I was busy in the office on his first day. I had only discovered the day before that he would be joining us. In a frenetic fit to make him feel welcome, I had worked late the evening before making a place for him in our classroom.
Now I rushed through my before-school list of things to do and somehow missed him in the hallway. Oh dear. Not a great way to make an already nervous kid feel welcome. I quickly sized up his stepmother and sister and then pointed at him. “New kid?” I asked rhetorically. He grinned. “That’s what I thought. C’mon, I ‘ll show you around.”
While I visited with his stepmother and sister, he found his coat hook and plastic tub for depositing markers, crayons, and other first grade necessities. He seemed to be holding his emotions in check pretty well, I thought. It had to be tough to step into a classroom mid-year. You and I both know that anyone who does not begin the school year with the rest of the group is automatically an outsider. I remember feeling badly for those kids when I myself was an elementary/high school student. Not only must they deal with feeling awkward and being gawked at and discussed in small groups, they must also endure whatever form of hazing the established group will mete out. This may be mild or severe, depending upon the level of cruelty of the group or the watchfulness of the teachers. The mettle of the newbie must be tested. I do not know why, but it is an age-old ritual.
Mom and sister said their goodbye’s and now The New One was alone to face his classmates and the Strange and Wonderful World of Mrs. Dahl’s classroom. As the kids filtered through the door in fits and spurts, he stood shyly observing and looking nervous.
Have you ever seen the old Jerry Lewis classic, “The Disorderly Orderly?” I love it. It is one of my favorite old comedies. In it, an orderly, named Jerome Littlefield, who works in a ritzy sanitarium, has aspirations of becoming a medical doctor, but is thwarted in his quest due to crippling empathy with his patients. There is a sanitarium patient named Mrs. Fuzzybee that always sends him over the edge with her vivid descriptions of gastrointestinal problems. I mention this old classic because I suffer a bit of this affliction myself. I feel deeply the pain of others. I tried watching a few episodes of Life in the ER and nearly went into a coma. I cannot deal with open flesh wounds and suffering people moaning in agony. I might as well be lying there hemorrhaging myself.
As I quietly watched my new student, I felt his inner pain and longed to make this, his first day in a new school, as comfortable as possible. But alas, there is only so much a teacher can do. It is something that just must be gotten through by the child. I cannot fight every battle nor dispel every uncomfortable emotion. I can merely extend a warm, welcoming hand and watch the interactions for any unkindness. The rest will simply be up the children to sort out.
He did pretty well, I thought, and my Little Darlings rose to the occasion. They made sure he was directed through our daily routine and were the very essence of helpfulness. I could not have been more proud.
All was well the first couple of days. Oh, there were some very minor incidents of acting out and attention seeking. But all within normal limits, I felt. But as the days went by and he became increasingly more comfortable among us, the Tough Guy persona began to emerge. He became disruptive, rude to others, and toed the line of disrespect repeatedly. It was becoming a class wide issue that needed addressing. I was a little lost as how to proceed. My principal had also clued in to this brewing problem and was aware of its potential for disruption. We were united in our vigilance.
About three weeks into his time with us, a day happened along that seemed to bring things to a head. The morning session seemed a barometric reading of the coming storm. Shortly after lunch, his behavior had reached its zenith. I do not even remember what the specifics were, but I knew that it was time for a meeting of the minds. I called his name and firmly asked him to come have a private conversation with me. He looked ashen, but was silently defiant. It took some coaxing to get him into my proximity. I invited him to sit in a chair close to mine and looked him in the eye.
As I tried to fathom the depths of his mind through his steely eyes, I suddenly “saw” him transparently. I spoke not for a moment or two. I just kept looking at him, trying to read this pint-sized kid. The words that had formed in my mouth now sat frozen on my tongue. I had wanted to get his attention by speaking sternly and chastising him for his callous attitude to this classroom and its rules. And truthfully, I was a little mad at him for disrupting what had been a peaceful sanctuary until his arrival. I know teachers are not supposed to feel that way. But we do. I wanted to be stern.
I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
When I had gone through his file of school records, I had learned that our school was actually the sixth in his academic career. He’s in first grade. You do the math; six schools between kindergarten and first grade. That is a whale-of-a-lot of change. As I stared into those eyes that challenged my own, his lower lip began to quiver and big tears formed in his eyes. He would not let them fall, but they defied his wishes and did so anyway. We sat there, knee to knee, stare to stare, waiting the other one out. I felt the hard rock in my chest begin to soften.
Surprising myself I shifted gears. “You’ve been in six schools, haven’t you?” I asked softly. He looked surprised. He had expected harshness from me, as had I, frankly. He was listening. He nodded and the fight to keep from bawling intensified. “That is a lot of schools and a lot of teachers and a lot of classrooms to get used to.” He lost his fight for manliness and dissolved into a sobbing pile, but held my stare. “You know what I think? “ Fat tears splashed down his face and he looked questioningly at me. I put my finger on his chest and drew a circle in the center. “I think you have a heart of courage.” His face reflected his shock. “You are very brave to have been the new kid six times. I admire you greatly.” And then the clouds parted and the sun came out. His wet face creased with the most beauteous smile. He nodded shyly. I went on. “I understand that it will take awhile for you to get used to our classroom and our rules, but will you promise me that you will try?” He was mine now. He nodded in the affirmative and looked gratefully at me. I drew him to me and gave him a hug. “I’m glad you’re here,” I whispered in his ear.
Do you remember the scene from the Wizard of Oz where the Cowardly Lion is all gussied up and ready to meet the Wizard? It is my favorite of the whole movie. He has this great, comical solo about being King of the Forest and the actor who portrayed him hammed it up to perfection. My sister and I used to double over in laughter every time.
I mention that scene because that is what occurred to me as I held his trembling frame. The Lion was all bravado and bluster until he was ushered into the Wizard’s presence. What he longed to be he was incapable of until he was granted a Heart of Courage. The irony of that scene is, the Great and Mighty Wizard himself was no different from the Cowardly Lion. He hid behind a screen and used belches of fire and colored smoke to distract from the fact that he was an ordinary mortal with no special powers at all. He hid it from everyone but himself.
My Gypsy is very much like that. His forced wanderings created a crusty shell around a tender heart in order to survive the trauma of never staying in one place long enough to send roots down to bedrock.
Will I get to keep him a spell? I certainly hope so, but time will tell. Until such a time as he leaves my influence, I hope I can prod that heart of courage into letting a middle-aged, quasi-hippie into his carefully constructed fortress. We seem to have a better understanding since that day, he and I. I hope it lasts.
For however long you are here, I am glad you are with us, my Lion…
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