The Lynchpin

Every year there is one.

That child who seems to have been born to challenge you, as if she were placed on earth by a mischievous higher power for the express purpose of teaching you patience and humility. The one who makes you feel like if you haven't completely lost your mind or committed a heinous crime or quit in a given week you have been successful. If you don't figure out how to connect and compel this child you will lose countless hours of sleep and instruction on her behalf.

My first year of teaching, she was a sixth grader named Jasmine.

I was fresh out of my Masters program at Smith College, and a recent transplant to Vermont. While my training program was affordable and well-intentioned, I only spent nine months student teaching in a lab school while taking a full course load before I was deemed "qualified" to teach. The Burlington area was flooded with young, inexpensive teachers, and I could hardly get an interview not to mention a job. However, in mid-August, about two weeks before the start of school, I found Middle Elementary. A school of about 1,200 students in grades pre-k - 6th grade, the behemoth institution served the two largest trailer parks in the state. The principal hardly looked me in the eye during the interview and asked very few questions, but by the time I unlocked my car in the parking lot I had a message on my phone with a job offer. I would be teaching 6th grade, in two weeks, come hell or high water.

I was completely unprepared for the 22 12-year-olds who entered my classroom on that first day in late August. My bulletin boards were all set, name-tags created, library organized, pencils sharpened, but I think it is safe to say that there wasn't one minute of that first year that I was actually ready. My husband still likes to remind me how I cried every day.

In a way, every kid in that class was a misfit of some sort. I was the new, unknown teacher in a district that honored parent requests. The only kids in my class were the ones whose parents did not care to request a more experienced veteran. But above all the others, there was one. Jasmine.

Jasmine was a force. A chubby, tow-headed girl who, at the fragile age of 12, held enough anger in her short, taught body to power Manhattan. She came in mad and left pissed off every day. She refused to do any work, could not (or would not) read, spent much of her time destroying classroom materials, and defied my every request. She carved obscenities (always misspelled) into the bathroom stalls, and left disturbing marks on her own body. She hated me. At our nadir she screamed at me, while I spoke with her mother on the phone, "I am going to fucking kill you!" And I almost believed her.

I wish I could say I did something for that angry, hurt, terrified child, but I am sure I did nothing. She pushed every button I didn't know I had. I dug my heels in and tried to discipline her, or alternately passed her off to other, more experienced specialists. I often wonder if I had the opportunity to work with her now, would I be able to scratch the surface? Would I understand that she needed my love, my time and attention, my trust, and my devotion? Would it have made a difference? If I had cracked the code, won her over, would I have been able to look back on that year and say I had actually accomplished anything? I am not sure.

This year I have a lynchpin of a different color altogether. Diane.

Three years ago I migrated south with my family to Maryland (via six years in New Hampshire). I am currently working in a public charter school that is infused with the innovation and optimism of a small start-up. I am teaching 25 students with two full-time aides in my classroom. I have a decade of instruction under my belt. I should be able to say, "I got this."

But I so do not have this.

Diane is a model student compared to Jasmine. She is kind, enthusiastic, and earnest. She can read, write, and participates actively in most lessons. But Diane is on the autism spectrum. She has a sensory integration disorder that causes her to touch other things and people constantly throughout the day. She falls into other students in line. She talks constantly all day long. She responds with yelling, whining, crying even when nothing is wrong. She is prone to rocking and spinning, but in a way that looks voluntary and intentional to the bystander. She steps on and falls over her peers repeatedly, rarely with an acknowledgement or apology. She most often does not look me in the eye. She usually ignores our redirections. In short, she is driving adults and children nuts. This week I literally bribed one of her classmates to not yell at her. I couldn't punish him for getting mad because it was such an understandable reaction, given that she had taken his book and all of his papers and thrown them on the floor.

As has most often been the case, I have a diverse class of needy kids this year. One student is in a wheelchair for part of each day. Another student cannot see without adaptive technology. I have another student on the autism spectrum, five with diagnosed learning disabilities, two with severe ADHD, one girl who is currently homeless, and the usual array of emotionally fragile kids. They all require thought and work, but Diane is my biggest question mark. If we can't figure out how to get her to follow, the flock is lost.

We have implemented a behavior chart with incentives and consequences. She gets routine "sensory breaks" throughout the day. She is allowed to chew gum, uses a textured seat cushion, and wears noise eliminating headphones during independent work. There are stretches of the day when it seems like we have made progress, when she is focused and quiet and happy. But for much of the day we are on Diane's roller coaster. When she comes crashing down, she takes the lot of us with her.

Tomorrow I called a "Team Diana Meeting." Unlike that first year of teaching, I am not surviving on an island. I have learned that it is not my job to have all the answers. I have learned that "failing" to reach a student doesn't mean I am inept, it means it's time to get someone else's input. As long as we are working towards a solution, we are not failing.

And in the meantime, until I can figure out how to solve this central quandary in my classroom, when she is yelling or spinning or driving us mad, when I am feeling most confounded and frustrated, I take her into my arms. I breathe. And I just keep trying.

I wish I had done as much with Jasmine.