You're A Mess

            “You need to brush your teeth Mrs. Jones.  They’re all yellow!”

            My mouth dropped open and I stared at Naomi, astonished at her rudeness.  Then I remembered that my teeth had just been insulted, and I pulled my lips back together.  My dentist had bawled me out at my last visit for brushing too hard.  I also knew the school nurse had just sent Naomi’s parents a notice letting them know that she had several cavities that needed filling.  Teeth were heavy on her mind.

            Kids have a way of shaking your confidence.  You’re three or four times their age, and compared to them you know everything.  They know nothing.  But still they comment without apology on what they see, hear, or think, leaving you feeling like an idiot.

            My day of scrutiny wasn’t over.  During 7^th period I got to hear from Naomi again.

            “Why do you have so much skin on your arms?”

            I’m wearing short sleeve tops with sweaters these days.  My classroom is on the west side of the building, and in the afternoon when it gets hot, the sweater comes off. 

            “I guess because I’m fat,” I smiled.

            “No, you’re not,” Naomi countered.  “But your arms have too much skin.”

            I stared back at Naomi.  Are you just trying to get out of work?

            “If you don’t finish your math this period, you’ll be taking it home for homework,” I reminded her.  I spent ten more minute going over how to recognize “some, some more, and how many all together” word problems.  As I talked, Naomi studied my face, her head tilted to one side. 

            “Do you have any questions,” I asked.

            “You should go brush your hair,” she said.  “It’s all messed up.” 

                       

            This was getting ridiculous.  Naomi sat looking at me with her brown, course hair flying all over the place.  She’d made an attempt to pull it back with some clips, but they had given out before noon.

            “Naomi, you really need to get working on your math.”

            Naomi studied me a few seconds longer.

            What now?  My clothes?

            Finally she bent her head down and started working. I pulled my sweater back on, nonchalantly got up from the table and strolled across the room to check on another student working at the computer.  When no one was looking, I opened the supply closet and looked at my hair in the mirror on the inside of the door.

            I studied my reflection.  My hair looked fine.  Hey, my hair looked great.  But maybe I’ll ask the dentist about whitening my teeth at the next checkup.         

           

Hanukkah Tears

            “Look at my eyes,” Naomi demanded.

           

            I typed two more sentences on my email, clicked “send,” then turned and looked at Naomi.  She had just marched into my room and was standing at attention next to my desk.  Her face was flushed and her eyes were bloodshot. 

           

            “You’re eyes are red, Naomi.  Have you been crying?”

           

            “Yes,” she sniffed.  “I cried when the counselor was talking.”

           

            “Why were you crying?”

           

            “I don’t know.  I just cried.”

           

            Naomi had just come back from a presentation by the school counselor on “friendships.”  She can dissolve into a fit of giggles during a grammar lesson, so I have no problem believing she can sit in a meeting on friendships and cry and not know why. 

           

            “Let’s sit down and see if we can figure out why you were crying,” I said.

           

            Naomi sat down next to me.  She furrowed her brow preparing to think. 

           

            “What was the counselor talking about?” I asked.

           

            “People tell rumors about me.”

           

            “What do people say when they talk about you?”

           

            “I don’t know.  They’re just mean.  And I cried.”

           

            Naomi is continually trying to connect with other girls but she is usually unsuccessful.  She seems to have no idea how to act around other students.  She tends to get her face much too close to people, and she can slip into snorting laughter when she’s trying to join into others’ conversations.  She seems to forget all the coaching tips and planned scripts we give her.  I knew I couldn't solve the problem today. 

                       

            “I’m sorry you were sad,” I told her.  “You’re going to have fun tonight though.” Tonight is the first night of Hanukkah. 

           

            Naomi immediately switched moods and began running through a litany of all the things she’s going to do in the coming days.  Her family is having company, and there are several special meals planned.  She didn’t stay diverted for long, though. 

           

            “Why do I laugh and cry so much?” she asked.

           

            Naomi really is having huge mood swings, and I suspect a lot of it has to do with puberty. 

           

            “Well, you’re growing up, and you have lots of new things happening to you.” 

           

            The whole notion of growing up and change is a mystery for Naomi, and she has a lot of questions, but she eventually calmed down and was ready to work.  I asked her to get her math book and we started the next lesson.

           

            As she flipped to page 384, I heard her quietly mutter, “I can’t believe I cried on Hanukkah.”

We Are The World

             

 “Come sit down Naomi.”  I motioned to the empty chair at the table.  “We have a new student.”

Safia was sitting at the table with me when Naomi walked into the room.  Naomi looked around a minute as though she might have walked into the wrong room then slowly walked to the table and sat down.

“Naomi, this is Safia.  She’s new to our school this year and she’s going to be in Study Skills with you.”   I motioned to Naomi, “Safia, this is Naomi.”

Safia was tall, slender, and had luxurious black wavy hair.  She was beautiful.  She was also very scared and very shy.  She looked at Naomi and smiled sweetly.  Naomi stared at Safia and said nothing.

