I substituted as a teacher for a third grade class. Third grade is my favorite, because they all want to “help” me teach. They’re old enough that they actually can help me – and they’re young enough that they actually do what I ask them to do.
Mostly.
There was one boy in this class, though. We’ll call him Fernando because, well, that’s his name.
Like Dylan, Fernando didn’t seem very interested in his work. In fact, he spent much of the day with an empty worksheet in front of him. He gazed around the room, kicked things around under his desk, played with tiny little pieces of paper, laughed without provocation on a regular basis, and distracted everyone within 15 yards. At one point, he literally flooded the sink area, and poured a cup of water onto another student’s desk – dousing everything in sight.
I thought I had it under control.
Since he seemed to be having trouble getting the words from his head to his paper, I broke out a fidget toy that I bought for Dylan. It’s a really cool toy.
“You can use this,” I told him, excited to give him an option that no one had previously considered.
He played with it for a minute.
“I think I’m all right,” he said, and handed it back.
The afternoon went on, and Fernando did – quite literally – none of his work. If he put his name on his paper, I thought he was doing well. I tried ignoring him. I tried praising him. I tried lecturing him. I tried encouraging him. I tried rewarding him. I tried threatening him. I moved him to a seat far, far away from all of his classmates.
In fact, I tried every, single behavior modification trick I knew.
Fernando still didn’t do any work.
Finally, somewhere after 2:00, I said, “Fernando, I give up. Go to the principal’s office.”
“No!” he said. “I didn’t do anything!”
“I know you didn’t do anything,” I said. “You haven’t done a single thing all day long.”
“I’ll do my work!” he said. He started writing at a furious pace. He had half his paper finished in 30 seconds.
He finished half his paper in 30 seconds.
Fernando wasn’t like Dylan at all. Fernando had no trouble writing, or getting his thoughts onto paper. Fernando just didn’t feel like doing what he was supposed to do.
So Fernando spent the afternoon with the principal, while I spent my last hour in that classroom kicking myself for believing that all children with behavior problems had learning disabilities.
There really is a difference.
Dylan was sitting on the end of his bed when he said it.
It was late at night, far too late in my humble opinion, and he was exhausted and sullen. Like most nights, we were arguing about some stupid school thing that will likely never matter in the greater scheme of things.
He was slightly slumped, the way he is when he’s tired and sad. It happens most when he’s thinking about school.
It was too late for us to be talking. But I was grumping about something. I am often either too tired to argue, or too busy arguing at that hour, and couldn’t sleep without saying one last thing.
I don’t remember what we were discussing, but I said something like, “You need to do it to get into college!”
And that’s when he said it. I assumed that, someday, it would come.
Dylan said, “I might not even go to college.”
He said it in a tired way, as if he were too tired to take even one more minute of school.
And of course, college is school.
I didn’t blow up right away. I said something grouchily at him and walked away, went into my room, started to get ready for bed.
But then I went back to Dylan’s room. And then I blew up. i knew better, and I stopped quickly, but I did myself no favors.
Dylan put his head in his hands. I shut up and walked away.
We were both too tired for that conversation.
It’s been many days now, and I am still too tired for that conversation.
Shane came home one day with a big bag of candy, pencils and other fun stuff. He didn’t say anything about it for several hours, until I stumbled upon it.
“What’s this?”
“Some kid named Jellybean gave it to me,” Shane said.
“Jellybean gave you some candy?” I asked. It sounded like a joke waiting for a punch line.
“Yeah,” Shane said. “There was this letter in it, explaining why.” He pulled out a piece of paper. It read:
WORLD’S BEST STORY
this certificate is awarded to
SHANE HAWKINS
in recognition of
“The Darkness in Love” (First Prize)
Shane had won first prize for the story he’d entered in the school writing competition!
And he hadn’t told anyone.
He’d gone out for ice cream with his grandfather. He never said a word. After ice cream, he’d been home from school for hours. He hadn’t mentioned it to his brother or me.
