The VOICES of THOSE KIDS

education

October 25, 2021

The VOICES of THOSE KIDS

During preservice a few years ago, I ran into a group of new teachers at lunch. We had a brief conversation about where we worked. When they heard where I taught, a PRTF (Psychiatric Residential Treatment Facility), one of the teachers said, “Good for you. I couldn’t work with THOSE kids.” I said, “You do realize when THOSE kids leave my facility they will become YOUR kids.” She said, “Oh, I didn’t know that.” This interaction made me sad. Really sad. You see, THOSE kids were MY kids and I thought MY kids were amazing. I also knew that with the right support, positive adult connections, and opportunities THOSE kids could be extremely successful. So from that day forward it became my passion, my mission, to teach THOSE KIDS.

I wrote this post after that encounter. I wanted to share it again. This time followed by the words, the stories, of a few of THOSE KIDS. It’s just something to think about as ALL kids, including THOSE kids, continue their journey with us….

I have been thinking a lot about tough kids and mental illness and trauma and perceptions and solutions and just a whole bunch of things as I reflect on my past year of teaching. I was talking to a someone I hadn’t seen in a while and she asked what I was doing for work. I told her I was teaching at a PRTF with kids receiving inpatient psychiatric treatment. She immediately said that must be so hard. Those are tough kids. I couldn’t work with those kids.

She didn’t mean any harm by her reaction, but I got stuck on her words. Who are “those kids”? I know what she thinks of when she and many others picture my students. She thinks troublemakers and delinquency and poor behaviors and disruptive and hateful and crazy and difficult. She thinks about what she sees in the media – stories of bullies and mental illness and criminals and the most negative parts of society. I wish I could say she is wrong, but she’s not entirely wrong. Many of my students do have criminal records and have been incarcerated at some point. Many have exhibited very disruptive behaviors and many right in my classroom. I have learned more curse words and new ways to put those words together in just one year than my other years of life combined. I encounter non-compliance and arguing and aggression on most days.

I replied to her comment by saying that I really liked it and while it can be crazy some days I really enjoy the kids. What I wish I would have said was look again – take another look at “those kids.” I would tell her those kids are more than the outside behaviors and attitudes you see. I would tell her their behaviors are not who they are, but a result of where they have been. I would tell her those kids live in a constant state of fight or flight. I would tell her they would behave if they could – it most often is not a choice but the only way they know. Good behaviors are taught. They can’t do better until they know better. It is hard to be patient when you’ve been screamed at your whole life, it is hard to share when you fought for every scrap of food, it is hard to be compassionate when you were never hugged, and it is hard to trust when the very people who were supposed to love you are the ones that are hurting you.

I would tell her to look again. She would see “those kids” are survivors. Those kids have been abused, neglected, starved, abandoned, raped, beat, addicted, prostituted, and shamed. And it spite of that, they are living. Many of them are healing and learning and coping and growing and some of them are even thriving. It’s a process and it isn’t without setbacks, but they are surviving. They are learning academic skills, social skills, and coping skills. They have goals and hopes and dreams just like every other child. They are so much more than what you see the first time you look.

I would tell her if she looked again she would be amazed. Those kids are funny. They would crack her up with their quick wit and sense of humor. Those kids are creative. The art, poetry, and writings they create could be displayed. Those kids are smart. They learn and accomplish new things each day. Those kids are compassionate. They learn to care and to connect to people, some of them for the first time in their lives. Those kids are loving. They give high fives and compliments and hugs to those that care for them. Those kids are just kids. They enjoy the same things her kids do – movies, games, sports, art, electronics, hanging out, friends, and family.

I would tell her it’s okay to take in what she sees the first time she looks, but before she makes final judgment I would ask her to please look again. She might see the kid who misbehaves during her child’s assembly, but if she looked again she might see a boy who is jumping up and down trying to see if his mother ever made it to the program. She might see the kid who steals, but if she looked again she might see a girl who was gathering food to eat at home. She might see a girl addicted to drugs, but if she looked again she might see a girl who was self-medicating to cope with the abuse at home. She might hear a boy being rude and disrespectful, but if she looked again she might see a boy hiding the fact that he can’t read and is confused most of the day.

