For years Ms. Johnson had been
running the class by herself. Though she looked aged in her face, her eyes
showed youth. My first impression of both her and the class was a portrait of
her washing our students. Most of the kids were poorly taken care of, thus Ms.
Johnson was forced to bathe them with a wet towel, brush their teeth, and fix
their hair in the mornings. As I walked into my new classroom, she looked up
with a smile, and greeted me with hope. I knew instantly I liked her, and as
the children swarmed around me, I knew I loved them.
In all my dealings with special
needs children here in the States, I have found loving families supporting and
growing them. It was different here. School wasn’t used as a way to better my
new students; rather it was a way for their families to be free of them
briefly. None of them were diagnosed leaving me to figure out what special
condition each had. The class was oversized for only having one teacher, and
the tools at our disposal were marginal in comparison to what I was used to. I
was overwhelmed from the beginning. I feared that I was not educated
sufficiently, and that the task lay before me was impossible.
Still I forged ahead. Of course, I
could merely help Ms. Johnson with the day to day activities, but I wanted to
do more. I wanted to grow my students, her, and myself. In many ways I will
qualify I wasn’t prepared, but as time elapsed something beautiful was
illuminated. It became apparent that I had been training for this situation for
years. My work with special needs gymnastics, horseback riding lessons, and
other classes melted together to create real change. Ms. Johnson and I created
a new daily curriculum. Some of my students had different muscular and
mechanical issues. We worked out rehab time to help build muscles and mobility.
When dealing with anger issues and responsibility, I created stress ball
companions. Each student decorated a face on their stress ball, had to keep
their friend on the corner of their desk unless upset, and had to tote it to and
fro school. We played games that enhanced their vocabulary, this too benefited
my Afrikaans, and over the weeks I saw great improvement.
Still my heart was broken. My
children were happy at school, but life outside was difficult. In other outreaches
I participated in, I saw even the smartest, toughest, “normal” kids struggle in
this neighborhood. This made some of my students very aggressive with one another
due to having to fight and be tough. The toughest thing for the youth in the
neighborhood was what destroyed me though, especially in regards to my kids. A
select few of my students were abused at home, and they dealt with great
emotional issues. This abuse could have come in many forms. Sexual abuse was
rampant though, and that’s what terrified me. I will never forget one child in
particular who dealt with this, and inadvertently he changed my life.
Bronwen was a tall, lanky, quiet
boy. I never had any sort of trouble with Bronwen. The only time we would find
ourselves at an impasse, would be because of another classmate. If I gave
Bronwen a task, a toy, or a book he would be completely content. Other children
would provoke him though; steal his toys, poke at him, or destroy his block
creations. Bronwen would get upset, but unlike the other children he wouldn’t
start a fight. He may cry, scream, or duck in a corner, but that was the extent
of it. I loved Bronwen, and as I spent day after day at his side I began to
connect dots. Bronwen would arrive every morning with a suppressed rage and
hurt. He would arrive at school and melt into his desk face down, elbows
tucked, and sometimes tears streaming. Some days there would be bruises. Some
days there would only be a broken heart. I would proceed to his desk and begin
to offer words of encouragement. Although we spoke two separate languages, it
always seemed like we could understand one another. After a few minutes,
minutes that always felt like hours, he would turn and hug me. He would hold
onto me, burry his face in my chest, and rock. Eventually he would release me,
and we could begin our day. It wasn’t hard for me to figure out he was abused
in some kind of capacity. After our morning sessions though, he would be
better, but it wasn’t until recess that all would be completely fine.
There was a playground at the
primary, but our students only played in the courtyard. This was to protect
them from the other kids. I would wheel out a box of toys and watch my students
play with balls, jump ropes, and puzzles in the most unconventional of ways.
However, there was one toy that only Bronwen played with. A piece of plywood
was cut into a square, equipped with wheels, and married with a stick capped
with a rubber ball. Bronwen would sit knees up on his scooter, start at one end
of the courtyard, and then proceed to row to the other side. Back and forth he
would go, and I would begin to see a change in him. With each push I could see
him letting go.
I think Bronwen had extreme autism.
He seemed to comprehend more than the other children, and yet to many, I’m sure
he just appeared ignorant. As I watched him I knew he was having a deep
conversation with himself. His morning started horribly at home, and I’m sure
he was aware it would be just as bad when he got home, but he focused on the
present. For a brief time he knew he was safe. He could sit and let go of the
morning, ignore the fears of the future, and be completely wrapped up in each
fleeting second. As I said, he would do better after our morning hug, but it
wasn’t until his time of reflection that all would be well. As I watched him
each day, I realized that he was teaching me more than I could dream of
teaching him.
I consider myself a thinker. I
philosophize about the past, worry about the future, and fear about the cause
and effects of life. To this day I hold onto grudges and injustices I’ve seen
or been dealt. I hold hatred in my heart, and loves long past. I struggle to be
utterly present. Washing away yesterday and ignoring the fears of tomorrow is a
desperately hard, daily task. Bronwen on the other hand had much more on his
plate, but I watched him let it go every afternoon. Now whenever I get
stressed, worried, or feel pains from yesterday I think of him. I think of a
little boy that endured more than I can imagine, and I pray to be more like
him. I struggle still, and probably always will. It is most definitely one of
my greatest flaws. However, in retrospect, I think about some of the events
over the course of my return home. I don’t think I would have gotten through
it, or began to get over it, without meeting that little boy.
The other day I thought about my
kids. I got inexpressibly upset. Part of me would begin to cry, and then it
would be countered by a laugh forced by a fond memory. I worried about their
safety, health, and happiness. Did I do enough to help them be better? Are they
still growing? Do they remember me like I remember them? I was being torn
apart, until my fondest memory of all came into mind: A stick, a scooter, and
Bronwen. As if he was saying it to me himself, I felt words of advice engulf
me.
“Live in the present. Forget
yesterday. Don’t think about tomorrow. You just might miss the beauty of riding
on a scooter in the sea breeze of the South African coast.”
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