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!