When I received Moses’* confidential file, it was remarkably
thick for a student who had only just been placed in special education at the
end of the previous school year. His IEP was innocuous enough: direct
instruction in reading and math, half-a-dozen years below grade level. “Should
be illegal,” I breathed, thinking of the sixth grader I was about to meet whose
literacy rivaled only the incoming kindergartners’.
But
then I noticed he was entering the sixth grade at thirteen—so, I read on.
Last
August, just days before I received his folder, Moses rejoined his parents
after a two-year stint in foster care. His previous school district noted that
when his foster mother enrolled him, he was eleven and entering school for the
very first time. He couldn’t read, write, or tie his shoes.
Moses
claimed to be troubled by four ghosts who lived inside him. The DHS
psychologist writing the report dutifully reported Moses' retelling of Harold,
Harold (there were two: the first was an old man when he passed, the second had
died eating a chocolate bar), Cyndi, and the nameless one. The nameless one was
trouble. The nameless one told Moses to do “bad” things. Cyndi was kind. The
report was dry and distant, and I had to stop myself several times to determine
if I were merely projecting the subtle, yet profound, disbelief I thought I
read between the lines.
Bedwetting,
lying, torturing pets, and a fascination with arson—all Moses’ favorite
pastimes; all the hallmarks of a serial killer in the making. Insomnia. Fear of
the outdoors. Reportedly drank his own urine. Hoards food. “The Prophet [‘how Moses refers to his father,’ the report noted]
said if we go outside, The King will kills us.” Moses
was born into a family of Messianic Jews, the report stated, who believed that
Moses’ father, rather than Jesus, was the Divine Savior. At the age of eleven, Moses was small
enough to wear the clothing of a typical eight-year-old boy.
PTSD
for sure, the report said. Too young to diagnose psychosis, but probably. Maybe
a mood disorder. NOS, the file concluded, indicating, “not otherwise
specified.” That's helpful, I thought.
And
one more small note, scrawled at the bottom as an after-thought: Moses and his siblings were recommended for genetic
testing, as the psychologist had the strong suspicion they were products of
incest.
The
ghosts didn’t come out on the first day—in fact, they did not make an
appearance until October. They had the unfortunate timing of arriving when
Moses and his classmates had royally pissed me off; I distinctly remember
feeling rather exasperated that I was expected to handle a psychotic meltdown
on top of the eighteen other emergencies competing for my attention. Without considering the possible
implications, I simply hissed to Moses, “pull it together or go stand in the hallway,”
which—strangely, thankfully—seemed to work, as Moses stared at me for an even
second before darting his eyes back to his paper, scribbling furiously. I do
not recommend this approach for general classroom management of the mentally
unstable.
But
on that first day, I asked Moses and his classmates to tell me what they wanted
to do when they grew up, in three to five complete sentences with describing
words. I did this to buy some time as I handled last minute furniture
arranging, schedule-changing, etc. Despite my explicit instructions to stay
seated and creatively add more sentences until I asked for the papers to be
passed in, Moses took exactly twelve seconds to scrawl (in large letters with
no regard for the lines):
GENZ
The jagged letters seemed to want to arrange a word, but I
couldn’t quite - - until it hit me.
“Guns?”
I asked, working very hard to keep my voice even.
He
blinked a nod.
“Well,”
I said, glancing around the room to determine if the other students were
listening; how I might save them if he snapped; how to make Moses feel
comfortable enough to share the details necessary that might convince the
district he belonged Somewhere Else (anywhere), “that can mean a lot of things.
What do you mean by that? How could you make that a career?”
He
took back his paper and wrote, “wor.”
“More
details,” I sing-songed, waving my hand to the instructions on the board.
“mAk
genz,” he labored, “mAkk ojowndasdna . . . “
“I’m
on a second or third grade level,” Moses asserted confidently at our first
reading tracker update in late September. He was not.
“I
make him read from the dictionary at home,” his mom said at his IEP meeting.
