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The Promised Cookie
No Longer Angry ChildrenBy David P. SortinoAuthorHouse
Copyright © 2011 David P. Sortino, Ph.D.
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4567-4272-0 Chapter One
The Cold New England Wind!
The cold New England wind grabbed the trees and shook the remaining leaves, which fell to the slick snow-covered ground. I heard the words, "seriously emotionally disturbed", and an echo on the wind—growing louder with each chilling blast. The words sat like a huge rock upon my chest and for a few moments I fought back a burning sensation and dryness in my throat. I was sitting in my dark green Plymouth parked in front of a rambling, white, 19th century country mansion. I had a 3:30 p.m. appointment with Tom O'Mera, the school's director, who would interview me for a job teaching S.E.D. children. But why was I really here? Would my stature, as a teacher of S.E.D. children be the final purification rite in my disturbing, emotional journey which first began that day when I, an energetic sensitive, third grader, first heard the label "a behavioral problem" as the adults peered at me. Or, were my motives for being here altruistic? Was I here because I felt my own experiences could provide some actual assistance in working with these children? The complexity of my emotions was compounded by a fear of failure—a fear that had begun in an Italian-American family whose concerns had been concentrated on unyielding standards of excellence and accomplishment.
My large Italian family had been stable and attentive, our home filled with love. But in the third grade I had discovered a Catch-22 weakness that many kids must face—the fear of their parents' death. In the third grade three things had happened to change my world. But it was not until years later that I realized that these three seemingly unconnected incidents were, in fact, intricately related. I experienced the loss of my grandfather—my first acknowledgment of death. Second, I recognized the potential loss of life in my future—my father could die. Finally, the third incident was my own problematic behavior. In my inability to comprehend that I was not responsible for the loss, that a death in the family did not represent my own failure, I began acting out my own fears through "inappropriate" classroom behavior. In addition, I became even angrier and more frustrated that no one was stepping up to tell me that I really was not a crazy.
In school I talked out of turn, fought, and teased the girls. Intent on order in the classroom, my teacher never let this behavior slide. Bam! Now she was a two by four board hitting me over the head. "Did you talk out of turn, David? Stand in the corner for an hour, David! Move your desk to the hallway for a week, David!" I couldn't discuss my anger with my family for fear of ridicule by my large extended Italian family of aunts, uncles and cousins, whose major focus was undying academic excellence.
My school principal suggested "professional counseling" and again, I feared my family's anger and embarrassment. But fortunately my parents took my part and finally chose a grandfatherly counselor who let me discuss my "anger problems" as though I were talking with my recently deceased grandfather. He was the patriarch of our large Italian family—the core of family strength. It was with this counselor that I was eventually able to clear my deepest fear: If my strong grandfather could die, then anyone could leave me. I did not yet comprehend that death was not a selective possibility but an ultimate reality. My fear of death soon expanded when my father received a promotion that required extensive travel to the west coast. Now I was certain that my father's plane would crash and he would leave me also. My fear intensified when the plane on which my father was traveling actually did make an emergency landing during one flight when the engines malfunctioned. My "school problems" were an attempt to force him to stay home. Years later, I read that educators and psychologists know that eight year olds can comprehend that death is irreversible. Why hadn't someone let me know that my classroom behavior was a normal response to my grandfather's death and to the fear of losing my father? The more I questioned, the angrier I became. However, talking about my fears with my grandfatherly counselor quieted my anger and I finally did come to realize the reasons for my "acting out behavior."
Certainly, it would have saved me much soul searching to know that I was not the bad kid that everyone had labeled. Yet, this labeling was the experience that gave me what people described as a calling to work with such students. My past had given me an edge as to how to help such angry students. In my time, they didn't have schools like C.O.P.E. but if C.OP.E. had existed, I could have been one of our students. Therefore, on the day of my interview, as I walked onto the school grounds and saw the telltale signs of the students, I had a deja vue feeling that I had been here before. I could see the students' scattered footprints carved angrily into the snow. I could hear their angry pleas for help and could actually feel their pain. On some subliminal level, I gradually realized that I could become an interpreter in the world of the seriously emotionally disturbed child. As you will read, my past childhood experiences had given me the unique ability to create a school environment that would become not only a school, but also an environment that would free these students from their anger and pain of being seriously emotionally disturbed.
