

"Hello, this is the Granite Subfinder system . . ."

I listened. There was an assignment for the first full week of school at some place called Hartvigsen.

"If you accept this assignment, press one. If you decline, press 5."

My finger literally hovered over those two numbers on the touchtone pad for what seemed like an eternity. Am I ready to take on a whole week of some assignment right out of the shoot? What kind of teacher would take off the first week of school? What kind of trap could this be? some kind of crappy class? But . . .it is for a whole week. That's better than nothing. Ah, nuts. I'd better take it, so I pressed number one. My life changed in that very instant.

Monday morning, the first day of school, found me pulling into the parking lot at Hartvigsen. Oh, oh, buses with wheel chair lifts. I walk toward the front door. Double oh, oh. Kids everywhere who are CLEARLY not all here. Arrrrrrgh! this is a trap! I go to the office. While I'm standing there until the secretary notices me, some kid comes up to me. He has a vacant look, and he is making all kinds of strange mouth noises. He grabs my arm. What to do? There isn't another isle to go down.

"Todd, let that man go! You know you don't go grabbing people you don't know!" I am saved by an oddly shrill voice. Sounds like a teacher to me. It is. It's Cheryl, Todd's teacher. Relief. She guides Todd down a hallway, and he disappears on his own around the corner. Cheryl comes back to me.

"Looks like you are my substitute for the week. As you can tell, this is a school for handicapped kids. Don't worry. You're not in charge or anything. You're subbing for one of my staff who took another job the last minute."

Cheryl guides me to one of her two classrooms. It is a stark affair. There is only a locked cabinet in one corner and another cabinet and sink along one of the walls. Other than that there is no furniture at all. Stretched out face down on the carpeted floor is a boy making all kinds of strange grunting sounds. I think he's getting ready to hurl. Pacing along one wall is Todd, still making his snorting mouth noises and counting to 10 to himself over and over (skipping the number 6 every time). Also in the room, seated on the floor, is Crystal, a rotund girl with Down's Syndrome.

"Just wait here and stand in the door so no one escapes. We're still getting kids off the bus. Just have them come in and don't let anyone out," says Cheryl as she heads down the hall and around the corner.

I stand there in the doorway not knowing what to think. What have I gotten myself into?

After a few minutes Crystal scoots over to me and, just like that, pops off the four tassels from my loafer shoes. At that very moment Cheryl walks up. "You may want to dress in sneakers and blue jeans. This job can get kind of messy at times." I'll bet it can.

Soon the sparse room was filled with a dozen students possessing a wide variety of disabilities. There are also four or five other staff members ushering kids to the bathroom, swabbing runny noses, and generally being what seems very bossy.

Just then Cheryl comes in. "Well, the pool is down so we can't go swimming." Swimming!? The computer lady didn't say anything about having to show off my white whale physique down at the pool. Man, this is nuts.

"We'll just have to take a walk for a while."

I'm assigned to Travis, the grunting kid, who is now sitting in a wheelchair, and another kid, Ryan, who has Down's Syndrome. So, off we go for a walk. Ryan jabbers incoherently the whole way. It's kind of like he's trying to give me the lowdown about life at Hartvigsen. It's quite entertaining.

I made it through that first day and even showed up the next. To this day Cheryl teases me about how I looked like a deer caught in the headlights. I WAS a deer caught in the headlights. I had never in my life . . .

But toward the end of that first week something happened. I had Travis clinging to my arm as we marched down to the pool (yes, I got into the pool. Loved it). I was wearing a short sleeved shirt and so was Travis. That sensation of his skin on mine as he clung on my arm for stability and assurance caused me to feel a swell of emotion that came from a very deep place. In an instant I knew this is where I belonged. I was with my people--not the teachers, but the kids. Like John Denver sang, I had come home to a place I'd never been before. I truly was home.

One thing lead to another, and now I'm a licensed special education teacher with a class of my own. I've got thirty plus students with a staff of ten, but that's a story for another day.

Over these last eight years I've been peed on, puked on, spat on, hit, sworn at, bled on, pooped on, and attacked. And I wouldn't have it any other way. 

School year 2007-2008 here we come! 

Bring 'em on!