Several years ago a kindergartner at my school had what I’m used to calling a tantrum, although it was far more serious than any tantrum I had ever witnessed. The little boy ransacked his classroom, overturning tables, tearing his classmates’ artwork off the bulletin boards, throwing wooden blocks and baskets of crayons.
One of his teachers called the principal’s office, and a couple of administrators hurried to the room and managed to “escort” the boy out —each holding an arm and letting his legs drag behind.
He was a child we knew well. Usually gentle and sweet, the child could disappear in an instant, to be replaced by a nonverbal and destructive dervish. I did not detect anger in him during those episodes, more like anguish.
That particular day he was unmanageable, and no one was successful at calming him. Someone telephoned home to speak to his mother, and it was determined that the school should call 911.
I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times the school has had to resort to such an extreme measure (excluding health situations). The ultimate indicator for seeking professional support is when a child is at risk of getting hurt.
School staff are trained in restraining children—holding them firmly and close, like a backward hug—but the position cannot be sustained indefinitely. A child’s head can flail back into the adult’s nose; his legs can kick. There is a full-body form of restraint that looks like a wrestling move, but only a pro would attempt that.
When EMS workers arrive at a school to find a group of adults flummoxed by a six-year-old, a certain look crosses their faces. It happened that day, and all I can say is that the staff felt both humiliated and relieved.
With the arrival of the EMS workers and their equipment, the child grew quiet and interested and even smiled. I couldn’t help wishing that they had arrived 10 minutes earlier to see his full force.
After speaking to staff and the boy’s mother, the EMS made the decision to transport him to a hospital where a psychiatric exam would be conducted.
That is one face of a special ed kid, albeit an extreme one. Some children just take a little bit longer than the average to learn to speak, read, and write effectively. Sometimes those delays result in behavioral issues.
When a parent senses that a toddler is not progressing at the usual rate and finds the way to an evaluation for early intervention services—speech, occupational therapy, sensory gyms, or play therapy—those kids arrive at kindergarten ahead of the game.
Others come to school and cannot adjust to the demands of a long and busy day with many transitions and an emphasis on independence. The signs are different for every child. Some can’t sit still or focus; some become aggressive; and some just shut down.
I’ve heard of parents who were advised by nursery school teachers and doctors not to worry about their child’s delays, speech or behavior. Or they had seen signs but expected that their children would eventually catch up to the others.
There are parents who are actually relieved when they meet with school personnel after their child has been evaluated and learn that he or she qualifies for special ed services. Often they had suspected for a while that something was off with their son or daughter.
Others, when it is suggested that they should request a special education evaluation of their child, refuse, fearing that a special ed label might be a stigma. In a fairly short amount of time, the kindergartner I described earlier had been re-evaluated and his special education classification changed from “speech and language delayed” to “emotionally disturbed.” After two years in our inclusion kindergarten class, he was transferred to a non-public school, where both his emotional and educational needs would be met.
I recently heard that he is doing well —learning and making friends. I was happy to hear that his life, and his mother’s, are easier. For me, she was a model parent—she knew her child, trusted the school, and accepted what is often difficult to accept. She wasn’t afraid of the label; she just wanted what was best for her boy.
Connie Schraft is P.S. 89’s parent coordinator. For questions and comments, write to her at connie@tribecatrib.com.