Forever and a day
Autobiographical entry with names and details changed to protect confidentiality
I’ve always loved walking through this elementary campus, with its dramatic view of the island spread below and huge old plumeria trees dropping pinwheel flowers on the cement walks. I walk into the classroom, clipboard under my arm. Bright shapes dangle over the low round tables, labeled Octagon, Triangle, Square. A colored rug littered with blocks takes up one corner, a book nook another, and a large plastic house fills a third. Clusters of children play at each of the stations. The teacher sits at one of the tables with several kindergarteners, doing stamp art with cut potatoes.
“Hey, thanks for coming!” Kumu (teacher) Nae’ole greets me. She’s a fit brown woman with bands of tribal tattoos winding around her neck. They’re somehow erotic, twisting snakelike down into her respectable pink blouse. I try not to wonder where they end up. She indicates the child I’m to be observing with a tilt of her head.
“I’ll be doing data collection,” I say. “I’m just going to be looking at what he’s doing every 30 seconds and recording. Is there somewhere you’d like me to sit?”
“Anywhere’s fine. We’re doing Center Time so the kids get to pick what they’re doing and switch activities when they want.”
I get one of the tiny, knee high plastic chairs and wedge myself into the book corner where I have a good view of my target student, Mano. He’s lying on the rug in the block area, rolling a toy car back and forth, humming softly.
Uh-oh, I think. I review the notes on my clipboard: young for kindergarten, never been to preschool, odd behaviors during kindergarten screening. I begin the data sheet: slight build, full head of curly dark hair, brown eyes. I check the box on the assessment form for Repetitive Motor Movements. Per the protocol, I look away for thirty seconds at the rest of the class. A little girl catches my eye, comes over with a doll.
“Can you feed her, Auntie?” Kids in Hawaii often call adults ‘auntie’ or ‘uncle’ as a sign of respect. She offers me the bottle of magically disappearing milk and a grubby plastic baby.
“Sure.” I take the doll. Time to check Mano.
He’s still rolling the car-only now another boy, freckled and smiling, has come over to play. He holds out a block, entering Mano’s visual proximity. Mano uses the toy car to bat away his outstretched hand. Wannabe friend wails.
Three seconds are up so I look away, now at the teacher who flies across the room to sit Mano on the Time Out chair.
“No hitting,” Kumu says firmly. My pigtailed friend comes back with another doll.
“Feed this one too, Auntie.” She piles it on me.
Time to observe again--I look back. He’s slithered off the timeout chair and is lying on his back, masturbating while gazing at the ceiling. I mark the boxes Sexualized Behavior and Repetitive Motor Movements. Kumu returns, removes his hand from his pants.
“We don’t do that in school,” she says, bustles away after giving me an eye roll.
Something pokes me-a boy prodding me with the corner of a book. He holds it up.
“Can you read to me, Auntie?”
“Just a sec.” I look over at Mano. Still on his back--now he’s spinning the wheels of the car. Uh oh., I think for about the fourth time. I tick the Repetitive Motor Movements box again.
I turn back to my newest acquaintance.
“What’s it about?”
He looks at the cover. “Papayas?” he asks hopefully. I can’t resist giving his fuzzy head a rub. Papayas are indeed featured prominently on the cover. I open the book.
“Tutu Makes Papaya Jam,” I read. He sidles into my lap, dumping the babies out.
Oops-time to observe. I look over at Mano. He’s rolling the car over the playhouse, humming. Kumu calls him: once, twice, three times. Finally she gets up and touches him on the shoulder. I check Repetitive Motor Movements and make a note: “Requires physical cue to follow directions.”
My seatmate wiggles. “Read, Auntie!” he commands.
“One day Tutu (grandma) decided to make papaya jam before the mynah birds ate all her papayas.” Another boy joins us, hanging over my knee.
I look up. Kumu Nae’ole is trying to get Mano to sit and paint at the art station.
“Dip your brush in the water,” she says. He holds the brush oddly, with the tips of his fingers. I have my lapmate hold the book and I check Working 1:1 With Teacher and make a note: “Adaptive brush grasp.”
Mano makes a swirl or two on the paper, then hops down, arrowing back to his car. Kumu looks at me, lifts her hands in a confused gesture. Normally one-to-one attention from the teacher is highly sought after by kids.
“Did the mynah birds eat all the papayas?” my lap friend asks. He’s been very patient.
“Tutu took her long bamboo pole with the basket on the end and reached way, way up into the tree,” I read. The girl has come back. She picks up the babies and hangs over my shoulder to see the story.
I look over at Mano. He’s grabbed a little girl and, in the first sign of trying to make other human contact I’ve seen, plants a big wet kiss on her cheek.
“No, Mano!” she shrieks. Kumu takes him to the Time Out chair, sits him on it.
“No means no, Mano,” she says. “We ask before we kiss.” Words to live by.
I reach around my friends to check the Sexualized Behavior box again, and set the clipboard aside, giving up on it. Tutu ends up making some very good jam. Mano continues to exhibit behaviors indicative of an autism spectrum disorder.