* * *
C.O.P.E. was a two-story farmhouse, located on top of a hill surrounded by acres of dormant, withered cornfields. All life seemed frozen in time, including the long low hedges, leafless and coated with snow. The lawn and pathway leading to the main entrance formed a frozen mass of carved, random footprints. Not even the high-arched black roof escaped the stark, snow-white remains of the recent storm. Adjacent to the farmhouse was a small, white, Cape Cod-style cottage. About fifty yards from the cottage was a barn. The barn, like the farmhouse and cottage, was white with a sloping black roof. A tall brick silo stood next to the barn. Perched on top of the silo, like a hawk ready to swoop down on its prey was a large, copper cow weather vane. Cautiously, I walked to the side door of the farmhouse. Before I could get a grip on the doorknob, the door flew open and a woman around thirty-five years of age appeared. She asked if I was David; I nodded yes. She introduced herself as Jeannie, the art teacher, explained that Mr. O'Mera, the school's director, was waiting to see me, and then asked me to follow her to his office.
I walked into the musty building, closing out the light as I closed the door. As we began our journey to the director's office, I noticed the first room we passed was the kitchen. Later I learned that the kitchen was used as a teaching laboratory. Whatever its purpose, it was in total disarray: dirty pots and pans filled the twin sinks, garbage pails were overflowing, cups and glasses cluttered every inch of counter space.
We walked past the kitchen and up a series of staircases. The staircase was dark and treacherous; all I could see were frantic pencil scrawls, holes in the walls, and banisters torn from their holdings, on the verge of collapse. I would learn later that this was how the school's students expressed their anger, through abuse of the poor building and other students.
We reached the top—the second floor—and walked down a long, poorly lit hallway to the director's small office. When we arrived, I was introduced to a tall, solidly built man, around forty years of age. His office was orderly, but crammed with books and papers. Besides his desk and chair, the only other piece of furniture in the room was a single chair for visitors. Once seated, all space was so filled that a visitor would have had difficulty crossing his legs.
Our conversation began with a brief discussion of my qualifications and experience. Mr. O'Mera seemed unconcerned that I was not credentialed to teach. He explained that the job for which I was interviewing would only be part-time, ending in June. "I'm looking for someone with a sports background like yourself who is also capable of teaching academics. Specifically, I need someone to teach three hours a day of math, science, and health to our 14 and older age group. The current teacher resigned yesterday and his last day will be Monday so I need to find a teacher ASAP. I pay four-fifty an hour. However, if you want to earn a little extra money, you can stay and work in the afternoon as an aide. As an aide, you are paid three-fifty an hour. If you put in a thirty hour week you can take home about one hundred dollars."
He was interrupted by a quiet knock at his door.
"Come in," he said, fixing his eyes on the door.
The door opened and a short, pudgy boy about eleven years of age gazed angrily at Mr. O'Mera from the doorway. Mr. O'Mera gazed back, but with a slight smile.
"Eddy, this is Mr. Sortino. He is thinking of coming to teach at our school. Mr. Sortino, this is Edward Douglas, a student in the younger class."
Quietly I said, "hello," but Eddy barely glanced at me, instead staring intently at Mr. O'Mera.
"I know why you're here," continued Mr. O'Mera. "You want your cassette tape recorder."
Eddy nodded his head.
"Mr. Sortino," said Mr. O'Mera, "I'd like to hear your opinion on this situation. "Eddy was given permission to bring his cassette tape recorder to school. He said he wanted to tape the kids in class. Well, he taped the kids all right, but I didn't realize his particular area of concentration would be the obscenities they yelled at each other throughout the day. Then he took the tape recorder home and played the tape at dinner for his family. Next morning his mother called and was furious. She wanted to know what kind of school we were running here and if our school allowed students to use that type of language? Well, Eddy brought his tape recorder again today. But I told him he couldn't record the kids, and I confiscated the machine. He got mad and ran away. His school bus waited almost a half hour for him and then left without him. So what do you think, Mr. Sortino? Was Eddy wrong to tape obscenities and play them for his parents? And do you think he handled the problem appropriately by running away?"
Eddy only squirmed.
In fact, I felt like congratulating Eddy for taping obscenities. I mean how many times does a student get to tape what really goes on in class! But I knew Mr. O'Mera wanted me to offer some moral solution—how I might handle the problem if I were hired to teach. Telling him that I approved of Eddy's action would have cost me the job.