“Naomi, can you say hello to Safia?”

“Where did you move here from?” Naomi demanded.

Safia’s eyes darted to me.  She wasn’t quite ready to speak.

“Safia didn’t move here from anywhere else,” I explained.  “She has lived here all her life.  She just transferred here from another school.”

Naomi was used to transfers.  “Which school did you go to?” she asked.

I turned to Safia and smiled.  “Go ahead Safia.  Tell Naomi the name of your school.”

“I went to the Islamic school,” Safia whispered.

Naomi puzzled over this.  I wasn’t sure if she’d even heard Safia, so I said, “She went to the Islamic school for the last four years.  Now she’s going to be in our school.”

Naomi’s eyes stopped focusing on Safia and I could tell she was thinking about this.  Finally she asked, “Are you Catholic?”

  Safia’s face looked stricken.  She didn’t know what to say.  She looked at me pleadingly.    Naomi doesn’t know what Islamic means.  “Naomi,” I explained, “Safia is Muslim.  The Islamic school is a Muslim school.”  I wondered if Naomi had ever heard the word “Muslim.”  “That’s Safia’s religion.”

Sarah continued to stare at Safia.  Then she said, “I’m Jewish.”

It was Safia’s turn to look puzzled.  I turned to Safia and said, “Naomi is Jewish.  That’s her religion.  Your religion is Muslim and Naomi is Jewish.”

This seemed to satisfy both girls because they both smiled at each other.

“Hello Safia,” whispered Naomi.

“Hello Naomi,” whispered Safia.

“Let’s work on some math problems,” I said, passing out small whiteboards, markers, and erasers.  If only world peace could be achieved this easily, I thought.

I wrote the first problem on my whiteboard and showed it to the girls, but Naomi was already busy working on her whiteboard.  Her head was bent down, tilted to the side, and she was biting the tip of her tongue as she carefully drew a Star of David.

Transition Goals

           

            “So, Naomi,” I began, “What would you like to do after graduation?”

           

            “What do you mean?” she asked.

            “When you graduate from high school – what would you like to do when you don’t go to school anymore?”

            Apparently Naomi had never been confronted with a future that didn’t involve going to school.  “What do you mean?” she asked again, “When I don’t have to go to school anymore?”

            “When you finish high school,” I explained, “You don’t go to school anymore unless you choose to.”

            Naomi’s eyes got wide.  “I don’t have to go to school?”

            Did she really not know that there was a time in life when school ended?  “Naomi, you don’t have to go to school after you finish high school unless you decide to go to college,” I explained.

            She was still processing the fact that a day was coming when she didn’t have to go to school anymore.   Her face was lighting up.  “I won’t have to go to school any more if I don’t want to?”  She began dancing around the room.  “I don’t have to go to school anymore.”  She ran over to another student on the other side of the room who had stopped working and was watching the dance.  “I won’t have to go to school anymore.  I’m not going to school anymore.”

            When students turn 13 years old, all IEP’s must include vision statements related to what a student will be doing after they graduate from high school. Naomi had started school late and been retained one year, so the conversation with her was beginning in sixth grade.  My standard approach was to interview a student before the IEP and get their ideas.  I thought this would be a good approach with Naomi, but I was having second thoughts.

            I sat and watched Naomi prancing around and giggling.  It was impossible to rein her in when she got this excited.  After a few more minutes I called Naomi over. I really needed to get this interview finished.  She finally came over and sat in the chair next to me, smiling, breathing heavily, and bouncing up and down.  I probably should approach this differently if I was ever going to get some information from her.  “Ok Naomi,” I began, “What would you like to do after school?  What kind of job would you like to do?”

 

            There was a perceptible shift in the light.  "Job" had a deflating effect on Naomi.  I began again.  “You know – a job – like your parents have jobs.  What kind of job would you like to do some day?”

            I struck gold.  “A vet,” she declared.  “I want to be a vet and take care of dogs.”

            “You like working with animals?”

            “Yes.  I’m going to be a vet.”  We were making progress now.

            “Naomi, if you want to work in a vet’s office, you might need to go to school some more after high school.”  I thought we might as well start talking about vocational schools.

            “Are you going to pay for it?” Naomi asked.

            Wherever this was coming from, I was going to nip it in the bud.  “No, I’m not going to pay for you to go to school,” I informed her.

            “Then I’m not going,” she declared.  

            “What if you really want to work in a vet’s office and you need to go to some school to learn how to help,” I questioned.

            “Only if you pay,” she again declared.

            I had Naomi’s information on possible career interest and possible future schooling, so I moved on to living arrangements.  “Where would you like to live after high school when you’re working for the vet?” I asked.

            “I’m living in Hawaii.”

            Hawaii? I thought.  Where did this come from?  “Is your family moving to Hawaii?” I asked. 

“I don’t know,” Naomi answered.  “I’m going to Hawaii when I get out of here.”