When he finally did, of course, I started to cry. I am so proud of him! I smiled and cried and jumped up and down.
“Congratulations!” I squealed, hugging him.
“Thanks,” he said. He smiled.
“This is awesome news!” I said. “And you didn’t even mention it!”
“It’s not that big a deal,” he said.
“It is a big deal!” I told him. “You won first prize for your story! That is a HUGE deal!”
“Not really,” he said. “Probably just not that many people entered the contest.”
Ouch.
“Shane,” I said. “Probably that many people did enter the contest. And your story was chosen as the absolute best one! Remember when you won the Chairman’s Choice Award for photography?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you think that was a big deal?”
“I guess so,” he said.
“This is every bit as big a deal as that! Maybe even bigger! You wrote a story and the judges thought your story was the best one! This is great!”
“You know what’s not great, though?” he asked.
I sighed. “What?”
“All the candy they gave me is stuff I can’t eat with braces,” he said.
And he’s right: it’s all chewy, gooey stuff that he’s not allowed to eat for another year. But somehow, I think that’s not the point.
His humility astounds me.
On the very far, back-in-the-corner burner in Dylan’s mind is the idea that, for each semester, he is required to do an independent reading project. His teacher casually mentioned this – to me – a few weeks ago.
“What are you going to read?” I asked him – a few weeks ago.
“I have to read a fantasy book or science fiction, but I think I’m just gonna pick one of the ones on the list,” Dylan said.
“Which one?” I asked.
“Alice in Wonderland,” he said. “I already read it.”
“You read it when you were nine!” I squealed. “And I read it TO you!”
“Yeah, but I still remember it,” he said.
“It doesn’t work that way. You need to pick a new book and actually read it.”
“Okay,” he said.
A few weeks went by. I offered him my copy of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. “It’s really funny,” I said, “and you can read the whole thing in two hours.”
He glanced up from his phone. “Okay,” he said. Dylan likes books that are funny, and the dry wit in Hitchhiker’s Guide is tough to beat.
Several more days went by. Meanwhile, Shane – who had been diligently reading his independent reading selection for more than a week – started to panic. “I have to finish this by Thursday!” Shane said. “I thought May 11 was Friday!”
Shane then calculated the number of pages left in the book, divided it by the number of days he had left to read, and got to work.
Several more days went by. “When is your independent reading due?” I asked Dylan.
“I don’t know,” he said. (His teacher had mentioned it to both him, and me, and his case manager, on more than one occasion.)
“What do you have to do when you’re done with the book?” I asked. “Shane has to do some kind of worksheet. What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know,” Dylan said.
“You haven’t even cracked the book yet,” I said. “You might want to find out when it’s due.”
“Okay,” he said.
We went home and got into a skirmish over a testing calendar that I needed to see – a calendar that he’d lost in less than an hour after he’d received it.
“I’m going to look through your binder then,” I said.
“Fine,” Dylan said – then went to take a shower.
Inside his binder – catching my eye – was a paper about his independent reading project. He has to create a notebook based on five separate characters in the book, complete with a full cover, written character descriptions, and five collages of images representing each character.
The entire project – based on the book he hasn’t yet opened – is due in two days.
On my way to talk to Dylan about my discovery, I stopped to see Shane, who was lying on his bed, reading.
“How’s it going?” I asked.
“I’m on page 140,” he said. “I’m trying to get to page 180 before I go downstairs, and then I can read later tonight to page 210.”
“How long is it?”
“It’s 260 pages,” Shane said. “But I’m going to start working on the project before I finish the book.”
“That sounds like a good plan,” I said to Shane.
Then I went to find Dylan, to tell him what he needed to accomplish in the next two days. I found him sitting on the furniture, laughing at his cell phone, completely un-phased.
He looked at me.
“What?!”
I was driving down the road, with Dylan in the passenger seat, when a groundhog wandered right into the path of my car.