"If Eddy had permission to use the tape recorder in school and the students swore—well, the parents must be aware that kids do swear to get attention and Eddy did have permission to use the tape recorder in school. As for playing it back to his parents, Eddy could have been more tactful. As for running away? Eddy was wrong to cause alarm. But maybe Eddy needed to run away. Maybe be needed time to be alone, to get over his anger. After all, he did come back. He returned safely, and that is what was important."
Mr. O'Mera nodded his head in agreement and said, "Yes, Eddy should not have played the tape to his parents, and running away was not the way to handle my confiscating his tape recorder. Nodding directly toward Eddy, "Next time we'll talk before you take off ... all right?"
Grudgingly, Eddy nodded.
"Okay," said Mr. O'Mera, turning to the window. "I think I hear your father's car. You can have your recorder but promise never to bring it to school again."
Eddy grabbed the recorder and scurried out of the office.
"Goodnight, Eddy," yelled Mr. O'Mera.
Eddy was long gone. Mr. O'Mera turned to the office window and waved to Eddy's father, who was waiting in his car.
"Sorry!" greeted Mr. O'Mera. "Hope to see you at the next parents' meeting!"
"The wife and I will be there," the man hollered back. "See you."
"Well, that was a pretty good example of the issues we deal with," said Mr. O'Mera, turning back to me. "These kids find plenty of reasons to run away—and you're right, the first priority is making sure they're all right when they come back."
I thought about the word acceptance. I was accepting Eddy's behavior as well as the school's need to ensure their students' safety. In short, I had taken everyone's perspective, but really, how many times does a student get to tape what goes on in the classroom, I laughed to myself.
"So," he said, getting down to business, "how about a tour of the facilities?"
Upstairs the main building consisted of several small staff offices, many of them similar to the office we had just left, where the school's social worker, assistant director, and bookkeeper worked. Mr. O'Mera explained that the old farmhouse had been converted first to an inn and then to a convalescent home before it was turned into a school. This explained why there were so many rooms and why each room had its own private bath.
"About five years ago, when the state was considering starting a regional school for exceptional children, we were fortunate to have the opportunity to rent this entire estate. At that time we were the beneficiaries of a five-year Title III federal grant. The money was excessive. Unfortunately, the stipulation was that we would have to become self-supporting by the time the grant ran out. There were lots of expenses during that five-year period. Along with the salaries of a large staff, we also started a film library. Today there are about one thousand films, although only about half have been paid for. We hope the state won't close us down. You can see we're trying to make ends meet, but our funds are running out; that is why I can only afford to hire a part-time teacher. Right now I have Rita McBride, our assistant director, and one other male part-time teacher, about your age, who teaches the younger 11 to 13 year old age group. The teacher who just resigned was also part-time. I want to get the kids outside moving and exercising. I want to tire them out so that when they return home in the afternoon, they'll be too exhausted to get into trouble. I think we have a unique setting for exceptional children. The program for the twenty T.M.R. children has been functioning since the start of the school; the S.E.D. program began in January and already has ten boys and three girls ranging in age from eleven to seventeen. In planning for the S.E.D. students, we try to meet their academic and social needs and also attempt to work with their parents. Most of the kids who have been institutionalized or sent to foster homes say they felt they were being punished. Here their experience can be more positive. Our school is not an institution, since the students live at home and are bussed to school. The place is beautiful. Our major problem is that we're so new that the district schools still have to be convinced to send us the special students who need this kind of school."
Downstairs I was shown the classroom for the younger, S.E.D. children, and ages eleven to thirteen years old. The room was barren and cold, containing one table, five chairs, a portable blackboard, and an empty wooden bookcase, not a very inviting classroom environment for students who hated school. Next-door was the classroom for the T.M.R. students ages eight to seventeen. A single bulletin board on one of the walnut paneled walls displayed the students' art and schoolwork. A few tables and chairs were grouped comfortably around a handsome brick fireplace.
As Mr. O'Mera walked with me through the remainder of the buildings, I was wondering about the room I had seen for the younger S.E.D. class. Most of the rooms for the T.M.R. students were neat and bright: colorful posters were hung on the walls as student art and schoolwork were also displayed. One room had a large colorful, circular rug covering the center of the floor. All of these rooms seemed vibrant and alive—a place fit for the learning process of students with varied emotional problems. But the room for the younger S.E.D. students was stark, lifeless—more like a prison than a learning place. I asked Mr. O'Mera why the classroom was so empty. Why was there no art or schoolwork displayed? Why wasn't there even a rug?
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Promised Cookieby David P. Sortino Copyright © 2011 by David P. Sortino, Ph.D.. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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