canceled forever

Remember when Linda Blair’s character barfs all over the place in The Exorcist? It was an act of malice and rebellion by Satan (or maybe some other demon). The vomiting wasn’t because little Regan was sick; the demon was looking for a reaction, looking to terrify everyone present (I guess). The only way to respond in a way that will allow you to retain any control over the situation is to act like it has no effect on you. After all, if he just wants to freak you out, the only thing to do is to not be freaked out. You can’t hurt it, all you can do is try to get it out.

I’m not comparing my students to little girls possessed by thousand-year-old evil priest-killing spirits, first of all. I was driving home from work the other day, thinking about some of the behaviors I’ve had to deal with. (Special Ed Lingo Note: “Behavior” is a general term [at least in my organization] for specific undesirable behavior. A student’s character doesn’t go into this designation, but screaming when he or she doesn’t get french fries does.) I’ve seen kids do the normal stuff like hit and bite, but I’ve also seen one intentionally piss himself and strip naked. I’ve heard stories of kids throwing actual poop at actual teachers, actually. And used tampons. And heavy crates. Computer monitors. There was a period of time where at least once a week (more like once every other day) I’d have to get a kid to stop masturbating in the bathroom. (Not that the act itself is forbidden, but come on, I want to finish this math lesson. Pull your pud at home. [I've seen a decent number of boners in this line of work.]) Every special education teacher has horror stories like this.

As I was thinking about this stuff, I was amazed at how quickly I got used to things like that. For that matter, it’s amazing how quickly anyone can get used to it. It became nothing to me to lift a seventeen-year-old out of his wheelchair and change his diaper while making conversation with him about Pat Sajak, or to him, “Uncle Pat”. To me and the people I work with, someone hitting you in the back as hard as they can, repeatedly, for kicks, is not only normal, but expected. (But still fucking annoying.)

To date, I still don’t have the best reaction to the more extreme behaviors. In my worst moments I find myself asking why they would do this to me. To ME! I’ve spent eight hours a day with them for months for little pay! The ingratitude! The answer is obvious. My students do not have the means to express themselves, and their genetic affliction halted their mental maturation at a very early stage. Of course Michelle will scream and beg when things aren’t going well–it’s a time-tested method of getting attention, no matter what kind. From her perspective, there is no other recourse. The frustration wells up and there’s no other obvious choice except to scream. The entirety of my work is hinged on teaching these students communication methods that work better than the ones they know, and proving that they work by responding positively. This knowledge doesn’t make her behavior less infuriating, but it does put it into a framework that allows her teachers to more appropriately address her needs.

(I’m now going to take a moment to tell a story about the most disgusting thing I’ve ever had to do. A particular student was taking a poo. His name was Jack. We had to escort Jack to the bathroom to make sure he didn’t spend too long doing unsavory things, and to make sure he cleaned up. There’s an element to Autism that somehow seems to cut across the Spectrum to blow away any regard for personal hygiene. This isn’t true with every student with Autism, but many of the ones I’ve worked with exhibit this wonderful contempt for basic cleanliness. Ever done some paperwork you hated and cut some corners to finish early? Well, wiping his ass is something he hated, apparently, and cut corners by taking precisely one square of toilet paper. I was about to suggest that he try again, but then I realized the problem was much more dire. I can’t remember exactly what I thought, except that alarms were going off and I needed to deal with this situation immediately. There was actual shit all over his fingers. I recalled in that instant what a terrible hand-washer he is. He’ll squirt soap into his hand and wash it off of that hand. Only one hand will get wet in this exchange, and the only part that will get clean is the palm where the soap landed.

“Jack, go wash your hands.”

I knew what was going to happen. I knew! But I wanted to postpone this nightmarish scenario.

It happened. A bit of soap, a bit of water, all done! I briefly considered letting him return to class and act like I hadn’t noticed, but I couldn’t face being viewed as a total incompetent. I couldn’t ignore the problem.

“Jack, try again. No, wait, more soap. More soap! Now rub your hands together!”

Nope! He was done, and eager to get out of this boring room with this boring teacher who seemed to be having a boring fit about something boring.  I had one option left. I covered my hands in soap, grabbed his hands, and rubbed like I wanted to dissolve our skin. I have a pretty strong stomach, but I couldn’t do it too long before starting to gag. Eventually it was finished, and I washed my hands again like I was prepping for surgery. In retrospect, I could have gone back to the classroom to get some latex gloves, but I couldn’t have left him alone without some consequences. I could have probably worked something out, but all I could think about was getting the SHIT off his HANDS. Fun fact: he’s done much more disgusting things, but I haven’t been present for them.

Finally, for those of you thinking “oh who cares, I had crap all over my hands back when I had a baby” I say–no no no. Try to think of the grossest person you’ve ever known. Maybe the stinky kid in middle school that was late catching the train to Deodorantville, maybe that coworker who exhibits the Platonic ideal of obliviousness. Now imagine that person’s feces on your body. QED. Honestly, he was a fun student to work with and I miss him, but he was an aggressive candidate for the grossest kid ever.)

Honestly, I’m still not as good at this job as I want to be. I wish I could be more patient. There are still days where I’m baffled and aggravated to an extent that makes less sense than the students’ behaviors themselves. Just writing this is a good reminder that they’re in this class for a reason, and I can’t just assume they’ll be as good as they are in their best moments. But this is the core of what I do. The quality of my work depends on how I respond to behavior that needs correction. Academics are secondary. (What good will multiplication do some student when he can’t be in a grocery store without eating the stock? Often, academics are actually cloaked lessons in patience, focus, and listening skills.) In short, it makes for a strange day, and while I’m used to it, it doesn’t make it any less strange to reflect on. But the elements that make working in special ed so unusual are the absolute center of it.