Three boys practice passing a football on the fenced-in side lawn of a psychiatric hospital. The football thuds on the ground. I wait patiently for the opposition.
“You overthrew me,” says Aaron, hunching over to catch his breath. Aaron looks like a skeleton with long stringy brown hair. His pale white skin is pulled taut over his body; his limbs are as skinny as bamboo cane.
“No, I didn’t,” Willie says, as he walks over to the football. Willie, who is 14 and at 6’1,” 200 pounds, claims he has plenty of time to grow.
“That was a lousy pass,” says Aaron.
“You can’t catch,” says Willie.
Matt stands on the sideline. He sports a dirty blond Mohawk and a Vandyke: this with his 6’3,” 230 pound body screams intimidation, a Viking. He smiles and shakes his head.
Aaron looks over at Matt and says, “Let Matt pass to me this time.”
Play resumes with Matt passing to Aaron. Willie walks over to me. “Where are they? They should have been here by now.”
“I’ll check on it in a minute,” I say. I am thinking the same thing.
At the hospital, it is not often that the students are allowed to play flag football and they love it. I doubt any of the boys would purposely act out and be banned from playing. Where are the other three students and their teacher? I scan the side lawn, no sign of anyone.
Aaron and Matt stop play and come over. Aaron bounces the ball off his thigh and says, “They aren’t coming. I know they aren’t coming.”
“They better Aaron, I want to play,” says Matt. His face is tense. He strokes his beard.
“I don’t care, I’m gonna play!” says Willie. With that, he bursts into a sprint signaling for the ball to be passed to him.
“Yea!” says Matt. He fires a pass to Willie.
“They’re chickens, yea chickens.” Amidst shouts, they start practicing again.
My supervisor, Dawn, a short, brunette 33 year-old woman, appears on the opposite side of the lawn. She hustles over to me. Her expression is the same as always, reserved and matter of fact, no smile, no frown. She has been teaching here the longest of anyone on staff, five years. I don’t know how she can do it.
“Ryan. Clint, Hector, and Melville are not leaving the unit,” Dawn says. “Staff found out about a perverted card game that they were playing last night. Hector and Melville were purposely dropping cards under the table, and while picking them up were touching each other inappropriately. Later, Clint tried to pull off Hector’s pants. I am not sure what is going to happen with them. Anyway, they’re not coming. What do you want to do with Matt, Aaron and Willie?”
“We’ll play two on two,” I say. “They want to play. They won’t be a lot of fun to be with if they don’t.” I have no problem with Clint, Hector, and Melville not coming. I think this might even be better without them. Less chance of some conflict, those three are nasty to everyone.
“Play for about a half-an-hour, I’ll check in about every ten minutes,” says Dawn. “Watch the contact.”
Football is a success and uneventful. In short, the boys had some fun and no one goes off the deep end. We play a few rounds of two-on-two. Everyone wins at least one game. Ron, Aaron, and Willie are glad that they played. I think I saw a few genuine smiles. After, I bring them back to the ward. I ride home relieved another day of this is done. * * * Months ago, under the threat of unemployment, I took this teaching position at the Peak School, a special education facility. It is located at and a component of the Manchester State Hospital, a residential psychiatric treatment center. The hospital, a gigantic complex of worn brick buildings and rusting chain link fences, sprawls out atop a hill in a large Massachusetts blue collar city. Some buildings are boarded up from decay or fire. Others ought to be. The five-story main hospital resembles a mad scientist’s castle with towering chimneys, an array of oddly shaped windows, and clinging red rusted fire escapes. Beside it, the Peak School is a four-room trailer with security modifications: Plexiglas windows and added locks. In the past, the Peak School was located in the main hospital’s basement or dungeon - a place with no windows, moldy yellow walls, and seasonal flooding. This year, it is closed for renovations. This is not my first choice of teaching environments. It is a dismal facility and the students will be difficult to teach.
Why am I here? Last year, in my first teaching job, I had success with “at risk” students in a public high school. An article in the local paper called me a “tremendous support for students.” I was pleased; the students were pleased; the school was pleased. Regardless, my position was cut at the last minute. Budget restraints. I was caught off guard. Everyone wished me well. I was hungry to teach. I scrambled and found a new position. I was hired as a special needs teacher for the emotionally disturbed and the behaviorally disturbed. The ED/BD.
At the Peak School, I am part of an educational team with four other teachers. Each teacher has a room in the school. Each teacher and each room has a maximum load of four students. Numbers are kept low for the safety of the students and the staff. The student population is nine. This school treats an all male population and all are court-mandated to this facility. There are locks everywhere.
Before I begin to teach, I am provided training by the agency. First, I am instructed to review the students’ general files.
