A "good" teacher

I'm like if Mother Teresa went home and smoked a joint everyday

The week before Thanksgiving, I was moved into a primary classroom where the assistant had quit and the lead teacher was struggling to keep it together. When my boss informed me of the change, his tone implied that it was some sort of promotion or a great opportunity to “collaborate” and “further my professional development in working with children with neurodiverse needs.”

Great. Because that’s exactly what I want to do.

But I didn’t have the guts to say “no”, so I packed up my desk and moved into this classroom where 10 out of the 18 children are on the ILP radar. The fortunate part is I’ve known most of these children for a year now, so they’re familiar with me and my expectations, even if I have to remind them. Constantly.

Being a “good teacher” can mean a lot of different things. For me, it means having enough professionalism to not tell a five-year-old to go to hell. Having enough patience to develop trust with them. And enough street smarts to know how to get them to do what you want.

My coworkers often tease me for being buddies with the “bad kids.”

“Why do you always like the bad ones?” They guffaw around the lunch table. Well, because once upon a time, I was a bad one too. And it wasn’t that I was bad, per say. It’s just that nobody took the time to understand me.

I try to understand them and show them the kindness that nobody gave me when I was five and struggling. I’ve assigned them jobs. Like line-leader, caboose, sanitation workers, librarians, shelf-checkers. I even got us gerbils so that someone could be the “zookeeper.”

It’s taken weeks, but we’ve managed to find a rhythm in the chaos, and we all feel more at peace in my new role as their teacher.

Except, this one kid. There’s always that one kid. I used to work with him when he was in preschool class. His mother yelled at me one time because she would show up late to pick him up. So, we’d sit on the curb together with our bags and coats on, waiting for her.

“I just feel like you don’t love him.” She cried and I wanted to tell her that it’s not my job to love her child. It’s my job to make sure that he’s in one piece when she comes to pick him up. So, I told her that I’d share her concerns with our principal and if there were any other reservations she had about my childcare skills, she could tell him, too.

She gave me a $10 Starbucks gift card, two weeks later and we haven’t spoken since.

Her kid is severely autistic, and he turned five on my birthday, October 13th. The only words he can say clearly is “Go away!” and “Wait!” both of which I taught him. He often throws himself on the floor when he’s upset and has a penchant for hitting me, other children, and pinching our gerbils. He’s a little fucker and I’ve instructed the other children to use a “confident voice” when they have a message they want to share with him. Most of the time, it’s “GO AWAY!”

I feel bad for that little asshole, I really do. Even more so now that he’s gone. His last day was yesterday. His family is moving to Rhode Island for a job opportunity and on one hand, I’m glad he’s gone because now my classroom can be an oasis of peace. Though another part of me feels like I failed him.

I really did try my best though. Even when he refused to join the line outside, I would delegate children to carry his coat and his backpack so that I could sling him over my shoulder.

They always looked so concerned when I’d say in such a calm voice, “Oneeeee, face forward. Twooooo, hands to ourself. Threeeee, follow the leader!” with a screaming child in my arms.

But, like everything else, this became our routine, too. I stopped apologizing to our neighboring classrooms for his shrieking. I stopped apologizing when I would deliver him to his mother like that. I stopped apologizing.

I did the best I could. Even though it wasn’t enough. But it was all I had.

That’s the problem with the school system. If you don’t fit into the “greater needs” yours are often ignored. Because there’s not enough resources to help you. And that’s what happened to him. I’ve realized I don’t get paid enough to tackle an overarching problem such as that.

He fell asleep in the reading corner yesterday after having a full-blown tantrum over me not letting him near the gerbil cage. His shoes were thrown across the room, backpack forgotten, lunch untouched. I didn’t want his last day to look like this, but alas.

I picked up his shoes and put them on his feet while he slept. Placed his backpack beside him and put his coat over his body like a blanket. The other children made him farewell cards that I folded into his backpack. I signed one “Miss Mars” with a heart, but I didn’t leave a big note. He wouldn’t have understood it anyways. Instead, I placed my hand over his head and whispered, “God bless you.” then left him there until his mother came to pick him up.

They left in a fit of screaming and the shoes were kicked off once again. My class and I watched her struggle to carry him out to the car, so I blessed her too.

So much for not loving him, aye?