When "Normal"...isn't!

The teacher called me yesterday and told me that she received an email from the school registrar. She’d been concerned about a student who has not missed a day this year and suddenly has been out for three days. The boy’s Dad is a bit different and makes them toe the line, and then some. In fact, it’s caused concern in the past. The boy, his brother and their Dad are considered “homeless”—although they do have a roof over their head.

The email read something like this: “The boys’ Dad took them to see their Mom in another city about three hours away this past Friday. He told the Mom he’d return for them on Sunday. He didn’t come. On Monday he still didn’t come. By Tuesday, he called and told her he wasn’t coming. She’d have to figure out what to do with them.” Abandoned, in a way. Just. Like. That.

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He entered our school yesterday; a Kindergarten student who was quite reluctant to be here. There was concern among the staff because he’s living with his “cousin” who is also in one of our K classes. The cousin is rather unstable and a bit whiny. This new boy arrived and the struggle began.

He kicked. He flailed. He cried. He screamed. He broke things. He made it quite clear he did not want to be here. He made it less than an hour and was sent home because he simply disrupted the entire campus.

All I can think is, “He’s FIVE!” Later I learned that his Mom’s in jail. Dad is living with a Stepmother and he, too, has “issues”.

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She came to me a few days ago with huge crocodile tears in her eyes. She was visibly shaken and angry. When I asked what was wrong--words flew out of her mouth. It was a “he said/she said” school bus story-knot that I could barely follow.

It turned out there had been a referral for her behavior the day before. She was to take it home and have it signed. Instead, she tore it to shreds. One adult at the school put the shreds into an envelope and explained that she WOULD take it home and show her Mother.

She was scared. Except it wasn’t the normal kind of scared. It was true FEAR. Besides, it was her Mother who told her, “If someone hits you, you stand up and hit ‘em back!” It’s a survival skill she’ll need for her neighborhood and probably for the rest of her life.

I wonder just how you draw that line when they have to learn to survive in a world that I have only briefly glimpsed. It’s a fine line, for sure.
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Her Mother dropped her off yesterday in the wrong uniform. It’s not the first time. It won’t be the last. She is dirty and unkempt. Her long blonde hair appears to have been un-brushed for days.

Her teacher saw her in the hallway and asked where she was going. The girl replied, “I have to go get a uniform shirt.” The teacher said, “Where are your shirts? Don’t you have five?” The girl sheepishly responded, “Yeah, I have them, but some are at my Grandma’s and none are clean at my house.”

As the girl headed toward the uniform loan closet, the teacher shook her head and said, “One of our suitcase kids.” She never knows where she’ll be staying from night to night.
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He comes to school with his two brothers. They are 10, 7, and 6. There are four MORE brothers (4 and under) at home. Seven boys! They live in a two room hotel room where Dad does caretaking for the manager. The boys sleep on army cots that can be easily folded and stored during the day. They have been given many things by people at the school and in the community. Still, they struggle.

The oldest boy (remember he’s 10) sometimes misses school because it’s his day to “babysit. his siblings.” Babysit? Four young children? That’s right. Babysit.

The three school-aged children are part of a program where they take food home every Friday. A HUGE bag of food! Yet, they have told adults at the school that each family member has to rotate a night going without food so that there is enough to stretch out for the week. When it’s “your night’ not to eat…you are famished by the time you get to school the next day.
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These vignettes are not "race specific". In fact, of the families discussed above, there are four different ethnicities represented. I could go on and on with these stories. They are part of my everyday life. And these are just a few of which I am aware. They break my heart. Here’s the thing that just rolls over and over in my head, though.

It’s “normal” for them. They don’t know any different type of life.

I can tell you that one thing I have learned in my time working with this population: just because I have a “different” normal, doesn’t make mine more right and theirs wrong. Initially, while working in the inner city of Tampa (which was MUCH rougher than where I am now), I learned that I wasn’t there to “save kids”. I wasn’t there to “rescue them” from their environment, their dysfunctional families, their upbringing. I was there to show them how to be the best young man or woman they could be. I was there to give them educational skills and strategies that would help them.

Some will leave it. No doubt. Some will not. Helping them means giving them tools for survival and hope for their future no matter where that happens to be.

For me, it is my calling. It is what I was designed to do. Every day I am thankful that I have the chance to hug a child that may not have been hugged that day. I have the opportunity to speak positive words into their lives. I have a chance to show them unconditional love. I get to smile with them, laugh with them, and talk with them. I am able to wipe away tears. I get to assure them when they're mad that I still care for them. I get to teach them. I am blessed to work in a place with so many adults who share that calling. It's quite special to me.

For me, there's nothing more normal than that!