My son isn't very good about hiding his emotions. I can take one look at his face, and depending on the severity of the burrow of his brow and the angle at which the corners of his mouth are pointed upward or downward, I can usually tell what kind of day he's had.
Yesterday afternoon, I was sitting outside on my front porch and just like any normal weekday afternoon, I saw Ben turning the corner to our street, his hi-top clad feet quickly pedaling his trusty ole Schwinn home from school. He stopped short of his normal drop off place, a small rectangular cement block to the side of our yard, the place where he normally parks his bike when not in use. Instead, today, he made it to edge of our lawn, nearly jumped off his bike, letting it fall in a heap to the ground. As he approached the porch, I began studying his face, looking for an indication of what was obviously wrong.
"How was school?" I asked in my perfunctory, matter of fact mom tone.
No response.
By this time, Ben had made his way past me, opening up the front door to our home and slamming it hard behind him. I took a moment before I followed him inside. There have been many afternoons such as this, moments in which I dread having to search my overwhelmed and ill prepared wee mom brain for some comforting words of wisdom to share that not only comfort him, but at the very least, don't make him feel worse than he already does. The wisdom I need so desperately, never seems to come to me when I want it to, so instead of saying something profound, I simply ask him what is wrong?
By this point, he has thrown his backpack on the floor, and has made his way halfway up the stairs towards his room. As he violently slams his bedroom door shut, I hear him scream, "I hate my life. I hate my school. . . ." and then BAM, the door is shut. His muffled screaming now audibly turns into crying echos reverberating down the stairs.
Now I am truly at a loss. Shall I go to him in his room or shall I give him some space and let him come to me when he is ready to tell me what the matter is? As a parent, I'm never 100% certain on how to proceed with these sorts if things, but I determine that it was best to speak to him immediately.
I gently knock on his bedroom door and ask him if I can come in. No response. I knock again- this time, I am ordered to "go away" but I persist. I have come to understand through experience that Ben needs a whole lot of coaxing before he will let you into his pain. I then decide to enter his room, fully expecting to be shut down, but instead I find him sprawled out on his stomach on the top bunk of his bed, head buried in to his pillow, hands formed into fists, pounding on his pillow, repeatedly. I climb the ladder and lay next him, my right arm propping up my head, my left caressing his hair, rubbing his back lovingly, knowingly.
"This must be bad", I think to myself, my own heart crumbling into a million pieces, my eyes frantically blinking to keep my own tears at bay- flashbacks of my own tormented childhood ensue.
We stayed in this position for quite awhile until the crying subsided a bit and the tightness of his fists loosened up. He finally raised his head revealing his tear stricken face and running nose that he then wiped off with the sleeve of his shirt. His eyes focused intently on his pillow. Even though he wouldn't look at me, I knew he was about to open up and so I continued to stay silent, waiting for him to begin.
He then recalled the days events to me and what it came down to in its most basic form, is a case of being teased and bullied. Even more troubling to me, was Ben's description of how his own teacher precipitated and set him up for what later happened to him after school let out.
The details of why he was being teased are not important. It doesn't matter. Kids will always find something to pick on other kids about. Very few kids escape this kind of horror completely and some, more than others, are effected and haunted by it for a very long time. I fear that Ben may be in the latter category as he has had to endure being a target in one way or another since he entered into the public school system four years ago.
In Ben's case, there are tangible reasons which contribute to his vulnerability. Simple things he could change that would, in all likelihood alleviate some, if not all of the factors that make him a target, but in order to do so, he would be giving up a part of what makes him who he is; his individuality, his way of self expression and changing who he is, is not an acceptable solution to either of us. We talk about this at length. I am proud of my son and the things that are important to him are just as important to me. This however, does not solve the problem.
After we had finished talking it out and Ben made the transformation back into the happy go lucky fourth grader he is, fixing himself an afternoon snack and retiring to our cul de sac to play with the neighborhood kids, I sat and pondered what I needed to do in order to support my child and address the problem. The heaviness of this task weighing on my shoulders, invading my stomach and causing upset that I could not shake. I phoned my husband and talked it over with him. I felt better. I then phoned Ben's father and felt even better, felt stronger and focused enough to call the school to speak with the principal. I dread confrontations in all forms, but the thought of waging war with the school, was definitely not on my list of things I'd like to do.
I sat down at the kitchen table and collected my thoughts. I have a tendency to ramble when I am under stress. To ensure that I got all my points out, I devised a list of all the issues that had culminated since the beginning of the school year, some I have previously called about; all have continued to go unresolved. I dialed the school, heart pounding. . . .
School: "Terra Vista Elementary, Can I help you?"
Me: "Uh, yes- can I please speak with the principal or leave her a message to call me back?"
School: "What is this in regards to?"
Me: "This is in regards to an incident that occurred today with my son and his teacher."
School: "Wouldn't you rather speak to your childs teacher directly about the incident?"
Me: "No, if I had wanted to speak with the teacher, I would have called him directly. The incident involves the teacher and so I wish to speak to the principal about it."
School: "Normally, we encourage parents to try and work issues out with the teacher before the principal gets involved."
Me: "If I felt I could do that, I wouldn't be calling the principal, now would I?"
School: "So let me understand, you want to speak to the principal about an incident that occured today involving your child and his teacher?"
Me: "Yes, that's what I said."
School: "The principal is on leave so you'll need to speak with the assistant principal and she's in a meeting. Would you like me to leave her a message?"
Me: "Uh, duh-yeah (okay didn't really say that). Yes, please. Do you know if she'll be able to call me back today?"
School: "I don't know."
Me: "Can you please mark the message as urgent?
School: "You want me to write that its urgent?"
Me: "Yes, thats what I just said.
School: "Alright. I'll give her the message." Click.
. . . . .I never got a call that day and still haven't as of the time I write this post which sadly, doesn't surprise me a bit. And so I look at the clock and see that its nearly time for Ben to make his way around our street corner. Shortly, I will go outside and wait and hope that as I see him approach and begin my daily exam of his face, I will see a smile and when he heads towards our front door and I ask him how his day was, he'll answer me with a welcome, "fine." as he heads towards the kitchen to raid the fridge.
I will not let this one go. Even though I know I will probably get nowhere in the end, Ben needs to know that I'm on his side, always, no matter what- my voice is his voice, and his, mine. And maybe by just him knowing and feeling that, it will be enough to see him through and alleviate the sting of the schoolyard experience that isn't always kind and that seemingly, some teachers (whether well intentioned or not) seem to forget. . . . .
