Thursday, February 03, 2005
still waiting on that raise
I have purposely avoided posting entries for the past several days, not for a lack of material or ideas, but out of respect for the memory of a dear friend.
As a kind of self-imposed moment of cyber-silence.
It has been over a week since that tragic day, and well (I hate cliches, especially when they ring true, but) as The Beatles sang, "Ob li di, Ob la da, life goes on. . . "
So, it is in the spirit of moving forward I kindly offer the following. . .
_______________
If you are not already convinced, my dear reader, even after I shared with you a more typical than not day in the life that I need a raise. . .
If by some strange stretch of the imagination, my dear reader, you are not one hundred percent positively convinced after learning something of the perils of the Good Doctor Noyz that I still need a raise. . .
Well then, grab yourself a cold one, make yourself comfy, and then read the following tale of brave teaching adventure. If when you reach the end, you are still not convinced I am in need of a serious increase in my compensation, go fuck yourself.
Otherwise, relax and enjoy. . .
[and write or call your local legislator 'cuz those bastards are here until June taking up all the best parking downtown and crowding up the strip clubs while trying to figure out how to fix public education in this state (like that's the only problem, ha!) and adequately compensate the caring professionals who dedicate their lives to improving the lives of children, Lord know the legislature has done a suck-ass job thus far]
_______________
Two weeks before the holiday break, at the beginning of December, I received a new student in my classroom. He is another young man with profound autism. He is fifteen. He is about six feet tall with the appropriate proportional weight.
He ended up in my class after his parents moved him halfway across the state to the nearest State run facility for individuals with significant cognitive disabilities combined with serious behavior issues. In the old days, it was commonly referred to as an "asylum" but we modern people refer instead to it as a "State School".
As I understand the process, it takes a judge's decision to place people at the State School. It is a form of involuntary committment.
People do not get sent there because they may have been a little disruptive in class or gotten into just a little bit of trouble.
I knew it must be something big, but received no information as to what.
With this in mind, over the course of a long distance phone call, I delicately asked his mother to tell a little bit about her son.
These are some of the things she told me:
He shattered the glass doors to a bowling alley by punching them when he got upset on a family bowling trip.
He broke her nose with a head-butt.
He threw a vacuum cleaner at her.
He breaks windows on school buses and breaks doors at home.
(call me twisted, but I think this next one is rather humorous, I would have loved to have been a witness)
He, and I quote mom directly here, "trashed a Cuisinart display at a Mervyn's."
He does not really speak, although he repeats things you say (echolalia) in a mumbling way that is rather common with individuals with profound autism.
He screams. Blood-boiling, ear-splitting, hair-curling screams. Like standing next to an old air-raid siren. He screams when he gets fruststrated or angry.
He gets frustrated or angry a lot.
That's part of the problem with autism. Frustration and anger brought about in part by your inability to effectively communicate your wants and needs and understand the requests of others and the rules of the world. That's why he's in my class. It's what we're working on.
He is self-abusive. He slaps himself in the face, not stopping even after he has made his appearance racoon-like with two black eyes.
When you intervene to stop the self-abuse, he directs it outwards and attacks: hands, head, and teeth.
He also has pica behavior. I once watched him eat a piece of standard copier paper like cotton candy, one torn strip at a time.
But wait, there's more to this pica business. Much more.
He regurgitates at will. Yes, that's correct my dear reader, he has mastered the art of vomiting on demand. He can do it just sitting there, without moving or gagging himself with his hand or anything. Teenage girls with eating disorders would just die with envy at this skill.
He vomits up his meals, one mouthful and a time (although sometimes he overestimates and it spills out down his chin onto his clothes), and then re-chews and swallows them. Lovely.
Are you getting the picture? Serious problems, serious autism.
Given that, I still can't help but be reminded of Homer Simpson.
Do you, my dear reader, remember that episode of "The Simpsons" where Homer gets hypnotized and has that childhood flashback where he remembers some traumatic event and just screams for like three straight days? I love that episode! The screaming is just so funny! Cracks me up everytime!
That was this student today. We don't know why. Never quite figured it out. All I can say is that he pretty much screamed all day long.
Imagine standing next to an air-raid siren for several hours.
Or striking a minor open chord on a Gibson SG with maximum overdrive while standing in front of a double Marshall stack cranked up to eleven. . . over and over and over again to the point where even Malcolm Young would grow bored.
It was an impressive display of vocal ability. It had the high piercing shrillness to pierce your eardrums and the growling gravely low end that you literally feel in your bones.
As I write this, almost eight hours have past since this student boarded a bus and left for the day. I swear my ears are still freakin' ringing.
And I must confess, my dear reader, after the first few hours, it began to wear me down and get to me.
Then I thought of Homer and that episode. Ha ha ha, funny stuff.
It made me laugh. It broke the tension and I was able to spend the rest of the day smiling while blocking his screaming butting head with my upper arms and chest as I attempted to hold his hands so he couldn't beat the crap out of either one of us.