I go down to the playground to continue my observation, stationing myself under a jacaranda tree, the blue-purple blossoms fluttering in the light breeze. The bell rings and kids pour down the steps onto the field.
Mano emerges, his slight body a blur of motion as he runs, knees high, back straight, hands flapping. He beelines across the field without slowing and bounces into a kid, then spins off in another direction, zooming across the field to body-slam yet another child. His teeth are bared in a hell-for-leather grin as he makes another turn and keeps going. The school counselor shakes his head.
“He runs this pattern every day,” he says. “I think he picks someone out, heads for them, then tries to ‘make contact’ by running into them. We intervene as soon as he hits someone.”
As he speaks Mano winds up like a World Series pitcher and smacks his latest target, a large boy who grabs him by his skinny arms and prepares to teach him a lesson. Fortunately the counselor and playground aide reach them in time. The counselor tows Mano over to a nearby bench. He’s still grinning, only now he’s banging his head on the counselor’s hand and writhing.
“Help,” the guy says. I sit beside Mano, my body touching him. He won’t make eye contact. I put my finger under his chin, tilting his head up. His eyes meet mine briefly-skitter away.
“Mano,” I say softly. His eyes swivel back. “It’s okay. Just no hitting.” I put my arm over him, anchoring. We call this "heavy work." He stops struggling. We sit for a moment, then I walk him off the field and back to class where he settles down with the help of his toy car.
We have an emergency team meeting that afternoon to discuss further testing based on my observations. His impossibly young mother has the same slight build, haunted eyes, and long blanket of curly brown hair. We sit on tiny chairs under the Octagon sign.
“I think we need a full battery of evaluations,” I say as kindly as I can. Tears well instantly in her eyes. She’s been terrified of this. “Your son has some very concerning behaviors. I’m working on a support plan right now to give him close adult supervision during transition and free time because he seems to have difficulty interacting with others, and makes contact with peers inappropriately.”
She nods-the tears spill.
“I just knew something’s wrong.” Her voice is a whisper. “His dad can’t handle him. He goes in his room to get away from him because Mano won’t leave him alone. We need help, we need to know what to do.”
“It’s okay,” I say. The teacher pushes a box of Kleenex over. “This is the first step in getting him help, and it’s going to take all of us to keep him supervised, safe, and help him learn.”
“We’ll do whatever it takes, if it’s forever and a day,” the young mom says. She honks her nose.
“That’s what it might be.” I smile to take the sting out of my words, and reach out to hug her. “We’re all in it together.”
I’ve always loved walking through this elementary campus, with its dramatic view of the island spread below and huge old plumeria trees dropping pinwheel flowers on the cement walks. I walk into the classroom, clipboard under my arm. Bright shapes dangle over the low round tables, labeled Octagon, Triangle, Square. A colored rug littered with blocks takes up one corner, a book nook another, and a large plastic house fills a third. Clusters of children play at each of the stations. The teacher sits at one of the tables with several kindergarteners, doing stamp art with cut potatoes.
“Hey, thanks for coming!” Kumu (teacher) Nae’ole greets me. She’s a fit brown woman with bands of tribal tattoos winding around her neck. They’re somehow erotic, twisting snakelike down into her respectable pink blouse. I try not to wonder where they end up. She indicates the child I’m to be observing with a tilt of her head.
“I’ll be doing data collection,” I say. “I’m just going to be looking at what he’s doing every 30 seconds and recording. Is there somewhere you’d like me to sit?”
“Anywhere’s fine. We’re doing Center Time so the kids get to pick what they’re doing and switch activities when they want.”
I get one of the tiny, knee high plastic chairs and wedge myself into the book corner where I have a good view of my target student, Mano. He’s lying on the rug in the block area, rolling a toy car back and forth, humming softly.
Uh-oh, I think. I review the notes on my clipboard: young for kindergarten, never been to preschool, odd behaviors during kindergarten screening. I begin the data sheet: slight build, full head of curly dark hair, brown eyes. I check the box on the assessment form for Repetitive Motor Movements. Per the protocol, I look away for thirty seconds at the rest of the class. A little girl catches my eye, comes over with a doll.
“Can you feed her, Auntie?” Kids in Hawaii often call adults ‘auntie’ or ‘uncle’ as a sign of respect. She offers me the bottle of magically disappearing milk and a grubby plastic baby.
“Sure.” I take the doll. Time to check Mano.
He’s still rolling the car-only now another boy, freckled and smiling, has come over to play. He holds out a block, entering Mano’s visual proximity. Mano uses the toy car to bat away his outstretched hand. Wannabe friend wails.
Three seconds are up so I look away, now at the teacher who flies across the room to sit Mano on the Time Out chair.
“No hitting,” Kumu says firmly. My pigtailed friend comes back with another doll.
“Feed this one too, Auntie.” She piles it on me.
Time to observe again--I look back. He’s slithered off the timeout chair and is lying on his back, masturbating while gazing at the ceiling. I mark the boxes Sexualized Behavior and Repetitive Motor Movements. Kumu returns, removes his hand from his pants.
