Broken Glass
The moment he said it, it shattered my heart. But beneath the broken pieces I saw clearly for the first time just how strong my devotion and passion for my job really was.
Stan has been a lot of trouble in my class for the past couple weeks. He came to special ed from Gen Ed back in December but was out of school for several weeks due to struggles with bipolar disorder. After tons of paperwork, medication, and discussion, he was placed back at Wheeler in Special Ed. It started out fine, but he's now rapidly returning to his earlier and more troubled form.
It's tough to help kids like these. So much of their struggles stem from medical problems. But today his attitude was just too much. I sent him out of class, stepped outside, and that's when it happened.
I gave him the same old speech that continuously fails to work: "When you set foot in that door, you will not disrespect me. I expect the same respect that I show you. I'm trying to help you. Etc Etc." And that's when he said it.
"Why am I even in this special ed class in the first place? I shouldn't be here. These kids are all idiots."
It hit me so hard that it didn't even resonate at first. But then it did. Hard.
At that moment I realized how much of my life I have wagered on these kids. They literally are my life. They are my struggles, my triumphs, my joys, and my pains. They are everything. But they aren't idiots.
I couldn't convey this to Stan. I made it clear that what he said was absolutely wrong, but I don't think it reached him. I told him that they were going through the same struggles and challenges that he was. He responded by saying that no one had been where he had been. He was probably right. If you wrote a book about Stan's life, it would be a very sad and troubling one. But none of them have it easy.
The most frustrating thing about this job is the walls that you can't break through with these kids. So many of them just can't grasp that you are there to help them, no matter what you say or do. I spent 10 minutes on Monday trying to explain to one student that I could be there for him if he needed someone to talk to. His father is about to go on trial for an attempted murder that happened just off base and made headline news. I practically begged him to at least acknowledge that he heard what I was offering. He just stood and glared at me. He was already too shrouded in pain. I couldn't get through. I hope that someday they can look back realize just how many people were trying to help them.
Just when you feel like the glass has been shattered and there's no hope, a light comes through and bounces off of every broken piece and illuminates your spirit. Maybe it's a quick smile or thank you. Maybe it's your favorite student, coming in at lunch for help on a project. Maybe it's a friend who is there to give you a little strength. The light warms you, and you carefully pick up the fallen pieces and put them back together once again.
Stan has been a lot of trouble in my class for the past couple weeks. He came to special ed from Gen Ed back in December but was out of school for several weeks due to struggles with bipolar disorder. After tons of paperwork, medication, and discussion, he was placed back at Wheeler in Special Ed. It started out fine, but he's now rapidly returning to his earlier and more troubled form.
It's tough to help kids like these. So much of their struggles stem from medical problems. But today his attitude was just too much. I sent him out of class, stepped outside, and that's when it happened.
I gave him the same old speech that continuously fails to work: "When you set foot in that door, you will not disrespect me. I expect the same respect that I show you. I'm trying to help you. Etc Etc." And that's when he said it.
"Why am I even in this special ed class in the first place? I shouldn't be here. These kids are all idiots."
It hit me so hard that it didn't even resonate at first. But then it did. Hard.
At that moment I realized how much of my life I have wagered on these kids. They literally are my life. They are my struggles, my triumphs, my joys, and my pains. They are everything. But they aren't idiots.
I couldn't convey this to Stan. I made it clear that what he said was absolutely wrong, but I don't think it reached him. I told him that they were going through the same struggles and challenges that he was. He responded by saying that no one had been where he had been. He was probably right. If you wrote a book about Stan's life, it would be a very sad and troubling one. But none of them have it easy.
The most frustrating thing about this job is the walls that you can't break through with these kids. So many of them just can't grasp that you are there to help them, no matter what you say or do. I spent 10 minutes on Monday trying to explain to one student that I could be there for him if he needed someone to talk to. His father is about to go on trial for an attempted murder that happened just off base and made headline news. I practically begged him to at least acknowledge that he heard what I was offering. He just stood and glared at me. He was already too shrouded in pain. I couldn't get through. I hope that someday they can look back realize just how many people were trying to help them.
Just when you feel like the glass has been shattered and there's no hope, a light comes through and bounces off of every broken piece and illuminates your spirit. Maybe it's a quick smile or thank you. Maybe it's your favorite student, coming in at lunch for help on a project. Maybe it's a friend who is there to give you a little strength. The light warms you, and you carefully pick up the fallen pieces and put them back together once again.
posted by Daniel T at 2:32 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home