Good times.
He really is a sweet kid. He's just a little messed up. A little love, a little patience, a little structure, consistency, and routine. . . we'll get there, where ever there is.
Today was not the first time he reminded me of Homer Simpson.
A couple of Fridays back, near the end of the school day, my teaching assistants and I were diligently getting the students ready to go home: changing diapers that needed changing (on two 20+ year old students), putting on coats and jackets, straps and seatbelts on a wheelchair or two, you know, regular end of the school day stuff.
My new student is sitting on a bean bag chair in the converted closet cave-like nesting space for comfort and security I made for him in the classroom. The other students are leaving, my teaching assistants are going back and forth taking them to their school buses to go home.
One or two almost broken bus windows taught us that this young man doesn't do a very good job of waiting while sitting on the bus, so he waits in my classroom until the handful of other students that ride that bus have boarded. This way he doesn't have to wait, the bus leaves as soon as he gets on it, and therefore doesn't try to break the bus windows.
And that's a good thing.
Anyway, on this Friday afternoon, barely one hour to go until beer thirty, he's sitting there, in his little cave. I am across the room with one of my teaching assistants finishing up securing one of his classmates in their wheelchair.
I look over, and first notice that he has something on his hand. He is licking it, like a little kid licks brownie batter off a mixing spoon.
Then I notice his clothes, they are streaked and splotched with a brown substance that as I previously mentioned, looks something like brownie batter, but not quite that dark, more of a caramel color, like butterscotch pudding.
I glance over at the kitchen area of the classroom. None of the cabinets are open. "Where did he get the. . . " I think. After a moment of bewilderment it suddenly clicks, "Oh holy fuck no, that's not brownie batter. . . Sweet merciful crap!"
Literally.
GAAAAGHH! He is licking his own shit off his fingers and eating it! GAAAAGH!
I take a deep breath, "this is attention seeking behavior." I tell myself, "He knows it's time to go, he doesn't like to wait, he's not getting any attention because we are helping the other students." With almost superhuman calmness I begin to walk slowly across the room towards my poo-eater. The trick is to remain calm and show no emotion.
If you react emotionally, either positively or negatively, to an attention seeking behavior you have just reinforced it and therefore increased the chance of it happening again. Not quite Skinner 101, but still basic psychology.
As I get closer, I notice that not only is he licking his own shit from his fingers and he has he wiped his own feces all over his clothes. . .
But he has also smeared his shit, his own feces, all across his face, cheek to cheek and ear to ear, like a five o'clock shadow.
He looks just like Homer Simpson.
|
As a kind of self-imposed moment of cyber-silence.
It has been over a week since that tragic day, and well (I hate cliches, especially when they ring true, but) as The Beatles sang, "Ob li di, Ob la da, life goes on. . . "
So, it is in the spirit of moving forward I kindly offer the following. . .
_______________
If you are not already convinced, my dear reader, even after I shared with you a more typical than not day in the life that I need a raise. . .
If by some strange stretch of the imagination, my dear reader, you are not one hundred percent positively convinced after learning something of the perils of the Good Doctor Noyz that I still need a raise. . .
Well then, grab yourself a cold one, make yourself comfy, and then read the following tale of brave teaching adventure. If when you reach the end, you are still not convinced I am in need of a serious increase in my compensation, go fuck yourself.
Otherwise, relax and enjoy. . .
[and write or call your local legislator 'cuz those bastards are here until June taking up all the best parking downtown and crowding up the strip clubs while trying to figure out how to fix public education in this state (like that's the only problem, ha!) and adequately compensate the caring professionals who dedicate their lives to improving the lives of children, Lord know the legislature has done a suck-ass job thus far]
_______________
Two weeks before the holiday break, at the beginning of December, I received a new student in my classroom. He is another young man with profound autism. He is fifteen. He is about six feet tall with the appropriate proportional weight.
He ended up in my class after his parents moved him halfway across the state to the nearest State run facility for individuals with significant cognitive disabilities combined with serious behavior issues. In the old days, it was commonly referred to as an "asylum" but we modern people refer instead to it as a "State School".
As I understand the process, it takes a judge's decision to place people at the State School. It is a form of involuntary committment.
People do not get sent there because they may have been a little disruptive in class or gotten into just a little bit of trouble.
I knew it must be something big, but received no information as to what.
With this in mind, over the course of a long distance phone call, I delicately asked his mother to tell a little bit about her son.
These are some of the things she told me:
He shattered the glass doors to a bowling alley by punching them when he got upset on a family bowling trip.
He broke her nose with a head-butt.
He threw a vacuum cleaner at her.
He breaks windows on school buses and breaks doors at home.
(call me twisted, but I think this next one is rather humorous, I would have loved to have been a witness)
He, and I quote mom directly here, "trashed a Cuisinart display at a Mervyn's."
He does not really speak, although he repeats things you say (echolalia) in a mumbling way that is rather common with individuals with profound autism.