“We
give him books he SHOULD be able to read,” his father asserted, “some of my old
college textbooks. And he has to sit at the table and sound out the words,” he
added proudly.
I
nodded.
“He
needs to be reading all the time,” I said, pointing to his current reading
level on the page in front of us, “but it might not be a bad idea to start him
where he’s at, with books on his level, and help him build up to where we’d
like to see him performing,” I added.
“Throw
‘em in,” his dad said,
“—that’s
how you learn to swim,” his mom finished.
“I’ll
send home some books,” I tried again.
“We’ve
got books,” was the response.
“What
if,” I said, trying to shrug coolly, “he could practice his fluency by reading
to his younger brothers? Or even a plant or the wall. Easier books will be better for this, because
the exercise is more about sounding expressive than learning to read new
words.”
“Oh," his mom said; I could almost see her rolling the idea around as her mouth formed the sound.
"Maybe," his dad said simply.
This is not a hero's story. I can't report that now, nine months after I met Moses, he's ready for seventh grade. In fact, he's repeating the year. A fourteen-year-old sixth grader.
But he can read, write, and tie his shoes. In fact: he reads on a third grade level, now. He can add, subtract, multiply and divide through three digit numbers. He can stay on a line to write complex sentences.
This isn't my doing -- Moses' brain wants to learn. In fact, I think he's secretly brilliant: trying to grade his math papers proves next to impossible. His work goes sideways, I can't follow his steps, and sometimes random shapes appear instead of numbers . . . but somehow, Moses is almost always right. Asking him to explain his work is also useless; he'll just shrug and point, "I got the answer. It's right here!"
No; I didn't do much for Moses this year. The amazing academic gains he made are all his own -- and his family's.
This is a story about how I got over myself.
Meeting Moses' parents for the first time nearly made me nauseated. After what I had read, I was convinced I would soon be standing in the presence of true criminals.
Moses' father always wears the same stained yellow button down shirt; his long grey hair tucked under a dusty blue baseball cap. His mother, a woman four inches shorter than me who weighs around 90 pounds, usually wears painter's pants and a men's extra large sweatshirt. They smell like smoke and each have a tendency to repeat themselves. I quickly found I preferred talking to his mother, who at least appeared to be listening to me. Moses' father always seems distracted by the thoughts of what he's going to say next.
Amazingly, our first meeting was productive. I felt the sharp defensive wall I built before our meeting soften a little, though I was mad at myself for beginning to trust child abusers. His dad had an explanation--a long, winding story about a mix-up between their family and the police who were actually looking for a federal offender with a very similar name; only his middle initial was J instead of B and it took two years to sort the mess out. I didn't believe it.
But I believed that when they said Moses and his siblings would be reading for an hour each night, and homework came before television, I believed that.
And I believed, as the year progressed, that any time I needed some backbone, I could call home and something would get done. Usually, both Moses' mother and father would stop what they were doing--even if Moses' father was at work--and come up to the school. They'd have a long conference with the offending child before conferencing on consequence suggestions from teachers.
To this day, despite an extremely successful year and their insistence that we form an alliance (accomplished nearly entirely by their own effort, as I was too queasy to meet them halfway), I question their judgment, but they're questioning they're own. Family therapy, individual therapy, after-school tutoring, community parenting classes, books from the local library, and sessions with our school's guidance counselor are all regular aspects of their weekly routine. No matter what the occasion, if I see Moses' mother or father at school--even if they've come to handle an issue with another of their children--they ask to see Moses' reading tracker and tell me about the books he's reading at home. They call for homework help. They agreed to my recommendation he be retained. They check his locker and always sign and return notes home.
They don't fit my archetype of what Good Parents look like. They've challenged my political correctness. They've persevered to form a relationship with me despite what I'm certain was initially my bitchiest self, all for the sake of getting Moses back on track.
Moses is, thankfully, going to be just fine.
