kbsi08

Coach
Kathy Berstell

Nudging, pushing, prodding
Urging to excellence,

Sweat, tears, fears
It’s so hard!
I can’t do it!

Coaxing, cheering, analyzing
Small steps toward a greater goal,

Assess, define, redefine
I’m getting there!
I’m making progress!

Working, guiding, overcoming
Path to victory!

Strive, climb, peak-
Achievement!
I made it!

She makes me
Believe
I am more than I am,

Which helps me
Become
More than I was.

TJ

Kathy Berstell

TJ padded silently into our lives during a season of grief and sadness so profound that it ate at our souls and swallowed our faith. He appeared on our back porch like a movie snippet – Quick, quiet glimpses making us wonder if we had truly seen him. We put out dishes of warm milk and tuna fish to lure him closer, but he remained elusive, always hiding on the fringes of our shadowy deck.

Capturing TJ became an obsession. He represented our loss and sadness, and we struggled fervently to possess him, love him, and claim him for our own. We spent evenings on the carpet by the sliding glass door, tapping lightly on the glass, luring him closer, until we finally trapped him in a Have-A-Heart cage. Imprisoned, TJ yowled and scratched, clawed, and snarled menacingly at his cage. Finally, he settled down, and rode in stony silence to the SPCA for shots and tests. He kept his left front foot imbedded in the tuna can for the entire ride. When we returned to pick him up, he seemed subdued and without affect. We worried that in our quest to own him, perhaps we had stolen his precious spirit.

Over the next several months, TJ captured our hearts with his antics and human-like qualities. Initially, a scrawny tri-color mix of matted white, tawny yellow, and smoky gray fur, TJ became plump with a glossy sheen to his coat. His deep hazel eyes absorbed his surroundings, as he plopped himself on our paperwork, and batted at our writing implements when we tried to work. He leapt out at us playfully as we rounded corners of the house. TJ loved to cuddle and play, but invariably, he would become overly aggressive, and begin to claw and scratch. He never lost his wild heart, and meowed fervently at the door if confined indoors for too long.

As autumn progressed into winter, the one who had put out the first bowl of milk to entice TJ in, proved to be highly allergic to his dander. Pills, inhalers, and air purifiers gave no relief, as our “animal savior” unknowingly sucked the breath from the human who first encountered him. Amid more tears and sorrow, TJ was moved a few miles away to the home of the “cat lady”. She fed him, enjoyed his antics, and quickly deemed “favorite feline” status upon TJ. We visited him often, filling the void with memories and recollections of our dear pet.

Then, as suddenly as he had appeared in our lives, TJ disappeared. He simply left the “cat lady’s” home. We will probably never know why TJ entered and exited our lives so suddenly, but I like to think that our loving “angel cat” has padded softly and quietly into the life of another grieving family, ready to comfort, distract, and restore their faith during their own season of sorrow.

Educating Jason
Kathy Berstell

Jason is a “challenging” child. When I first met him, he was not medicated, and spinning around the room like a “whirling dervish”. How am I going to teach this class with him in it, I lamented. He chattered incessantly to himself, and flapped his arms like a large bird ready to take flight. Jason needed to touch EVERYTHING – Walls, other students, paperwork, art displays, any object in his path would succumb to his tactile scrutiny. Jason did, however, respond to gentle backrubs, and we quickly discovered that to accomplish almost anything as a class, one adult hand needed to be in contact with Jason’s back.

I brought his case-file before the Pupil Review Team, and learned that Jason was diagnosed ADHD, with sensory integration issues. Jason’s biological mother was probably a drug-user, and Jason had been raised in foster care. Elderly foster parents adopted Jason, and soon after, his adopted father passed away. Completely overwhelmed, Jason’s adopted mom had great difficulty controlling Jason, and Jason’s life experiences were minimal.

ADHD, or attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder, is marked by impaired attention and concentration, and/or hyperactivity-impulsivity that are inappropriate for age. There must also be clear evidence of interference of functioning due to the symptoms at home, or in social/work environments. (1)

Armed with a bit of knowledge (along with many questions!), we provided Jason with a weighted vest, a wiggle cushion, and a cardboard office, designed to help him contain himself, and to help me maintain my sanity! We navigated through the school year, in a boat called Trial and Error, searching for landmarks and often running aground.

Stephen V Faraone, and others (2), note in World Psychiatry that ADHD is a behavioral disorder that affects up to 1 in 20 children in the USA. Is this an American phenomenon, stemming from social/emotional factors within our culture? Or, might it be under-diagnosed, or not viewed as an issue in other cultures? All I knew was that I had two diagnosed ADHD students in my classroom, and management was an ongoing adventure!

Throughout the year, I acquired more questions than answers about ADHD, but I did make some astounding discoveries. While releasing ladybugs into our school garden, the students were to observe and note anything learned about ladybugs for a writing activity. Jason stood in the garden, still and silent as a statue, for almost ten minutes, as two ladybugs explored his forearm. Totally engaged and immersed in his observation of the insects, Jason not only displayed model behavior, he also wrote a very detailed and personal piece of writing about his experience.

After this moment of enlightenment, I paused to contemplate whether “ADHD results in significant functional impairment” (3), as the Centers for Disease Control describe, or whether the function of school was impairing Jason’s ability to freely learn through exploration of his environment.