            “OK.  So you want to live on your own?” I summarized.

            “In Hawaii.”

            So I learned that Naomi wanted to be a vet, living in Hawaii, after she went to school that I paid for.

In The Middle

            Naomi is absolutely brilliant at figuring out ways to get out of schoolwork.  It is fascinating to listen to the new and very novel excuses she comes up with.  Wednesday before Fall break she was on full tilt with her latest tactics.

            Naomi began the day by visiting with me before school started to explain why she didn’t have her assignment ready for Science class.

            “I didn’t do the plant worksheet last night because I didn’t have my paper when I got home,” Naomi announced.

            “Did you leave the worksheet in your locker?”

            “I don’t know.  I guess.”

            “Why didn’t you go on the teacher’s web page and print it off again?” I asked.

            “My mom said I couldn’t play on the computer anymore, and I had to do my homework.”

            “But Naomi,” I countered, “Did you tell your mother you needed to print off a worksheet for school?”

            “No.  She wouldn’t have let me even if I asked.”

           

“Now Naomi, I don’t believe that.  You should have told your mom that you needed to print off a worksheet for school.  Or you should have asked your mom to print it off for you.”

            “Oh, she wouldn’t have done that for me,” Naomi immediately countered. 

            “Why do you think your mom wouldn’t print off some schoolwork for you?”

            “Because I’m a middle child,” Naomi answered sadly.  “Middle children get ignored, and I’m a middle child.”

            This is new, I thought.  And so cleaver.

            “Naomi,” I explained, “Your teacher is not going to accept that as an excuse.  You’re going to have to do that worksheet in study skills class today, and it will be late when you hand it in.”

            “All right,” Naomi conceded, “But it’s not my fault that I’m a middle child.”

            I thought I had had my Naomi-getting-out-of-work contact for the day, but she was still on a roll when she came to Math Class.  As I was passing out the day’s warm-ups, Naomi made an announcement.

            “I feel really bad for my Uncle Joe.”

            A few heads turned to look at Naomi, which pleased her.

            “Why do you feel sorry for him?” I asked.

            “He’s getting his middle finger cut off.”

            Everyone was watching Naomi now.

            “He’s getting his finger cut off,” I exclaimed, “Why?”

            “He hurt it a couple weeks ago, and now it’s infected.  So he has to get it cut off.”

            All chattering had ceased, and the room was totally silent.  The spotlight was on her, and Naomi reveled in her new prominence.

            “That’s terrible,” I said.  “He must be really sad about that.”

            “Well, I think he should just get his whole hand cut off,” Naomi declared.

            “Why would he do that?”

            “Well, if he’s going to get his middle finger cut off, he might as well just have his whole hand cut off.”

            “Naomi.  That’s ridiculous,” I scolded.  “He needs his hand.  He can do a lot of things with his hand even if he doesn’t have his middle finger.”

            “No he can’t,” Naomi countered.  “He might as well get his whole hand cut off.”

            “I know something he couldn’t do without his middle finger,” Roberto yelled excitedly.

            Roberto’s announcement shifted Naomi’s dramatic story to a classic middle school comedy.  Two boys started laughing, and the rest of the girls began to smile.

            “What couldn’t he do?” Naomi demanded.

            Even the girls began snickering.

            “Naomi, they’re talking about a very bad gesture you should never do,” I offered.

            “What’s a gesture?” Naomi was truly puzzled.

            Oh good grief!  The wheels had totally fallen off the wagon now.

            “A gesture is something you do with your hand or arm,” I explained.  “If I wave at you when I see you coming to school, that’s a friendly gesture.”  I was waving at Naomi hoping this would divert her thought process.  But no luck.

            “What do you do with your middle finger?”

            Everyone was laughing now.  They all waited for my lesson on the obscene gesture.  And I was not going there.

            “Naomi, it’s something none of your parents want you to do.”

            Just then I had my “Ah Ha” moment.  I figured out how to get rid of the problem – toss it to someone else!  Naomi had brought this whole subject up because she shared some family business. Family business should be handled by her family.

            You’re a chicken, I scolded myself.  Yes, I am, I answered.

            “Naomi, your parents – really none of your parents – would want us talking about this in class.  If you want to know about what Roberto said, you need to ask your mom or dad.  And Roberto, you are not to talk about that kind of stuff in class ever again.  It’s inappropriate.”

            “Inappropriate” is the classic teacher catch-all word.  It covers everything from “I don’t feel like talking about this now” to “I’m so angry I could break something.”

            I had delivered my last words slowly and firmly, and my go-to “inappropriate”  had shut down the conversation – almost.

            “I can’t ask my parents,” Naomi sadly moaned.  “They won’t tell me.”

            “Naomi, I think if you explain to them what you told us in class and what you heard, they’ll tell you what you need to know to understand what was said,” and hopefully don’t call the school complaining about me, I thought.

            “No they won’t,” Naomi wailed again. “They won’t tell me anything.  I’m a middle child.”