Strays

I take in strays. If I could, my house and grounds would be covered with plants and animals, found or gathered from the wild or from rescues. Someday, maybe. Not yet. But I take in stray kids every day. Not because I'm young and hip, I'm not. I'm short and sassy, or "salty" as they would say.

Not all kids enjoy high school, or their teen years, or even their lives. Many suffer both physical and psychological struggles including abuse of all imaginable types and extreme neglect. But they don't usually stay very long, because when the system winds up realizing that nobody at home is paying attention, the family has to move along. Can't bear close scrutiny for whatever reason. I can list hundreds, but ignorance and poverty seem to come hand in hand. Ignorance that leads them to make at least foolish and sometimes dangerous choices that lead them down dark hallways into despair. 

How these people treat their children may be based upon their own young experience. Usually one is just like the other, only now the child is the parent, and there's a child they don't know what they are expected to do for, because nobody did for them. I have compassion for these poor struggling souls, but I'm more interested in the well-being of their children. I probably see their children more frequently than the parents do. When the child begins to unravel because of their life's traumas, I'm the one who witnesses it. 

Several of these strays come to mind, vividly, but I'll only tell the story of a few. Let me warn you. The hardest lesson to learn needs to be in your mind as you read. This is the lesson: You cannot save them all. Statistically. 

My first stray was a young woman with a pale aspect who didn't meet most people's eyes. Not that many of her peers sought her out. She was a loner. She had long, greasy black hair, and she always wore the same turquoise and black checked hoodie with fleece lining. Every single day. Summer, fall, winter, spring, summer. 

But in summer she changed. That's because a couple of teachers kept hammering at the counselors to please try to spare a moment for this child and pull her records. Turns out she had been in our District before, but the file had been misplaced (?!) that indicated that she was on an Individualized Educational Plan, or IEP, when she had been with us as a younger child. 

They retested her, discovered that she was extremely near-sighted, clinically depressed, and suffered from Tourette syndrome, hence the sometimes startlingly loud hiccoughs she suffered when stressed. Within two weeks of getting glasses, medication, and being set up with a therapist she had already changed dramatically. She actually spoke in class and before the year ended she made jokes. She had recovered her second semester, and wound up graduating high school last spring. She is still dear to me, and she comes by to visit on occasion. 

Another stray I had was a young woman who had been prostituted out by her parents. She had her first miscarriage at 12.  She had been in and out of foster care for years, but was living with her maternal grandmother when she came into my class. She didn't look as though she cared for herself, not maintaining good hygiene, but she was very open about speaking up for herself. Guess when Big Brother is your parent, you have to learn to self-advocate. And she was bright, a gifted writer. Her parents were in jail not because of what they did to her, but because of what they did to another girl whom they had kidnapped with the intent to sell her into the sex trade. She was in my creative writing class, and wrote candidly of her experiences. She knew she was in transition, was healing, and she utilized the medium of writing cathartically. She started washing her hair, and taking pride in her appearance, although her clothing was ill-fitting and of poor quality. She didn't have much, but she was trying to strengthen herself by caring about her appearance. 

Then she disappeared. Literally. Gone from my classroom, gone from the gradebook roster, gone from our school. I begged to be told what had happened to her, but nobody in administration would tell me. The friends she had made told me that she had been taken away from her grandmother and placed in foster care again. I was devastated. She would be moved to another school, another house, another attempt to be the kind of kid that maybe foster parents wouldn't dislike or mistreat. 

Can you for one wild moment try to imagine what it would be like to try to get an education, to function meaningfully in a massive, over-worked, bulging at the seams public school, while going through the types of personal experiences this young woman had? 

She was to be adopted, I heard through rumor. Then I saw her at a movie theater and she introduced me to her soon-to-be adoptive family. I was thrilled for her. What a marvelous opportunity. What a terrifying prospect. Months later, she was back in our town, in our independent student living program, as they had "returned" her. Yes, that is a thing. DHS had apparently neglected to mention to this couple that their newly adopted teenager had been forced into the sex trade as a child, been forced to take drugs, and had had miscarriages and abortions. You can't expect that transition to be easy, and without knowledge, they didn't know what was wrong with her when she started testing their safeness. How far they could be trusted. Because foster care kids have major trust issues.

Soon after making a brilliant start back at our school, she started missing classes, and missing therapy sessions. She had had a falling out with a boy, and went into a major depressive episode, incapable of getting out of bed. She missed enough classes that she became a No Credit student, meaning that unless she had an F, she would receive no credit for the class. When she stopped attending and doing work, her grades plummeted. Soon she was told she could no longer be a part of the program providing her with  housing and other supports. We found a program in the City that was for girls who had aged out of foster care, but they had to have graduated high school. Ultimately she found a program in a rural area that was supposed to help alternative students finish their education, providing housing and other support. That was the last I heard of her. 

So I have a stray boy, now. Stray boy are completely different from stray girls, and sometimes have problems with women, so for me they are fewer. But I have one now who I am trying to keep in school by providing a safe place.  He's wild a a march hare, and his last name means wolf. He has thick, straight black hair, and dark brown eyes. He shaves the sides of his head, but allows the top to grow long, and wears it in a ponytail or a bun. He wears the same hoodie every day. Every. Single. Day. 

But he approved of my movie selection (He was in my film as lit class), and appreciated the time I've spent in the martial arts and my fairly in depth understanding of how humans express violence. He knows I consider myself to be an internally violent person. And I possess extensive, in depth information about how to disable an opponent. He knows I know how he feels when he wants to hit a wall or a tree, or, God forbid, a human. He has come to my classroom several times when he has felt he might be about to hit something or someone. And he's mellowing somewhat. He still is in turmoil almost continually. He respects his father, but there is little doubt that he has been physically abusive towards his sons. I also believe that the father is probably the better of the two biological parents. I want to get him on at least a 504 for his anxiety, so he can be given permission to act logically in the above described manner. But his father won't go for having him tested. So I just tell his teachers where he is when he leaves their room and comes to mine. And he doesn't disturb anyone when he's in my classroom, he sits and reads or watches the class. He just needs that safety valve to curb certain behaviors. 

At the beginning of the school year, he threatened to have dropped out of class within a few weeks. I've convinced him to try to stay, and we're in  the middle of the second semester. He won't lose credits this semester (god willing) and  he will get that much closer to graduating. If he could be identified, he could be helped, which would make everyone else's lives much easier and support him in finishing school. Failing that, he knows I am present for him when he needs a safe space. I am trying to teach him the honor of the warrior's code. He cannot cease being a warrior, but he can learn self=discipline. He and another young woman whom I love dearly come into my classroom at many breaks throughout the day. They leave me messages on sticky notes when I'm not in my room. The boy has started calling us "Fam." And today as he was leaving, he quickly, and slightly awkwardly, hugged me before launching himself out of the room for the day. 

Oh, I could be his grandmother. I could be his mother, he certainly needs one, but I can't take them home with me. I want to talk to his father; I know how to talk to his father to get him to get the kid some help. But Mom is a nut case, and Dad doesn't want the kid to be a nut case, too, not realizing that their issues are quite different, and he would benefit tremendously from just a little more attention. So since we cannot help him without parental approval, I am going to keep doing what I've been doing by giving him a place to come where he is safe and respected. Well-regarded. I don't think he gets much of that, and he's such a bright kid, so clever and funny. I would love to give him a big bear hug, but one has to be careful to not appear inappropriate. He just needs his Mom, and she's not available.

I love all my kids, but some become friends when they graduate. I have been truly gifted to get to work in education. I pray my contribution is worthy.