As the year drew to a close, we traveled to Norwalk Aquarium for a field trip. The highlight of the day for Jason was the Touch Tank. In the tank, rays swam about, often brushing by the eager hands of curious children. Jason waited patiently, both arms submerged in water above his elbows, hoping for an encounter with a ray. Observing him for a long while, I noted that Jason was calm, engaged, and definitely not “flapping his wings”. As I stood watching him, I wondered… Was I educating Jason, or was Jason educating me?

References:
1) http://www.webmd.com/add-adhd/adhd-symptoms
2) http://www.pubmedcentral.nih.gov/articlerender.fcgi?artid=1525089
3) http://www.cdc.gov/ncbddd/adhd/

        I am NOT a very good driver. No, I haven’t gotten speeding tickets, moving violations, or summons to the courthouse, but my interactions with motor vehicles have not been particularly positive.  My first experiences with driving occurred on our dairy farm in upstate New York. We had mini-bikes and snowmobiles that we rode for miles over the hilly terrain.  My family, of course, seems to only recall my driving the snowmobile into a partially snow-covered stonewall, ejecting my little sister headfirst into the snow, and attempting to ride the mini-bike under the top bar of a wooden gate, nearly decapitating myself.

            As I came of driving age, my dad attempted to teach me this elusive skill, practicing on the old farm stick-shift pick-up truck. After several “bump-jolt-stall” adventures, I calmly got out of the truck, kicked a tire, and proclaimed that I would ride my bicycle anywhere I ever needed to go.

     Farming families need someone to drive the tractor while bales of hay are stacked onto the wagon during the summer haying season, so I was once again recruited for a driving job. Dad directed me to keep the steering wheel steady, and push down on a particular pedal when he called out to stop. I was a bit nervous- Jim, our neighbor, and captain of the High School football team, was on the wagon stacking bales and building muscles that summer. All went well until Dad called “Stop”! I pushed and pushed on that pedal, to no avail. In desperation, I let go of the wheel, grabbed the seat for leverage, and stomped on the pedal with all my might. The tractor did not stop. It did, however, change direction. Down the hill we went, bales tumbling off, Jim hanging to the wagon frame like a spider, and ultimately landing in the creek, minus the load of hay.   

            My parents realized the importance of driving as a life skill, and not willing to tackle the job themselves, opted for a professional. I was promptly signed up for Driver Education class. Three boys, (all drivers), and myself, (a non-driver) were in the class. The written tests were fine, but the practical driving experiences proved to be a nightmare. Mr. F. deliberately stalled the car on the railroad tracks, and I panicked. My hands flew to cover my face, as Mr. F. calmly declared. “Miss Clark, NEVER take your hands off the steering wheel!” I would have been valedictorian, if not for that driving class.

            Over the years, I’ve become a bit sensitive about this topic of driving. Therefore, I was recently annoyed, when after stopping for diesel gas, I was honked at while driving through town. It was irritating enough that the station had become pre-pay, causing me to attempt to fill the tank without success, and then have to go inside to pay before services were rendered. At the red light another car started beeping at me. People are SO impatient, I muttered, as I turned the corner. Suddenly, the gas signal on my dashboard started flashing. Hey, I paid for gas and I forgot to fill the tank, I thought. I turned the car around, and headed back into town. More car horns blared, and in an exasperated voice, I shouted aloud-The speed limit is 30 mph, and I’m not going faster! As I got out of my car at the station, a man asked, “What’s that you’ve got there?” I turned around to see the pump nozzle and hose dangling from my car, like the tail of a mouse. Apparently, drivers had tried to signal that I had this appendage attached to my vehicle, hence, all the honking.

            I calmly placed the hose on the counter, was given a refund (can’t get gas if there’s no hose), and vowed to invest the money in a new bicycle.

     I chose True Notebooks by Mark Salzman as my reading selection for the Summer 2008 Institute.  The story chronicles the adventures of a professional writer, as he volunteers as a Writing Coach in a juvenile detention center. My husband works as a Physical Education teacher at a maximum security prison, and I thought/hoped that I would find parallels between the lives of the young juvenile offenders, and inmate stories that my husband has shared over the past two decades.

          Little did I know that a conversation in that story would inspire a writing piece of my own. In the story, a young juvenile delinquent asks Salzman why they are writing about painful experiences. The boy contends that it only makes him feel worse, and questions the usefulness of this writing exercise. Salzman counters that from an awful time, memories can be cherished, and those memories become gifts if they are written down and shared.

            Those words made such an impact on me!  I have managed to suppress the “awful times” of my own life very successfully by burying them deep within the recesses of my mind. I abhor discussions about death, and avoid conversations related to unpleasant topics, such as cancer or illness. Funerals remind me of my grandmother, and the only time I ever saw my father, a Marine sergeant, cry. Through the eyes of an 8 year old, I still hold a graphic memory of that traumatic day. The idea of re-living painful memories, much less sharing them, was appalling to me.

            Fast-forward many years, and enter another horrific tragedy. Except this time, overwhelming sadness was coupled with the acquaintance an adorable, strong, and independent feline. The TJ story begged to be told, but it conjured up such dreadful memories of another event, that I did not think that I could write about him.  I sat on my bed, on a Thursday night after the first week of the Summer Institute, 2008, with a blank sheet of paper on my lap, wondering what to write about. Suddenly, as the tears flowed from my eyes, TJ’s story streamed from my pencil. With a bit of editing and a few descriptors, here is TJ’s story.

            Thank you, Mr. Salzman, for encouraging me to tell this story, and giving me the gift of a precious memory.

Salzman, Mark, True Notebooks, Vintage Books, A Division of Random House, Inc., New York, New York, 2003, pp. 49-50

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