Seeing the animal barely in time, I slammed on the brakes, throwing my arm in front of Dylan to hold him back from the windshield. Yes, we have seatbelts. Yes, he was wearing one.
But an instinct took over – an instinct I didn’t even know I had.
I remember similar incidents in the car when I was younger, and my dad’s arm shoving me back into the seat when we made an abrupt stop.
I was always a bit grateful for that arm.
I watched a movie, The Blind Side, a true story about the young life of Michael Oher, a player in the NFL. In the movie, Michael is involved in a car accident while transporting a young boy. The boy, who was very small and sitting in the passenger seat, would have been crushed by the air bag, except that Michael Oher reached over with his arm and stopped the air bag as it deployed.
It turns out that Michael Oher tested in the 98th percentile for “protective instincts” – something that serves him quite well during football games.
I wasn’t so sure about my “protective instincts” until that groundhog crossed the road.
I remember once, long before the boys were born, I was standing outside with my cat in the evening. Kitty was wandering around in the backyard when she suddenly burst over the top of a hill and raced toward me – followed by a fox.
Without any conscious thought, I stepped between the cat and the fox, and the fox stopped cold two feet from me. It looked at me for a second – just a second – before I started screaming and running at it. Then it ran off.
Somewhere inside me, those protective instincts do lurk. But usually, they just lurk. Usually, I visualize what I would do … but then things happen, and I am never fast enough to do those things.
The boys get hurt, skin their knees, break their nails, bump their heads. So far, it hasn’t mattered that my protective instincts are based mostly in my imagination.
Then, when my arm flew out to stop Dylan from flying into the windshield, I thought, gee, maybe I can do some good after all.
Most interesting, of course, is that Dylan is eight inches taller than I am, and almost the same weight.
But I am still trying to keep him safe.
I told Shane about the synesthesia battery test, which would clarify much about his abilities to combine his senses in ways other people don’t.
“You should take it this weekend,” I said to him while he was playing a video game.
“I don’t understand,” Shane said, “what difference it makes if I have it or not.”
“It doesn’t make any difference,” I said. “I just would like you to take it so that I can better understand how you think. I like learning about how your brain works.”
“But it doesn’t matter if I have it or not, right?” he asked.
“Not really,” I said. “I just think it’s interesting. But you don’t have to take the test if you don’t want to.”
“Okay,” he said.
And I haven’t heard a word about it since. I haven’t brought it up, either.
This is working well for everyone, I think.
It was my day to relax. My entire schedule consisted of a trip to the library and a brief volunteer job at Dylan’s school.
But this is how it actually went:
Got up early. Dylan got up late. Did not make food for Dylan, as per our agreement for days when he gets downstairs late. (Got up early for no reason.)
Made breakfast and lunch for Shane, who was ready early. Somehow still dropped him off late.
Decided to eat “leisurely breakfast,” but wanted to fill outside bird feeders first. Tripped near the kitchen somehow splattering 200 dried mealworms across 300 feet of house.
Spent half an hour sweeping and picking up mealworms.
Decided to check email before “leisurely breakfast.” Discovered that Dylan was, again, failing several classes. Texted Dylan about this for 20 minutes.
Emailed Dylan’s teachers to determine extent of problem. Emailed Dylan’s case manager as well, since she handles everything so well.
Suddenly realized that I hadn’t eaten breakfast. Shoved bowl of gluten-free cereal into my face. Decided to have “leisurely lunch” instead.
Put in a load of laundry. Promptly forgot about it.
Responded to teachers who had responded to me. Texted Dylan again. (This time he was at lunch.)
Browsed for wild bird seed online. Found it cheap at a tractor supply store near my favorite library.
Suddenly remembered that I needed to go the to library – which is 40 minutes from my house. And now I needed to go to the tractor supply store, too, and be back in time to volunteer at Dylan’s school. Packed up library books and raced out.
Realized I hadn’t eaten lunch. Grabbed a nut bar and a bottle of water for the ride.
Drove nearly an hour to tractor supply store. Ended up with $95 of bird seed.