I would tell her I don’t want anyone to make excuses or give special treatment, but I am just asking her to look at “those kids”. Really look at them. Don’t look through them or turn and walk away. Stop and have a conversation. Talk to them. Interact with them. Don’t assume that they don’t want to do better. Don’t be scared of them. Don’t assume that they are bad kids or don’t have a lot to offer this world. Give them a chance – maybe even a second and a third. They’ve made mistakes but recognize the effort. Recognize that healing is a process. See that progress usually happens in steps – sometimes very small steps. Don’t just see the behaviors and mistakes and mental illness and the trauma. See the progress and the potential and the goals and the dreams. See that each of “those kids” just wants a chance to be a kid. THOSE kids are OUR kids.

The VOICE of THOSE KIDS

I wasn’t sure how my students would respond when I shared my post with them. Would they be offended? Angry? Accepting? Maybe even proud? I shouldn’t have worried. It wasn’t but a couple of hour later when the first paper landed on my desk. She said to me, “I am one of THOSE KIDS and I have a story. I think it could make a difference if people knew it. Will you help me tell it?” And that’s when I knew it wasn’t going to be about my voice. It would be about their voice.

The VOICE of THOSE KIDS: Below the Surface

The hardest part for me was that you didn’t realize I was one of THOSE KIDS. You saw me as a good student who was capable of making good grades and following the rules. You saw a kid with friends. A kid who participated in school groups and activities. A successful student. And I was those things.

What you didn’t see was the emotional struggles that I was having. I felt like an outcast all too often. I felt like I was drowning. I needed someone to look below the surface. I needed someone to see what was really going on with me. I was often labeled as the gay kid and everyone wanted to fix that problem. It was okay that you wanted to help me deal with that, but too many dwelled on that. All adults wanted to do was to tell me what I should do or what I needed. Just because you are older than me doesn’t mean you know what is better or worse for me. I never asked for you to fix me. I just wanted you to help me figure it out. I wanted you to lead me through my problems and struggles so I could find my own solutions. I needed you to stop talking. To stop telling. I needed you to listen.

If you had asked I would have told you about a picture I see in my head that represents high school. Picture high school as an island and everyone who comes onto the island is given an average size rock to hold. The rock represents the responsibilities and expectations put on a high school student. The majority of students stand on the island and have no problem holding the rock. They can hold it in one hand, throw it up in the air, and some can even break it into smaller parts to make it easier to carry. There is another group of students that are near the shore. Their rocks continuously get stuck in the sand and mud and they struggle to get the rock to move. They may be able to pick it up momentarily but keep dropping it and make no real progress. Another smaller group of students are in the water paddling with all their might to keep their rock above the water. They gasp for air and are in constant motion as they try not to drop their rock while keeping their head above water. And then there are the last few students in the group, that are holding their rock above the water, but they themselves are completely submerged. They don’t have the strength or will to do anything but hold the rock barely above the surface.

That was me in the last group. Every single day. Drowning. Fighting a little more each day just to survive. I wish more people saw it isn’t about the rock being above the surface. It’s about the effort and the struggle it takes some of us to keep it there. It’s about how hard it was for me to make seem to you that I was okay. Look below the surface. I wish someone would have done that for me.

The VOICE of THOSE KIDS: A Bad Student. Not A Bad Kid

I’m THAT KID. Absolutely. My friends and I were THOSE KIDS. We had that label from the almost the very beginning. We got the checkmarks by our name. We missed recess. We got thrown out of class. We didn’t comply. Not very often. When we sat in the cafeteria together, we had a target on our table. You saw us being loud and maybe a little defiant. We were the kids who didn’t care as much about grades, didn’t care about participating in sports and clubs, didn’t care about following the rules, and didn’t care about succeeding. At least that’s what you thought.

