Summer Time

It's hard to believe we are almost one month out of school.  A great deal was packed into the first 26 days, babysitting the most precious 10 month grandson, Preston and spending time in the Ozarks with Mr. Schmidt.  Although my days were filled with playing, feeding, diaper changing, napping with one adorable little man on my lap; hiking in State Parks, exploring caves and enjoying the company of Mr. Schmidt, one thing remained constant...I can not get school out of my head.
I have to simply say, it was one hell of a year.  We started a new program and while I believe it met the needs of students, in that without it, they would have been shipped to more restrictive schools, it took its toll on me...more than I expected.

In the world of students with emotional and behavioral disorders, they can be divided into the
Es and the Bs.  Es are those who are drowning in the quicksand of self loathing and worthlessness.  The world taught them it has nothing to offer them and they have nothing to offer it.  They come to school reciting the daily mantra of "I don't care.  It doesn't matter.  Who gives a damn."  For some, even the effort to shower eludes them, Frebreeze is the cologne of choice.  That aroma together with stale cigarette smoke and car grease can clear the classroom in under 10 seconds.

The Bs are the in your face type.  The guys tend to be loud, easily pick a fight with the teacher, usually over word choice such as, "It's been five minutes, you should probably get started on the assignment.  It is due at the end of the hour."  The student's face darkens, paper may or may not fly off the desk and the verbal barrage begins..."What, you expect me to do this?  I don't get it...this doesn't make any sense...I don't feel like it...this is baby work...what's the point."  As he spews forth, he looks for buy in from others.  At the beginning of the year, he gets it.  If we do our job right, by October, he doesn't.  That, however, does not stop him, he continues on to June.  It's just nice to know he sings solo, there is no choir.  The gals, who are few, possess fine tuned sarcasm and the ability to hurl entire bags of makeup across the room.  The makeup flies when asked either, (a) put the cellphone away or (b) put the makeup away.  Cellphones don't go airborne as they are needed to continually communicate and complain to others trapped in classrooms around the school.
The commonality of the Es and the Bs is the deep, deep hurt, loss and shame, knowing that their lives  are not what they should  be and believing they are powerless to do anything about it. Working with them, hope springs eternal that an idea might catch, a small taste of success may help them thirst for more and learning new skills may build confidence.  With the mentally ill or those mired in drugs,  it is to use a Jersey expression, "Like shoveling shit against the tide."

Working with mentally ill students is a unique experience.  The task is to help them organize their chaotic thoughts just long enough to get them through the assignments to the final grade in each class.  "My father is the Bishop of Canterbury and my mother's family, I think is from Jupiter.  World War I started with the assassination of Archduke Ferdinande."  Quickly, the teacher stops the conversation and says, "That one, that last sentence, write that down."
And then there are drugs, students who earned a 3.5 average one year, line up a columns of Fs the following year and to them it just doesn't matter.  No more needs to be said. Heart are broken.

I know I have more weeks to spend this summer than are so far spent.  That is a good thing.  More time to spend reading, fishing, spending time with my wonderful family, all will be well.  I just wonder about the students...