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