Authors: Torey Hayden
F
ebruary – the 3 a.m. of the year.
At last I had what I wanted: a reasonably cohesive, unified group. The strict behavior modification program had had its desired result in terms of focusing the children’s attention on specific behaviors and decreasing all the negative acting-out stuff. I still operated the class largely by use of the traffic lights, and although I was not, by nature, someone inclined to such a rigid approach, I realized that the familiarity of the system itself had become reassuring to the boys. They knew precisely what was expected when and what the consequences would be, if they chose to disobey. For the types of problems most of them were coping with – poor attention span, hyperactivity, impulsiveness – this highly structured
routine gave them the security they needed to stay calm enough to work.
What kept this rather strict program from becoming austere was the singing. I hesitate to call it music. While Jesse and Billy clearly had musical abilities, none of the rest of us could be relied on to stay on tune or remember all the words to whatever song was struck up. Perhaps for this reason, we very often made up our own words and, on occasion, our own melody as well! And every once in a while, we’d get downright operatic, singing back and forth to one another things like “I don’t think you’re going to get your work done!” “Oh yes, I am.” “I don’t think so; recess is coming.” “Oh yes I am, I am, I am.” The pleasure singing gave us – the silly, off-the-wall spontaneity of it – kept everyone smiling.
The boys, while still volatile and prone to the most awful fights, had also begun to think of one another in small, but significant ways. Billy, in particular, had started taking a brotherly interest in Shane and Zane. He referred to them as “the little guys” and often said things to me such as, “Don’t worry, I’ll look out for the little guys,” when they were going down to recess. Or coming in from lunch one day, he told me, “They ran out of Jell-O, but that’s okay, because I went and grabbed two extra when I saw there weren’t many left, so the little guys would have some.” The “little guys” didn’t always reciprocate this thoughtfulness especially well. Neither Zane nor Shane was making a lot of progress in terms of controlling their impulsive, often
aggressive behavior. Each gain was slow and hard won for them, but Billy, and even Jesse, seemed to be reaching a point where they could accept that the “little guys” had some problems, and sometimes, as Billy put it, “you had to not take things personal.”
Billy and Jesse were also forming a friendship, but they had a harder time with each other. In part, it seemed just to be a difference in personality. Billy had a big, noisy, expansive personality. He was enthusiastic with a capital
E
. Jesse, on the other hand, was one of life’s natural Eeyores. He wasn’t a particularly shy or quiet boy. He spoke up often; he joined in. But the world always seemed a little gloomy through his eyes. As a consequence, he found it hard not only to feel Billy’s eagerness for everything, but also to put up with Billy for experiencing it. He was forever telling Billy to calm down, shut up, or stop goofing off.
There was also a certain amount of rivalry between the two of them. Shane and Zane were the “little guys” in the classroom, so this automatically cast Billy and Jesse as the “big guys.” Although Jesse had very poor academic skills – more in line with Shane’s and Zane’s than Billy’s – he saw himself in competition with Billy. He wanted to be included in anything Billy got to do. He tried very hard to keep up and keep his self-esteem intact by besting Billy – not easy in the circumstances. But the one place he shone was musically. Because of our crazy habit of singing, Jesse was thus allowed to reign in one area. He could remember words to songs best of any of the children. He
could remember tunes. Indeed, he could easily play out tunes on the tinny little xylophone, our only real classroom instrument. And when singing or playing music, Jesse’s tics seemed to fade away. So I got used to Jesse’s requests to have a song whenever he felt threatened by Billy in the classroom.
The end of the first week in February marked Gwennie’s last day with us, as her family was moving across the country to Washington, D. C. I was genuinely sorry to see Gwennie go. She was a lively little character whose quirky comments about population and land mass of foreign countries had often injected a much-needed distraction into the grim realities of keeping the boys under control. However, I did also feel a sense of relief at her going. She needed a different placement than our class. We hadn’t met Gwennie’s needs particularly well. She was ahead of all the children academically, but needed careful one-on-one work to develop her very deficient social skills, and we simply didn’t have the setup to give her this. None of the boys was patient with her, and she had never proved the companion and workmate for Venus I’d hoped. Moreover, her intolerance of Jesse’s sudden, noisy tics had often made life in the classroom extremely challenging. So I bade her good-bye on that Friday and wished her well in her new school.
Venus remained an almost invisible member of the class. None of the boys interacted with her at all. Indeed, most of the time, everyone behaved as if she were not there. Even
so, she had improved. She was more controlled now. Since she’d returned to our class from homebound, there had not been a single outburst in class like we’d had in the fall. Even on the playground she seemed to be better. We still operated our “security system” of aides to watch her, but as the weeks drew out, Venus behaved herself.
To mark this newfound stability, we had two “celebrations” in February. One was the Shoe Party, which we held on February 8. This was a Friday, and we were due to have our “party” in celebration of so many people managing to keep their traffic lights on green that week. These parties were never much. Given this group’s intolerance for unstructured situations, it seemed pointless to have a genuine party, which would degenerate into chaos all too easily. Instead, we did cooking. The “party,” consequently, consisted simply of making something nice to eat and then eating it. That, and putting on the local pop radio station while we did it. For some reason, the boys perceived this as a particularly sinful treat. “Like getting to watch cartoons at school,” as Billy put it. So our “party” wouldn’t have been very partyish by most people’s standards, but it was enough fun to be enjoyable.
On the preceding Monday, however, I told them we were doing something
special
. Instead of a Friday party, we were going to have a ceremony! After all these months I said that I finally felt we had reached the point where everyone could finally keep their shoes on
in class
. This was dependent, of course, on everyone’s managing to keep their traffic lights
on green so we could have the party. And dependent on not having one single knock-down-drag-out
all week
.
