snippets from the day "Hurricane" Felicia hit Maui
From this morning’s Management Team meeting at the low-end hotel in Kahului: a notorious crazy mom has taken her complaints all the way to the Superintendent’s office. He’s a local good-ol’boy, Portuguese with an affable manner and always talks pidgin, even in staff meetings. I can just see him trying to calm her down and offering counseling: TO HER.
Which is exactly what he did.
My boss, the ever-suave and and Machiavellian Mr. Kawasaki, turned to me. “You know her, don’t you? Why don’t you do her counseling?”
“I know her to dodge her phone calls and run away when she tries to flag me down,” I said. “Had her kid for counseling for 3 years and he’s great. What’s the problem?”
“Wants her boy to have accommodations in his AP classes and with his SAT,” the Boss said. “The Superintendent offered her counseling. Someone’s got to do it. Volunteers?” We all stayed mum. I drank my water and gazed out the window.
“Well fine then. You’ll be getting an email from me assigning someone.”
I know who that someone will be. Me.
Crap. At least she’s genuinely crazy, not just drug addicted or Borderline Personality Disorder. She’s a nice juicy bipolar, and off her meds. Should be interesting.
Drove next to the elementary where I’m filling in. The last of Hurricane Felicia had made land, shrouding Haleakala in a foggy swath of rain that had an unnaturally warm, almost powdered feel to it, like it’d been sieved.
I walked down stairs to talk to a teacher about the Behavior Plan I’d drafted and sent her for a pre-K student with an eating disorder… and found her trying to wrangle seveteen 4-5 year olds out of the classroom singlehanded.
“I can’t talk now!” she said, a little wild eyed as she hoisted a backpack onto a little guy no bigger than my waist. He had a head of curly red-gold hair like a Michelangelo cherub. Someone grabbed my hand.
“I have to go shi-shi, Auntie,” a tiny girl said, crossing her legs and squatting in a gesture as old as humanity. This kid had to go.
“Wow, Colleen, I don’t know how you do this by yourself,” I said to the teacher as I led the child toward the bathroom and gave her a gentle shove in the right direction.“Can I help?”
She was already outside the door.
“Please do! Get in line everybody!” she said. Her throat sounded raw. “Follow the shaka, kids.”
She stood at the head of the line holding a hopeful ‘shaka’ hand sign aloft. They would have followed, but Momi still had to shi-shi and wouldn’t go in without me, Shekeenah had lost her water bottle (a tearful event), and there were still three unclaimed backpacks on the hooks outside the door.
After we got all that sorted out, we hopped, skipped, ambled and wandered down to the field where Colleen got out a miniature parachute… and with the spanking wind of what was left of the hurricane, we held it up filling with air and almost lifting up 17 preschoolers and two good sized ladies. One by one she called their names to run underneath it as it billowed, a chiaroscuro of bright magic. Their upturned faces, awash in color, were unforgettable.
The bell rang. We led our straggling line of ducklings up to the parent pickup area and bid each one goodbye. I introduced myself to numerous grandmas, sisters, moms and dads. I walked the teacher back to her class.
“Thanks so much,” she huffed. I look forward to weight loss on the numerous stairs around the campus.
“Don’t you have an aide?” I exclaimed. “It’s a two person job just getting their jackets and backpacks on!”
She laughed. “And this is when our special needs kid is out sick,” she said. “I am just swamped right now teaching them the routines.”
We discussed the case and the boy’s medically fragile condition and feeding issues; the fact that he was supposed to eat at special times with adult supervision in a quiet setting. Thus far that had not been possible, and now he was sick.
I had a brainwave. It doesn’t seem like much of one now, writing it down, but then, with both of us stumped, the idea seemed limned in gold.
“What do you think of him eating in the health room?” Adjacent to the cafeteria, it was a dim soothing place. I had already met the nurse's aide, a warm Hawaiian woman. I couldn’t imagine her saying no to a fragile kid who needed to eat in peace, with encouragement.
