Where We Have Failed

The outpouring of heartfelt responses to the tragedy in Newtown, CT has flooded the internet this past week.

At first I was in disbelief. I didn't look. I had to look. Immediate news was wrong. Just like 9-11, there were wild rumors flying and misinformation was everywhere.

I was glad when Asher came home from school Friday. I wasn't TOO worried to send him on Monday. We didn't tell him anything.

It wasn't until Tuesday that I REALLY looked. And cried. And joined #26acts. And so far I have taken in some recycling bins, donated some books, and paid for some coffee. And while that is therapeutic, I have been still unclear about what exactly is troubling me.

Today, it came to me. 

It was that we have failed not only the 20 children and 6 teachers. We have failed a mother. We have failed a child who turned into a killer. 

And I wonder if I, personally, have failed anyone. That is what is haunting me.

That is what I have struggled with all week.

In a former life, I was a special education teacher. I was the expert. I was the keeper of troubled elementary children. For a brief period in their lives, I was the one looking out for them.  Most years,  most of my children were memorable in endearing ways. 

But there are a few that stand out... 

The second grader who came to school with cigarette burns, and threw scissors.

The second grader who jumped out of the window because he didn't want to do his math (1st floor).

The second grader who was never allowed to be spoken to directly, in order to prevent tantrums. "Would anyone like to line up for lunch?" Never, "Please line up for lunch Gary."

The kindergartener who after speaking to me for 30 minutes, went completely blank, rolled her eyes back into her head and then cheerfully introduced herself to me. "Hi, I'm Catherine. Nice to meet you." Is kindergarten too early for a dissociative identity disorder? 

The fifth grader who spent two hours trashing my classroom, throwing chairs, toppling desks, and heavily breathing while staring at me with cold, dagger eyes.

 (Obviously, these are not their real names)

Each year I weighed my options, thought about my caseload as a whole and tried to serve each child to the best of my ability.   I  have a Bacehlor's degree in Elementary and Special Education with a Master's degree in Mild to Moderate Learning Disabilities. 

Dyselxic? I'm your girl. 

Central Auditory Processing Disorder? I'm on it.
Speech delays? Sensory Integration Trouble? ADHD? Bring it on!

Mild Autism Spectrum, PDD, Aspergers to be taught in inclusive classrooms? Pretty damn good.

Oppositional Defiant Disorder? One chapter in 160+ credits of education about education.

Intermittent Explosive Disorder? Same chapter.
Bipolar Disorder? Different chapter, same class. Elective. Abnormal Psychology.

I am not REALLY qualified. Yet I was in charge of children who suffered from these terrible diseases. I was MORE qualified than the regular classroom teacher, but I am not a mental health care provider. I am not a psychologist. I am not a therapist. I am not a behavioral therapist. I am teacher of reading and writing and science and math. And some of how to act like a person on the planet. But only some. I know 25 ways to teach multiplication. And only a few to teach you not to throw things.

My troubled young man, Shane who threw chairs? I had 3 hours of consult time with a behavior therapist that entire YEAR.

YEAR. He was in my care for 6 hours a day.  

I am sad to admit, I appeased him and my other students with serious mental health issues for the most part, so I could move my non-violent students ahead. The ones I knew I could help. The one who I taught to read, and now she has graduated high school. The one who's mother I still keep in touch with. I KNOW I made a difference to those children.

To Gary? Catherine? Shane? The others? 

I spent a great deal of time advocating for their appropriate placement (read: for alternate placements other than mine) because I could not help them to the extent that they needed to be helped, and help the others as well. 

The solution to Shane's trouble was to set up a video camera of the classroom. Catch a dangerous act on tape and then have him moved to a more restrictive facility for everyone's safety. Wait until he was dangerous (throwing objects at me without any appropriate interventions stopping him) THEN I could get support.

Some were moved out of my placement, some weren't.

I spent this week searching for them on google, facebook, myspace... 

I found a few.

I am proud to say that Michael has a job and openly posts about bipolar disorder on his facebook page.  I feel excellent about that. He is aware. His family is aware. His network is there. He is being helped and surviving.

I found Shane. He had a facebook page. It has been empty and inactive for several years. Where is he now...?

It's the ones I can't find that I worry about. What has become of them? Could I have fought more? Fought harder? Advocated louder for their care?  Did I exhaust the resources that were available to me to help them?

I can only hope that I did. And yet I know that they were failed. There were students who needed more from us as a society. And they have parents that we failed. Parents who needed more support. More resources. Less blaming and shaming.

I have tossed this around in my head since I left the classroom to have a baby (really, literally left school and drove to the hospital). I think that I would be a better teacher now that I am a mother. I think that it would be harder to teach, now that I am a mother. I would see my real children in my school children and vice versa. I would know what it would really be like when I sent homework home, and when I said, "You should try...."

All parents HAVE tried. The parents of mentally ill children are barely surviving.  They have lived it every day since they knew something wasn't quite right. And they love their children in fear daily.

Imagine it.

How do we know that the shooter's mother wasn't on her way to call 911 because that was her only resource left? And she didn't get there fast enough. We probably will never know.  But as someone who was once responsible for troubled children, I know that the job is too big for one person. The village needed to raise a troubled child is vast and far reaching.  It is challenging and it is necessary. Each child deserves a fair chance to have a happy, successful life.  We can not fail them just because it is hard. It is the right thing to do, to help them. The support them. We can not fail. The cost is much, much too high.