The boys took this news very seriously indeed. So seriously that Jesse, who was inclined to be the class policeman anyway, annoyed everyone else by reminding them constantly to be on their best behavior. And it was no doubt helped by the fact Billy was home sick with a cold during the middle three days of the week.
To give a celebratory feel to the day, I ordered a sheet cake from the bakery. I had them make it a very special cake with a big chipmunk design on it and the words “Happy Shoe Day” and each of the children’s names underneath the chipmunk. It arrived at lunchtime full of lots of icing flowers and fancy bits, and from then on, there was talk of nothing else.
Mindful of the chaos at Christmastime, I did everything I could think of to keep order throughout the afternoon until it was time for the party in the last half hour. Both Julie and I patrolled constantly among the tables, our hands full of yellow and red traffic disks, just as a reminder. And we made it to party time without giving out a single one.
While Julie had kept everyone occupied after recess, I’d discreetly wrapped a bit of ribbon around each pair of shoes and attached a little blue ribbon medallion that said “First Prize.” Not exactly appropriate, but it was all I could find at the teacher supply store the evening before. And it would do. I knew they’d all like getting a first prize, even if there hadn’t been a contest.
To start the ceremony, I had everyone sit in their chairs
and then I took down the box of shoes from the top of the cupboard where I usually put them. The first pair of shoes I drew out were Zane’s. I held them up, showing off the ribbon and the medallion. “Zane, may I have the honor of presenting you with your shoes?” I said as regally as I could. “And present you with this Medal of Good Conduct?”
Zane broke into a grin that spread from ear to ear.
“Go up there,” Jesse said in a stage whisper.
Billy wasn’t so discreet. “Hey, Zane, get off your butt.”
He got out of his chair and came up. I pinned the First Prize ribbon on his shirt and then gave him his shoes. I had to help him. He still couldn’t tie them himself. But once he had them on, he held his feet up, one after the other, as if no one had ever seen shoes before. Everyone clapped uproariously.
Next came Jesse’s shoes. I went through the same ceremony.
The third pair out were Venus’s. I held them up, showing off the shoes and the ribbon, just as I had with the two boys. “Venus, may I have the honor of presenting you with your shoes?” I asked.
The boys all turned to look at her.
She was watching me. I could tell she wasn’t clocked off. Indeed, when I’d first held the shoes up, I saw her start forward in a way that made me think she was actually going to rise from her seat. But then the boys looked at her.
“Just give ’em to her,” Billy said. “She won’t come up and get ’em. And I haven’t got my shoes yet.”
I came down the aisle between the tables to where Venus sat. “Shall I help you put them on?” I asked.
She lifted her feet off the floor. It was only a small movement, but she did it without urging. She lifted them enough so that I could slip her shoes on.
“And what about your Medal of Good Conduct?” I had risen back to my feet and was standing beside her table. I held the blue ribbon out.
Unexpectedly, she stood. Venus simply pushed back her chair like any other kid and stood up.
“Wow!” Billy cried, as if she had accomplished a most amazing feat.
I pinned the ribbon on her chest. “Shall we give her a round of applause for her good conduct in getting her shoes back?” I asked.
Everyone clapped wildly.
Venus stood a moment longer, then sat down again. I think there might have even been the shadow of a smile on her lips.
Our other February event was building Lincoln’s cabin.
Because this group had been so contentious and difficult, we had done virtually nothing all year outside the strict structure of the behavior modification program and each child’s individualized education plan or IEP, which was the “academic prescription” I was required by law to write up for each child, laying out his or her academic program. In other years I’d had field trips, activity days, and special
classroom projects. This year there had been nothing. But in honor of our newfound stability, I decided it was time to try something fun.
Since it was February, I landed on the idea of doing a unit on Abraham Lincoln, in commemoration of his birthday on February 22. I read the children the story of how he had been born in poverty in a log cabin near Springfield, Illinois, and how he had worked so hard to get an education, including doing his schoolwork by the light of the fire. I went on to explain how he had grown up to be president of the United States and about the Civil War and his part in emancipating the slaves.
We did several related activities. Billy wrote a report about Lincoln’s assassination. Jesse found a picture of the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D. C. Zane and Shane counted Lincoln pennies. But our “fun” project was Lincoln’s cabin.
Initially, I intended to replicate a project Pam, in the classroom next door, had tried one year. She had had her students make little Lincoln cabins out of graham crackers and icing with construction paper roofs. She’d taken pictures of them and showed them to me, so I thought that’s what we would do. But further thinking made me realize that Shane and Zane probably did not have the patience, much less the dexterity, required to assemble these and would become frustrated. Then we’d have lots of fighting and throwing of graham crackers. Next, I found a version in a teaching magazine. This one was made with
pretzels and glue. It made a cabin that looked more realistic than Pam’s version, but I realized this would take too much concentration for my group. Plus, they’d spend the whole time pigging on grungy gluey pretzels. I considered alternatives – construction paper strips glued onto paper, drawing, painting. But nothing seemed quite right for what I had in mind.
Then, when I was up in my attic looking for old teaching materials, I saw the perfect – and obvious – solution: Lincoln Logs. Similar to children’s building blocks, these were notched wooden sticks that were designed to slot together to build rustic log cabin – type structures, and indeed, had taken their name from Lincoln’s cabin. They had been a very popular toy in the 1940s and 1950s but had gone out of fashion in the following decades, as Lego and other more sophisticated building toys arrived on the scene. I had inherited a huge set of these many years earlier from a friend when she and her family had moved away. Because they were bulky, she hadn’t wanted to take them along on the move, and so she’d thought I might like them for my classroom. I’d never taken them in because too many of the notched sticks were small – just the right size to lose or pocket or slip on or throw. But now…