“Oh, great idea!” said the teacher, so off I went, and hopefully by Thursday we’ll be able to have another duckling in our line.
Which is exactly what he did.
My boss, the ever-suave and and Machiavellian Mr. Kawasaki, turned to me. “You know her, don’t you? Why don’t you do her counseling?”
“I know her to dodge her phone calls and run away when she tries to flag me down,” I said. “Had her kid for counseling for 3 years and he’s great. What’s the problem?”
“Wants her boy to have accommodations in his AP classes and with his SAT,” the Boss said. “The Superintendent offered her counseling. Someone’s got to do it. Volunteers?” We all stayed mum. I drank my water and gazed out the window.
“Well fine then. You’ll be getting an email from me assigning someone.”
I know who that someone will be. Me.
Crap. At least she’s genuinely crazy, not just drug addicted or Borderline Personality Disorder. She’s a nice juicy bipolar, and off her meds. Should be interesting.
Drove next to the elementary where I’m filling in. The last of Hurricane Felicia had made land, shrouding Haleakala in a foggy swath of rain that had an unnaturally warm, almost powdered feel to it, like it’d been sieved.
I walked down stairs to talk to a teacher about the Behavior Plan I’d drafted and sent her for a pre-K student with an eating disorder… and found her trying to wrangle seveteen 4-5 year olds out of the classroom singlehanded.
“I can’t talk now!” she said, a little wild eyed as she hoisted a backpack onto a little guy no bigger than my waist. He had a head of curly red-gold hair like a Michelangelo cherub. Someone grabbed my hand.
“I have to go shi-shi, Auntie,” a tiny girl said, crossing her legs and squatting in a gesture as old as humanity. This kid had to go.
“Wow, Colleen, I don’t know how you do this by yourself,” I said to the teacher as I led the child toward the bathroom and gave her a gentle shove in the right direction.“Can I help?”
She was already outside the door.
“Please do! Get in line everybody!” she said. Her throat sounded raw. “Follow the shaka, kids.”
She stood at the head of the line holding a hopeful ‘shaka’ hand sign aloft. They would have followed, but Momi still had to shi-shi and wouldn’t go in without me, Shekeenah had lost her water bottle (a tearful event), and there were still three unclaimed backpacks on the hooks outside the door.
After we got all that sorted out, we hopped, skipped, ambled and wandered down to the field where Colleen got out a miniature parachute… and with the spanking wind of what was left of the hurricane, we held it up filling with air and almost lifting up 17 preschoolers and two good sized ladies. One by one she called their names to run underneath it as it billowed, a chiaroscuro of bright magic. Their upturned faces, awash in color, were unforgettable.
The bell rang. We led our straggling line of ducklings up to the parent pickup area and bid each one goodbye. I introduced myself to numerous grandmas, sisters, moms and dads. I walked the teacher back to her class.
“Thanks so much,” she huffed. I look forward to weight loss on the numerous stairs around the campus.
“Don’t you have an aide?” I exclaimed. “It’s a two person job just getting their jackets and backpacks on!”
She laughed. “And this is when our special needs kid is out sick,” she said. “I am just swamped right now teaching them the routines.”
We discussed the case and the boy’s medically fragile condition and feeding issues; the fact that he was supposed to eat at special times with adult supervision in a quiet setting. Thus far that had not been possible, and now he was sick.
I had a brainwave. It doesn’t seem like much of one now, writing it down, but then, with both of us stumped, the idea seemed limned in gold.
“What do you think of him eating in the health room?” Adjacent to the cafeteria, it was a dim soothing place. I had already met the nurse's aide, a warm Hawaiian woman. I couldn’t imagine her saying no to a fragile kid who needed to eat in peace, with encouragement.
“Oh, great idea!” said the teacher, so off I went, and hopefully by Thursday we’ll be able to have another duckling in our line.