Last year I did some substitute teaching in the public school district to add to my retirement credits after I quit teaching in a charter school in the county jail. One day I was on assignment in a kindergarten class. It was at an elementary school at the very end of a block in an area of San Francisco where many of my jail students live when they’re out, barring parole conditions, and where they were raised. Some of them were likely to have gone to the same school and probably had children there now.
The kindergarten teacher was having a great deal of difficulty controlling her students, so I was assigned to assist her. In the morning, I worked with one group after another at their tables as they struggled through their basic reading assignments while she attempted to counsel a group of three or four children who couldn’t sit still long enough to do any work.
After recess, a little boy, no more than six years old, came hopping back into the classroom on one leg.
“My leg is broken! My leg is broken!” he cried.
“Let me look at it,” I said, concerned.
He pointed to the middle of his shin, tears running down his face.
“Wait here,” I said. “I’ll go get the nurse.”
The teacher was too preoccupied to notice as she tried to corral the other children to sit quietly on the rug facing the white board. On the left side of the board she had pasted a large poster on which was a ladder with the colors yellow, orange, and red to denote gradations of bad behavior. In between loudly calling the names of children who weren’t listening, the teacher, clearly out of her league, scribbled the names of the offenders on the lower rungs.
In the office, I told the secretary about the boy and asked to see the nurse. She barely looked up, flapping her hand dismissively. “He walked into the office after recess so it’s obviously not broken.”
I went back into the classroom and sat with the boy, who was still crying. “Show me where your leg is broken.”
He rolled up the right leg of his jeans and pointed to his shin.
An idea popped into my head. “Listen,” I said, “I’m going to get some magic ointment. That should make it feel better.”
He looked at me doubtfully, wide-eyed through his tears. I rummaged through a stack of papers and books near the sink next to the back window, searching for anything that would do. A bottle of hand sanitizer emerged. I tore off a piece of brown paper towel and pumped a little onto it.
“Here,” I said, handing it to him. “Let’s rub this on.”
He looked at it quizzically, his sobs suddenly still.
“That’s hand sanitizer,” he blurted distrustfully.
“Yes, but there’s magic in it,” I said authoritatively. “Come on, let’s rub it on your leg.”
He reluctantly took the paper towel from me and, with long strokes, rubbed the ointment into his skin. Then he looked up and said, “It’s still broken.”
I thought fast. “Put your hands over your heart and fill them with love.”
“What?” as if to say, “You’re crazy, lady.”
I repeated, “Put your hands over your heart and fill them with love.” I placed his hands, palms downwards, on his chest. “Now breathe in all the love you’ve got in there.”
He looked at me questioningly, but obediently closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
“Now place your hands on your leg and give it love,” I instructed. “That will heal it.”
With great seriousness, he placed his palms on his leg with his eyes closed and breathed in and out a few times.
“Is it feeling better?”
He nodded.
“Okay, now off you go back to your desk.”
The boy hopped on one leg toward his desk and banged into the edge of a console piled with books.
“Ow!” he cried, grabbing his arm. “My arm is broken!”
Trying not to laugh, I went for some more hand sanitizer. We followed the same procedure as before, but now on his arm. This time I didn’t have to tell him to heal himself with love; he placed his hands on his heart and his arm automatically, with a dedicated expression on his face.
At the end of the day, after all the children had left the classroom, the boy came back in while I was chatting with the paraprofessional. She was an elderly woman with years of experience at the school and had joined the class for the afternoon to individually tutor children on their literacy and math skills.
“Call your grandfather,” she reminded him.
The boy rummaged in his pale blue backpack stained with dirt and pulled out a cell phone.
“Grandpa, come and get me,” he called loudly into the phone and then, the little man that he was, went outside to wait with the teacher who was on yard duty.
“Does his grandfather normally pick him up?” I asked.
The paraprofessional turned to continue putting away her folders.
“His mother was arrested last night,” she said matter-of-factly. “The police turned up at their house last night and took her away.”
The kindergarten teacher was having a great deal of difficulty controlling her students, so I was assigned to assist her. In the morning, I worked with one group after another at their tables as they struggled through their basic reading assignments while she attempted to counsel a group of three or four children who couldn’t sit still long enough to do any work.
After recess, a little boy, no more than six years old, came hopping back into the classroom on one leg.
“My leg is broken! My leg is broken!” he cried.
“Let me look at it,” I said, concerned.
He pointed to the middle of his shin, tears running down his face.
“Wait here,” I said. “I’ll go get the nurse.”
The teacher was too preoccupied to notice as she tried to corral the other children to sit quietly on the rug facing the white board. On the left side of the board she had pasted a large poster on which was a ladder with the colors yellow, orange, and red to denote gradations of bad behavior. In between loudly calling the names of children who weren’t listening, the teacher, clearly out of her league, scribbled the names of the offenders on the lower rungs.
In the office, I told the secretary about the boy and asked to see the nurse. She barely looked up, flapping her hand dismissively. “He walked into the office after recess so it’s obviously not broken.”
I went back into the classroom and sat with the boy, who was still crying. “Show me where your leg is broken.”
He rolled up the right leg of his jeans and pointed to his shin.
An idea popped into my head. “Listen,” I said, “I’m going to get some magic ointment. That should make it feel better.”
He looked at me doubtfully, wide-eyed through his tears. I rummaged through a stack of papers and books near the sink next to the back window, searching for anything that would do. A bottle of hand sanitizer emerged. I tore off a piece of brown paper towel and pumped a little onto it.
“Here,” I said, handing it to him. “Let’s rub this on.”
He looked at it quizzically, his sobs suddenly still.
“That’s hand sanitizer,” he blurted distrustfully.
“Yes, but there’s magic in it,” I said authoritatively. “Come on, let’s rub it on your leg.”
He reluctantly took the paper towel from me and, with long strokes, rubbed the ointment into his skin. Then he looked up and said, “It’s still broken.”
I thought fast. “Put your hands over your heart and fill them with love.”
“What?” as if to say, “You’re crazy, lady.”
I repeated, “Put your hands over your heart and fill them with love.” I placed his hands, palms downwards, on his chest. “Now breathe in all the love you’ve got in there.”
He looked at me questioningly, but obediently closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
“Now place your hands on your leg and give it love,” I instructed. “That will heal it.”
With great seriousness, he placed his palms on his leg with his eyes closed and breathed in and out a few times.
“Is it feeling better?”
He nodded.
“Okay, now off you go back to your desk.”
The boy hopped on one leg toward his desk and banged into the edge of a console piled with books.
“Ow!” he cried, grabbing his arm. “My arm is broken!”
Trying not to laugh, I went for some more hand sanitizer. We followed the same procedure as before, but now on his arm. This time I didn’t have to tell him to heal himself with love; he placed his hands on his heart and his arm automatically, with a dedicated expression on his face.
At the end of the day, after all the children had left the classroom, the boy came back in while I was chatting with the paraprofessional. She was an elderly woman with years of experience at the school and had joined the class for the afternoon to individually tutor children on their literacy and math skills.
“Call your grandfather,” she reminded him.
The boy rummaged in his pale blue backpack stained with dirt and pulled out a cell phone.
“Grandpa, come and get me,” he called loudly into the phone and then, the little man that he was, went outside to wait with the teacher who was on yard duty.
“Does his grandfather normally pick him up?” I asked.
The paraprofessional turned to continue putting away her folders.
“His mother was arrested last night,” she said matter-of-factly. “The police turned up at their house last night and took her away.”