“We don’t do that in school,” she says, bustles away after giving me an eye roll.
Something pokes me-a boy prodding me with the corner of a book. He holds it up.
“Can you read to me, Auntie?”
“Just a sec.” I look over at Mano. Still on his back--now he’s spinning the wheels of the car. Uh oh., I think for about the fourth time. I tick the Repetitive Motor Movements box again.
I turn back to my newest acquaintance.
“What’s it about?”
He looks at the cover. “Papayas?” he asks hopefully. I can’t resist giving his fuzzy head a rub. Papayas are indeed featured prominently on the cover. I open the book.
“Tutu Makes Papaya Jam,” I read. He sidles into my lap, dumping the babies out.
Oops-time to observe. I look over at Mano. He’s rolling the car over the playhouse, humming. Kumu calls him: once, twice, three times. Finally she gets up and touches him on the shoulder. I check Repetitive Motor Movements and make a note: “Requires physical cue to follow directions.”
My seatmate wiggles. “Read, Auntie!” he commands.
“One day Tutu (grandma) decided to make papaya jam before the mynah birds ate all her papayas.” Another boy joins us, hanging over my knee.
I look up. Kumu Nae’ole is trying to get Mano to sit and paint at the art station.
“Dip your brush in the water,” she says. He holds the brush oddly, with the tips of his fingers. I have my lapmate hold the book and I check Working 1:1 With Teacher and make a note: “Adaptive brush grasp.”
Mano makes a swirl or two on the paper, then hops down, arrowing back to his car. Kumu looks at me, lifts her hands in a confused gesture. Normally one-to-one attention from the teacher is highly sought after by kids.
“Did the mynah birds eat all the papayas?” my lap friend asks. He’s been very patient.
“Tutu took her long bamboo pole with the basket on the end and reached way, way up into the tree,” I read. The girl has come back. She picks up the babies and hangs over my shoulder to see the story.
I look over at Mano. He’s grabbed a little girl and, in the first sign of trying to make other human contact I’ve seen, plants a big wet kiss on her cheek.
“No, Mano!” she shrieks. Kumu takes him to the Time Out chair, sits him on it.
“No means no, Mano,” she says. “We ask before we kiss.” Words to live by.
I reach around my friends to check the Sexualized Behavior box again, and set the clipboard aside, giving up on it. Tutu ends up making some very good jam. Mano continues to exhibit behaviors indicative of an autism spectrum disorder.
I go down to the playground to continue my observation, stationing myself under a jacaranda tree, the blue-purple blossoms fluttering in the light breeze. The bell rings and kids pour down the steps onto the field.
Mano emerges, his slight body a blur of motion as he runs, knees high, back straight, hands flapping. He beelines across the field without slowing and bounces into a kid, then spins off in another direction, zooming across the field to body-slam yet another child. His teeth are bared in a hell-for-leather grin as he makes another turn and keeps going. The school counselor shakes his head.
“He runs this pattern every day,” he says. “I think he picks someone out, heads for them, then tries to ‘make contact’ by running into them. We intervene as soon as he hits someone.”
As he speaks Mano winds up like a World Series pitcher and smacks his latest target, a large boy who grabs him by his skinny arms and prepares to teach him a lesson. Fortunately the counselor and playground aide reach them in time. The counselor tows Mano over to a nearby bench. He’s still grinning, only now he’s banging his head on the counselor’s hand and writhing.
“Help,” the guy says. I sit beside Mano, my body touching him. He won’t make eye contact. I put my finger under his chin, tilting his head up. His eyes meet mine briefly-skitter away.
“Mano,” I say softly. His eyes swivel back. “It’s okay. Just no hitting.” I put my arm over him, anchoring. We call this "heavy work." He stops struggling. We sit for a moment, then I walk him off the field and back to class where he settles down with the help of his toy car.
We have an emergency team meeting that afternoon to discuss further testing based on my observations. His impossibly young mother has the same slight build, haunted eyes, and long blanket of curly brown hair. We sit on tiny chairs under the Octagon sign.
“I think we need a full battery of evaluations,” I say as kindly as I can. Tears well instantly in her eyes. She’s been terrified of this. “Your son has some very concerning behaviors. I’m working on a support plan right now to give him close adult supervision during transition and free time because he seems to have difficulty interacting with others, and makes contact with peers inappropriately.”
She nods-the tears spill.
“I just knew something’s wrong.” Her voice is a whisper. “His dad can’t handle him. He goes in his room to get away from him because Mano won’t leave him alone. We need help, we need to know what to do.”
“It’s okay,” I say. The teacher pushes a box of Kleenex over. “This is the first step in getting him help, and it’s going to take all of us to keep him supervised, safe, and help him learn.”
“We’ll do whatever it takes, if it’s forever and a day,” the young mom says. She honks her nose.
“That’s what it might be.” I smile to take the sting out of my words, and reach out to hug her. “We’re all in it together.”