Decided to treat myself to “leisurely lunch” of spicy Thai food. Unsuccessfully dialed Thai restaurant. “The call you have made did not go through. Please try again later.”
Drove eight miles back to library. Parking lot was empty. Walked to library door anyway. Sign read: “Library Closed for Professional Development Day.”
Called Thai place again, now an emergency. Picked up Thai food for “leisurely lunch.” Forgot to ask for “spicy.”
Got home with barely ten minutes to eat. Shoved bland Thai food into my face. Decided to have “leisurely dinner” instead.
Drove to Dylan’s school to volunteer. Stopped in office to get key. Office lady said, “Oh! There are three of you today!” There are only supposed to be two people. I was third, so I went home instead. (No library, no volunteer job. Daily schedule officially trashed.)
Welcomed Shane home from school.
Emailed Dylan’s teachers and case manager again. With their help, figured out how to solve all of Dylan’s problems. Got incredibly excited to tell Dylan all about it.
Drove back to Dylan’s school to pick him up after his homework club. Started to tell him about all the emails and solutions.
Tried to talk while Dylan argued with every word I said, wouldn’t let me finish a sentence, and screamed at me for trying to help him when he obviously has it all under control!
Never told Dylan about any of the emails or solutions.
Browsed the internet for hotel rooms in North Carolina. Found nothing good.
Decided to have leftover gluten-free pizza for dinner. Covered mushy cheese pizza with paper towel to microwave. Paper towel stuck to the cheese, ruining pizza.
So much for my “leisurely dinner.”
Rewashed load of laundry from morning. Went to bed.
Thank God, I have to work tomorrow.
Yesterday, Bill, Dylan, Shane and I went to a Southern Rock Festival at a local amphitheater.
Bill and I like the music. For the uninitiated, Southern Rock is just a lot of guitars with a fairly steady beat. Most of the Southern Rock groups got famous sometime during the 1970’s, and there haven’t been a ton of new Southern Rock bands born since. So the average age of the typical Southern Rock fan is about 58.
To make matters a bit more interesting, the culture was not one to which the kids had previously been exposed. It’s sort of a “God-bless-America-and-do-it-loud!” crowd.
We were at the concert for about ten minutes when Shane turned to me and said, “I feel like I am four years old and totally surrounded by old people!”
I looked around. The lawn was covered in long-haired and/or balding men with beer bellies and tattoos. Wrinkly women were sporting cowboy hats, cutoff jeans – and heels. The rebel flag had been transformed into an item of clothing on more than one occasion, and nearly everyone was smoking.
There wasn’t a single child in sight.
“Sorry, Shane,” I said. “I didn’t really think about that.” We spent half an hour buying ear plugs for him, as a sort of consolation prize.
A few hours went by. We had seats inside the pavilion (in case of rain) so we sat and watched a few bands. Because of the extremely loud music, Shane texted me to say: “Each band is playing for about an hour. We should be home by 5:00.”
I laughed. While Dylan likes all kinds of music, Shane wasn’t really enjoying it, so he was calculating his escape already.
“I’m not sure it works like that,” I texted back. “Do you want to go for a walk?”
Shane and I went off to lie in a remote patch of grass and stare at the sky. We spent lots of time just hanging out together.
“I’ve lost count of three things,” Shane said. “The number of shirtless people I’ve seen, the number of beers I’ve seen, and the number of profanities I’ve heard.”
He didn’t complain, but he did talk a lot about what time he might be able to go home. He calculated and re-calculated. He wondered aloud if he would have any time to watch a video when he got home. He obviously wasn’t a huge fan of Southern Rock, or the venue.
We even left before the final band (although Bill and Dylan stayed) so that Shane could have a little time to himself.
So it came as a huge surprise when Shane got home, took a shower, watched a video, and somehow reflected enough to come up with a bold, personal revelation.
“I think I took my day for granted,” Shane told me. “I wish I had enjoyed more of the time listening to music instead of thinking so much about when I would be going home.”