He screams. Blood-boiling, ear-splitting, hair-curling screams. Like standing next to an old air-raid siren. He screams when he gets fruststrated or angry.
He gets frustrated or angry a lot.
That's part of the problem with autism. Frustration and anger brought about in part by your inability to effectively communicate your wants and needs and understand the requests of others and the rules of the world. That's why he's in my class. It's what we're working on.
He is self-abusive. He slaps himself in the face, not stopping even after he has made his appearance racoon-like with two black eyes.
When you intervene to stop the self-abuse, he directs it outwards and attacks: hands, head, and teeth.
He also has pica behavior. I once watched him eat a piece of standard copier paper like cotton candy, one torn strip at a time.
But wait, there's more to this pica business. Much more.
He regurgitates at will. Yes, that's correct my dear reader, he has mastered the art of vomiting on demand. He can do it just sitting there, without moving or gagging himself with his hand or anything. Teenage girls with eating disorders would just die with envy at this skill.
He vomits up his meals, one mouthful and a time (although sometimes he overestimates and it spills out down his chin onto his clothes), and then re-chews and swallows them. Lovely.
Are you getting the picture? Serious problems, serious autism.
Given that, I still can't help but be reminded of Homer Simpson.
Do you, my dear reader, remember that episode of "The Simpsons" where Homer gets hypnotized and has that childhood flashback where he remembers some traumatic event and just screams for like three straight days? I love that episode! The screaming is just so funny! Cracks me up everytime!
That was this student today. We don't know why. Never quite figured it out. All I can say is that he pretty much screamed all day long.
Imagine standing next to an air-raid siren for several hours.
Or striking a minor open chord on a Gibson SG with maximum overdrive while standing in front of a double Marshall stack cranked up to eleven. . . over and over and over again to the point where even Malcolm Young would grow bored.
It was an impressive display of vocal ability. It had the high piercing shrillness to pierce your eardrums and the growling gravely low end that you literally feel in your bones.
As I write this, almost eight hours have past since this student boarded a bus and left for the day. I swear my ears are still freakin' ringing.
And I must confess, my dear reader, after the first few hours, it began to wear me down and get to me.
Then I thought of Homer and that episode. Ha ha ha, funny stuff.
It made me laugh. It broke the tension and I was able to spend the rest of the day smiling while blocking his screaming butting head with my upper arms and chest as I attempted to hold his hands so he couldn't beat the crap out of either one of us.
Good times.
He really is a sweet kid. He's just a little messed up. A little love, a little patience, a little structure, consistency, and routine. . . we'll get there, where ever there is.
Today was not the first time he reminded me of Homer Simpson.
A couple of Fridays back, near the end of the school day, my teaching assistants and I were diligently getting the students ready to go home: changing diapers that needed changing (on two 20+ year old students), putting on coats and jackets, straps and seatbelts on a wheelchair or two, you know, regular end of the school day stuff.
My new student is sitting on a bean bag chair in the converted closet cave-like nesting space for comfort and security I made for him in the classroom. The other students are leaving, my teaching assistants are going back and forth taking them to their school buses to go home.
One or two almost broken bus windows taught us that this young man doesn't do a very good job of waiting while sitting on the bus, so he waits in my classroom until the handful of other students that ride that bus have boarded. This way he doesn't have to wait, the bus leaves as soon as he gets on it, and therefore doesn't try to break the bus windows.
And that's a good thing.
Anyway, on this Friday afternoon, barely one hour to go until beer thirty, he's sitting there, in his little cave. I am across the room with one of my teaching assistants finishing up securing one of his classmates in their wheelchair.
I look over, and first notice that he has something on his hand. He is licking it, like a little kid licks brownie batter off a mixing spoon.
Then I notice his clothes, they are streaked and splotched with a brown substance that as I previously mentioned, looks something like brownie batter, but not quite that dark, more of a caramel color, like butterscotch pudding.
I glance over at the kitchen area of the classroom. None of the cabinets are open. "Where did he get the. . . " I think. After a moment of bewilderment it suddenly clicks, "Oh holy fuck no, that's not brownie batter. . . Sweet merciful crap!"
Literally.
GAAAAGHH! He is licking his own shit off his fingers and eating it! GAAAAGH!
I take a deep breath, "this is attention seeking behavior." I tell myself, "He knows it's time to go, he doesn't like to wait, he's not getting any attention because we are helping the other students." With almost superhuman calmness I begin to walk slowly across the room towards my poo-eater. The trick is to remain calm and show no emotion.
If you react emotionally, either positively or negatively, to an attention seeking behavior you have just reinforced it and therefore increased the chance of it happening again. Not quite Skinner 101, but still basic psychology.
As I get closer, I notice that not only is he licking his own shit from his fingers and he has he wiped his own feces all over his clothes. . .
But he has also smeared his shit, his own feces, all across his face, cheek to cheek and ear to ear, like a five o'clock shadow.
He looks just like Homer Simpson.
|
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