Spatial Ed.

I will now reminisce about my years and years of SPED kids. And let me start by saying, damn, these kids work a lot harder than the ones with their brains intact.

In School Number 1 (in year number 1), I had no clue what was going on, and I might have had Special Ed kids, and then again, maybe those were just the stoners.

In School Number 2, seventy percent of them NEEDED to be listed as Special Ed, because they were the offspring of 1st cousins (and that is absolutely true). The standouts were the ones who could write a complete sentence, comprehend an article from the Smithsonian magazine, and graduate without having a baby. Sadly, one of my best and brightest graduated while pregnant by her boyfriend who smacked her around on a regular basis. I could write an entire installment about that girl.

I think the requirements for SPED services were changed sometime early in my career, because by the time I got to School Number 3, the SPED kids were actually receiving some kind of Special Education. I was teaching Ceramics at that point. The messy classes--like photo and ceramics--were my specialty because the other teacher in School Number 2 had no intention of touching that stuff.

Ceramics was also a prime port of call for Guidance Counselors with SPEDs to place, because they wouldn't have to draw. Or write. Or anything. I don't know what they thought I was teaching, but I want to thank those Counselors for providing me with some serious job security.
The best potter I ever had, had Tourettes. I had a girl with Aspergers who made the most intricate little animals out of clay (over and over again). The kid who really did not read well and came off as sort of 'duh' was a standout photo student and went on to a career in photography. And so on.

But there were a priceless few who didn't do well at anything, even as they sat at their own little table in the corner throwing clay at each other, and now that you've read this far, I can tell an off-color story about one of them.

Okay. This girl was in 10th grade or so. She seemed normal in most senses of the word except her (lowwwww) grades, and her hands. She had very (very) short fingers and very (very) long thumbs. I mean, obviously something had gone wrong. I was friends with one of the Guidance Counselors, and since I was new to the school and didn't know shit about the politics there, we would sit and chat. I brought up my concerns about this girl, her lack of progress, her family life, which was less than perfect, and her hands. The Counselor leaned forward and said in hushed tones, "I know...but the worst thing is...she's promiscuous."

O-kay. We both agreed it would be a Really Bad Thing for this girl to get pregnant.

The year went on. Rumors flew like clay across a Ceramics Room when there's a substitute. I became more concerned, and went to see my friend in Guidance. Should I call the parents? Should I call if all I'm hearing is gossip? Guide me!

My friend said, "Well. Her parents took her to a gynecologist."

"Oh good," said I. "And so?"

My friend leaned back in the chair and said, "Thank God. She's sterile."

I pass no judgments on anyone involved in this conversation, though obviously it's okay for a SPED girl with crazy hands to get knocked up if there are no 'consequences'. I will add that a friend of mine in high school was pretty much this exact same girl, minus the hands. She was basically a pair of sexual training wheels for a lot of boys in my old school. I saw her many years later in Baltimore where she had a husband and four kids. They had bought a rowhouse in the city, which they were rehabbing. They were living with bare studs and lathework. There were holes in the floor. No one was complaining. I hope she was happy.

Lastly, my favorite solution to teenagers with behavior problems, SPEDdish or otherwise; send them to JrROTC. All due respect to the military guys, but...really? You have the answer to autism, ADHD, and the rest of that Special alphabet? I encounter the troops at regular intervals in my current school as they practice marching down the hall.

And when they've passed me and I know they're not allowed to look back, I fall in to that Leff, leff, leff, rye leff---and I do my runway walk.