He’s pretty wise for such a young fellow.
Here it is, fourth quarter, and Dylan is finally – after three years of agony – keeping up in English.
The secret?
The secret is his teacher.
In a clear case of going above and beyond the call of duty, Dylan’s teacher is emailing his case manager every, single week, detailing what’s due, what’s upcoming, and what he needs to do to keep up his grades. And she has been talking to him after class, updating him on where he should be on projects, what he should have turned in already, and when things are due in the near future.
It doesn’t hurt that she also directed the spring musical, in which Dylan had a leading role. If he had failed English – and he almost did – he would have had to give up that role.
Whew.
So he’s been saved by yet another adult going out of her way to make sure Dylan knows things that he should, by all rights and expectations, know on his own.
Still, if it’s working – and it is – I’m not going to change it. And if his teacher is willing to do this for him – and she is – I’m thrilled. So after getting a B in the third quarter, Dylan is happier than ever in English class. He’s getting the work done in a timely fashion. He seems to know what’s coming. It’s going amazingly well.
I wouldn’t change a thing. If she were willing to keep going on his behalf, she could teach Dylan for the rest of his high school career.
Except it’s not my choice. And it simply can’t happen.
Dylan’s English teacher is pregnant – with twins. She is leaving in just a few weeks for maternity leave. I’d been hoping that she’d hold out until summer, just for Dylan. But her babies are due soon, and it’s time for her to get some much-needed rest.
I’m wishing her all the best. But Dylan will have to – again – fend for himself.
I just hope he can do it.
When Shane was a toddler, he would put his face on the floor and his diaper up in the air, and just stay that way.
He didn’t seem unhappy, or particularly tired. He just wasn’t nearly as much of a “mover” as his older brother. So we watched Shane with curiosity, and never worried about it. In fact, it was quite cute.
Later, Shane became a head-banger. It took me awhile to realize that when Shane started banging his head against a wall, or the floor, or hitting his head with his hand … that meant he was tired. He didn’t yawn and cry like some kids do. Just wham! wham! wham! on the wall with his poor, soft, baby head.
He probably banged his little brain around for two months before I put “head banging” and “exhaustion” together.
When he was barely old enough to grasp, Shane carried around a golf ball for “security.” He didn’t use a pacifier. He just picked up a golf ball one day, and didn’t put it down except to eat and sleep. And even then, it stayed with him in his crib.
After the head-banging discovery, we gave him a soft plush ball to sleep with instead. He barely noticed it, and still carried around the golf ball during his waking hours.
Shane didn’t cry a lot, even as a baby. But when he did cry, his bottom lip would protrude and his giant blue eyes were the saddest things I’d ever seen.
Shane’s anxiety started to show when he was about three, after he’d put down the golf ball. He was laid back as a child, but occasionally he’d get upset, or confused, or just nervous. He didn’t cry, or scream, or complain, or even whine.
He took the index finger of his right hand and, with it, gently petted his left hand.
This went on for years. In fact, I didn’t realize it had stopped until he was in elementary school. I started to tell his teacher about it, since most adults didn’t even notice his quiet pacification method. Then I realized that I hadn’t seen him do that in a very long time.
In fact, Shane just didn’t get anxious much anymore. He didn’t sleep with anything, or carry anything around to pacify him. He didn’t whine, or complain, or cry, or mope, or even sulk. He didn’t get moody or angry.
When something frustrated him – and when something frustrates Shane today – his eyes well up with tears and he walks away. Sometimes he gets a snack and comes back, refreshed. Sometimes he never talks about it again. Sometimes it takes days, and then he talks about it. But he always deals with whatever issue is bothering him – until it’s not bothering him anymore.
I’ve learned a lot from Shane about how to be content. I always thought he was just born that way.
But thinking back now, about the golf ball and the head-banging and the peculiar way he “sat” face-down on the floor … I’m just not so sure.
I think maybe he taught himself how to be content.