The nine boys range in age from 13 to 21 years old and come from various backgrounds: one-parent homes, foster families, biologically intact families, and no homes. Some are black; some are white; some are Asian. Some were abandoned at birth. Some are runaways. Some were disowned in later life. They come from many places: Colorado, Philadelphia, New York. They all end up here in this Massachusetts Facility.
Next, I am instructed to read the students’ main files. They are books. It will take weeks to read these; I am allotted three hours. After a half-an-hour, I have 10 pages of notes on the first patient and am only a third of the way through his file. I skim the remaining files.
These special needs students have committed various acts to be mandated here. Most are victims of violent crimes. Most committed violent crimes. Most were sexually abused. Most were sexual perpetrators. One stabbed a pregnant woman. One burned down buildings - some with people inside and some withoutpeople inside. One beat a man to death with a hammer. Most have attempted suicide. All are heavily medicated.
I become familiar with the agency’s rules and regulations when school is in session: never shut your classroom door; never leave your room unattended; never let your students out of your sight; never be overly friendly; never let anyone stay in the bathroom for longer than three minutes; never talk about anything that could trigger a student off; never leave anything unlocked; never let anyone violate anyone’s personal space; never have physical contact with students beside restraining; never wear jewelry or hanging clothing. For your own safety, never tell your last name and never tell where you live.
I receive training and become a behavioral manager. As a behavioral manager, I am a teacher of social skills and a guard of sorts. I try to teach students to think about and respond to situations, to learn techniques of self-control, and to understand and maintain societal norms. I must not let anyone escape, injure themselves or others, or allow anyone out of my sight. I am not thrilled about the thought of guard duty.
I learn special behavioral modifications and techniques. I learn to monitor students’ classroom behavior through a point system: one point for being verbally appropriate, one point for being physically appropriate, and one point for doing work. The points directly relate to student / patient privileges. For instance, high points may result in free time outside; low points may lead to restrictions: no TV. I learn to employ “time out.” Time out is 15 minutes where a student is to sit still and quietly in a small room with a chair; the student is isolated in order to regain his composure by coaching himself, or, by redirecting himself to maintain his composure and be successful in school. Time outs are either of a student’s free will or mandatory upon teacher request. I am trained to restrain students who do not follow rules or who become a danger to anyone.
With classroom management, the bottom line is stay with protocol, be structured, and be consistent. Inconsistent classroom management can lead to inconsistent student behavior. I am told that I will get acting out behavior regardless of how consistent or inconsistent I am. Every teacher does. Be ready, lock and load.
I also become a service provider. As a service provider, I operate in a therapeutic fashion. I need to know students’ challenges and teach coping skills. For instance, if a student is terrified of a stove because his hands were mutilated on a flaming burner, then he should be appropriately supported when cooking in home economics or placed in another class. Therapeutic fashion equals common sense.
I receive the curriculum and materials at the start of the school year. I have grand ideas. I plan innovative lessons. I arrive early to set up materials. I use a good classroom delivery. I try hard. I re-plan. I try harder. I never accomplish much. I run into classroom distractions.
While silent reading, one 14 year-old screams at the wall. He covers his ears. The voices will not let him learn. He is taken away . . . One 18 year-old becomes bored with journal writing. He slams his head again and again into a one inch thick Plexiglas window. He is taken away . . . Two boys watch a film strip. At its conclusion, they stab each other with sharpened pencils in the groin. They are taken away . . . One 13 year-old coils himself like a snake on a shelf in his hospital room’s closet. He snaps his teeth at a nurse. He hisses. He cannot come to school for a while.
They are still young men. They act like boys. They talk about football. They like to laugh. They like to be outside. They like TV. Some like to read. Some like girls. Some like boys. Some like music. They all dream. They all want to be O.K.
I talk to the students about many things. I talk about forests, basketball, baseball, swimming, early American History, Indians, and buildings. They want to know about the outside world, about my life, and about life. I try to answer their questions. Many are off limits. They understand. They still ask.
Three students, Matt, Aaron, and Willie are very friendly to me.
Matt wants to be a pro football player. Matt says very little. He is smart when he isn’t torturing himself. Matt apologizes all the time. He is constantly frustrated. Two years ago, Matt began eating LSD like a person breathes air. He committed many horrible deeds he can’t remember. With his memory, he doesn’t know whether certain events actually happened or are acid flashbacks in part or in whole.
Aaron is severely learning disabled; his writing resembles hieroglyphics. He loves the outdoors and wants anything with pictures of raging rivers or wild woods. I bring him old nature magazines. He wants to live in the woods of New Hampshire. Aaron is here for sexually abusing people.
Willie loves Michael Jordan and loves rap. He is from the Big Apple and is going to play there as a pro basketball player when he gets older. He is my favorite student. He has the mentality of a 4-year-old and a tainted innocence. Willie never stops talking. He constantly asks if he is looking more and more like Michael Jordan everyday. He usually begins everyday by telling me a joke, “Why is Santa Claus good at gardening? He likes to ho, ho, ho.”
