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!