We were the kids you let slide by and didn’t focus on. We weren’t worth it. At least that’s what we thought. I knew I couldn’t be that top student or star athlete. School was just too hard. None of it made sense. I didn’t know how to play sports. I never played when I was little like the other kids. I couldn’t be those things, but I was a good kid. I really was. You just didn’t see it. When you saw my friends and I sitting at that cafeteria table, all you saw were the rules we weren’t following or the mistakes we made. You didn’t see we accepted anyone into our group – we took outcasts and gave them a place. We didn’t judge. We didn’t expect anyone to change. Whoever you were was good enough. You didn’t see that many of us were hiding disabilities or trauma or just really deep secrets. We were coping. Surviving. But we knew. We supported each other. Defended each other. We were loyal. For many of us it was like finding the home we had never had.

Why wasn’t the fact that we were accepting and loyal and open-minded and honest never acknowledged? Why don’t you at least get some credit for having character? For being a good friend? For being a good person? But you don’t. At least I didn’t. At some point, you stop trying. You stop caring. Only the “good students” matter. Only the “correct path” matters. AP Courses. Straight A’s. GPA. College Bound. Honors and Awards. You are either the top or you are a nobody. Nobody’s don’t matter. Don’t have options. Make bad choices. This nobody made a lot of really bad choices. This nobody is facing the consequences now.

I own the mistakes I made. I’m not blaming anyone else, but I do wonder if it would have made a difference if someone had told me that not following the “correct path” didn’t mean there was no path. Maybe told me about different classes or different training. Maybe said I needed taught differently or tested differently. Maybe saw that in spite of the misbehaviors and the mistakes that I had strengths. Talents. Character. Maybe saw that not being a good student didn’t mean I wasn’t a good kid. Because I swear to you I was. Maybe it would have changed things. Maybe.

The VOICE of THOSE KIDS: I Am Still A Lonely Kid

I don’t feel like I was one of THOSE KIDS because that would mean I was part of a group. That I belonged to something. That I fit in somewhere. But I didn’t. There wasn’t a group for me. I was always alone. I was the weird kid. I did weird things. The one you laughed at. Not with. At. I was the one you made fun of. Bullied. I didn’t have friends. I still don’t.

I don’t know how many times I heard adults talk about me. How many times I heard them say I was just acting out for attention. Of course, I was doing it all for attention. I needed attention so bad that I was willing to do anything anyone asked. I would do anything to make my peers laugh. To make them talk to me. To have anything that resembled a conversation. To make it seem like I had friends for even just a few minutes.

I knew none of it would last. I knew my peers didn’t understand me. I knew they never chose to work with me and sit with me. I knew they were tolerating me at best. I overshared and attached too quickly. One act of kindness and I wouldn’t leave their side. I made them uncomfortable. I made up stories. I told lies. You saw me do this because I got in trouble for it a lot. A lot. I received consequence after consequence. I was always warned or threatened. You always said stop acting this way. Just stop.

Why instead of just telling me what not to do, couldn’t you have asked me why I was doing it? Why I needed attention so bad? I would have told you I had always been a lonely kid. I would have told you I struggle to communicate and it takes time for me to explain how I am feeling. That most of the time I don’t know the words to use. I can’t read emotions or understand reactions. I would tell you I act this way because I’m trying to make friends. I may have even asked you to help me. Teach me how to make friend. I would have tried anything you suggested. I still would because I still don’t know how to do that.

I would asked you to give me more chances. More fresh starts. Don’t tell my teachers so much about me at the beginning of the year. Do you know how it feels to hear your teacher talking about the things you can’t do on the first day of school? I do. Don’t already have me at a table by myself before I even meet my new classmates. You isolated me before I ever had a chance to fit in. How do I ever become someone different if everyone already think they know who I am? Give me a chance to change. Give me a chance to do better. I swear I would try.

Of course I can see now I am one of THOSE KIDS, and I think there are a lot of kids like me. When you see us acting out for attention, it’s because we need it. We need your attention. Way more than the ones who actually get it do. You know it. We both know you said it again and again. I was lonely every minute I was in your school. I left your school lonely and went on to be lonely at my next school. I am still a lonely kid. But don’t feel bad for me. Don’t pity me. That’s not what I want. Talk to me. Help me. See me. Teach me. Teach me to do better and be better because right now, I could really use someone.