Friday, March 6, 2009

Casualties of War

Picture this: you're a lifeguard. Your job is to save and protect anyone from being harmed within a designated perimeter dealing with aqueous substances, most likely water (even though pools might technically be called "Chemical Concoction Holes"). On your daily routine, you're sitting in your high chair, sunglasses in place, bathing suit on, nose caked in sunscreen. Your eyes are buried within your binoculars.

All of a sudden you see someone drowning. You drop the binoculars, pick up your floaty thing, jump down from your throne. You run toward the water, ready to do anything to help this poor individual, when someone in a business suit steps in your way. They look completely out of place amidst the sea of swim wear abound in the current abode, and they stop you by grabbing your hand.

"Let him drown," they say.

You look at them in shock. "What?!"

"Let him drown."

You look closer. It's a young child. Three years old. A little three year old boy. He apparently slipped too far into the deep end and is now gulping liquid instead of air.

"But he can't swim. He's drowning!" you scream.

The figure points over to an individual standing next to him. It looks like a young adult woman.

"That is his mother. She'll save him if she wants to," the figure says.

"But, he's been struggling for at least a minute, he'll almost surely drown if this goes any longer! What's she waiting for!!"

"It's not your concern. If you save him or say anything in protest to her, she might put in a petition for you to lose your job."

At that, you realize that you can't really do much else except stand there and gawk . . .

---------------

Put that into the context of my classroom. A little boy can hardly speak. He's three. He tries desperately to communicate. He'll mimic what you say. "Don't push!" you tell him. He'll nod and repeat you, yet he'll probably push someone later in the afternoon anyway.

You ask him "Did you throw away your banana?" He'll say "Yesh." You ask him "Did you NOT throw away the banana?" He'll say "Yesh."

You tell him to spin in a circle. He'll look at you blankly.

I'm convinced this kid doesn't understand me at all save for dog commands. "NO!" "YES!" If more than one person is up in the reading loft he'll yell up "You haven been shown!" because when kids usually do something wrong in the classroom it's usually them taking out a work they haven't been shown. He doesn't say "Only one!" or something like that. He says one sentence. It is the overarching categorical explanation for classroom wrongdoing. You can tell he's trying to say something, but he doesn't know how to say it.

This kid's going to turn four this summer. He should be fucking talking. End of story.

We convinced his mom to take him to a speech therapist, a tutor, every Friday afternoon. I think he went once, maybe twice. He's been at our school every Friday afternoon otherwise. But we still thought he'd find progress with one on one help.

This afternoon his mom picked him up. I mentioned to her that his letter sounds were coming along splendidly. He said the entire alphabet yesterday, and the sounds that all of the letters produce. Next up is reading three letter words.

She says "Great! Yeah, he's starting to talk more at home, we're thinking about not going to the tutor anymore."

I stop. "Well, his reading is on par. He can make sounds when a letter is in front of him. His speaking is behind, though."

One of the rules in child care is you never state the faults a child might have with their parent. I broke the main rule of parent/teacher etiquette because I felt a vice grip slip on the chance of this kid actually being able to communicate. I grew sour.

"At home it's different, though." I can bet the entire amount I have in my checking account that that's bullshit. She has high hopes for her child, and any sort of speaking is normal for her. Including mimicry. He repeats things you say. He doesn't get the meaning. He mimics sounds pertaining to a small number of situations, such as the aforementioned "Haven been shown" and also "Peah, cajuh ge ma lonch ba, peeeeeeese?" Translated: "Can you get my lunch bag, please?" He says this at lunch time. Any other time he asks for help he just thrusts something in my face with a look of frustration and want. He wants to say something, but doesn't know how.

I say "Use your words." He says "Peah . . . hep, peeeeeeeeeese." I ask "Help you with what?" He'll look at me. I ask "With what?" I start pointing, which produces shakes of the head or nods. Body language.

This kid is in toddler land when it comes to language. I'm talking a year and three months old level. He can't speak. His mom wants to think he's normal. He's behind. His dad is bilingual and kind of quiet. His mom answers questions for him "You want to go outside, right?"

He needs a tutor, hands down. ANY fucking parent/teacher could tell you that. But parents see what they want to see. And some long haired twenty-something teacher won't tell her any different, unless I felt the need to breach the fine line of etiquette.

The kid's drowning in a sea of need, and the parents are the main helpers in this realm, not Montessori teachers. I maybe give one child about ten minutes of one on one interaction a day, if that. I have twenty other kids to deal with in a small amount of time.

They don't see his need. And I want to slap them in the face with a doozie of examples. Ask him questions without answers. Give him simple directions. He's not stubborn, he's not choosing not to talk. He wants to understand, this isn't a constant temperamental tantrum.

This is blind parenting. And I'm forced to sit back and watch him pass another one of his language sensitive periods without saying anything.

He's going to have a rough life. And it will be his parents' fault. Not his.

That last sentiment kills me . . .

Patch -- "LCD"

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