Willie has been in and out of placements since he was five. He brought a gun to elementary school to shoot two kids who had spray painted him the day before. He is schizophrenic and sometimes screams “shut up” to the walls in my class.
. . .
Forty-five minutes away from this, I live alone in an apartment. I am 25 and primarily play softball or hockey when in season and write in my free time. I sometimes have girlfriends. Lately, I have not. I have stayed away from the added stress that a relationship might bring to my life. I can only deal with so much. All day long at school, I have to maintain a consistent, calm presence, regardless of what is happening around me. Additionally, there is always a weird intensity at the quietest moments as though something is about to strike and you don’t know where it will come from; each work week, my body is powered by nervous anticipation for 6 hours a day. At home I am drained.
On weekends, I hang out with my friends a lot. My ability to concentrate and be patience is exhausted. I don’t want to be involved in anything too stressful or unpredictable. I want calm and consistency.
I went into teaching because I enjoyed working with adolescents and because I loved literature and writing. It seemed becoming an English teacher would fulfill both desires. It did at my last job. However, at the Peak School, I hold the title of English teacher but end up teaching little subject matter. I guess that I help the students by just being friendly but I want to do more. I want them to improve in all areas of their life: academically, socially, self-esteem. They don’t seem to want to or they are not able to. All year, the cycle runs: they do better, then they do worse, they do better, then they do worse. Old and new teachers at the school and the hospital staff tell me that these boys will not make it back to society, perhaps, at best, one student might be released. They cite their years of experience.
I once believed that all students could be reached and helped; now I have my doubts. I begin to have troubles mentally switching environments from the hospital to my outside life. I need more time alone to process the events at the hospital.
At a bar one afternoon, I talk with two of my long-time friends, Peter and George over some beers. Peter is a construction worker, for now; his skin is beginning to get leathery from working outside. He is not one for shaving and his black facial hair looks like dirt. Once he was an excellent athlete. The muscles on his six foot frame are starting to sag. He has been in and out of college several times and thinking about going back.
For now, he is content to work hard and drink hard. George is an accountant for a publishing firm. George is 6’3,” 240 pounds with a balding head and a big beer belly. George is married but never very happy. He lives his life on a time-line: married at this age, kids at this age. “George, accounting is boring,” says Peter. He turns to me. “So, what’s happening in the world of education?”
“I’m not sure what I do qualifies as education,” I say.
“Oh yeah, no more public school, now you’re teaching those psychos,” says Peter. He pauses, waiting for me to respond. “Oh, not going to talk about it. Come on.”
“What’s it like?” asks George. He stares at me. “Interesting stuff at that school, I would imagine.”
“It’s nuts,” I say.
“We know that,” says Peter. He laughs and lights up a butt.
“The kids are normal one minute, goblins the next,” I say, tapping my fingers on the table. “You’re in these tiny rooms with three kids at a time, big kids, bigger than me; they have records a mile long, killed people. They scream at walls, do sick shit to each other. Sex stuff, violent stuff.”
“Do they hit you?” asks George. He gulps his beer.
“Yeah,” I say.
“I would knock the shit out of them,” says Peter. He puts down his beer. “It wouldn’t change anything,” I say. “They’ll do what they want when they want to. Whether you are nice, indifferent, or mean. It’s like they have accepted this fate of responding to impulse regardless of where it leads them. They are giant Ids. They fight desire for a short time or a long time but they still give in or are overwhelmed. The reason, some of it’s psychological, some of it’s physical, some of it’s drugs, some of it’s the fact that they have been tortured.”
“Why aren’t they just locked up?” asks George as he rips the label from his bottle of beer.
“To be sentenced where they are is jail,” I say. “No freedom, everything they do is monitored.”
“They deserve it,” says Peter. He crushes his butt out.
“They aren’t all bad. They aren’t totally to blame,” I say. “The blame is on society, parents, the boys themselves, everyone, but it doesn’t change a damn thing. It is rotten luck, piss-poor judgment, science, genes, lack of responsibility, abuse, evolution, the lack of answers, the loss of hope.”
“Give me a break,” says Peter, shaking his head. “They don’t get sentences there for stealing a pack of gum. We waste all this money on them. They are lost causes.”
“Is it hopeless with these kids?” asks George. He looks down.
“Maybe. I don’t know if they learn anything,” I say. “I don’t know if they hear what I say . . . What am I giving them, a couple good memories at best.”
My nights are filled with visions of fiery gang riots destroying cities, being locked in an ice cold metal cell, and being pulled apart by hands grasping my limbs. I wonder about what I am doing. I think about how wonderful my childhood was compared to my students’ lives. I am frustrated: nothing is improving. I try to be optimistic, resilient. I write a poem about it:
SANDCASTLES AND SUCH
In the family wagon after a day at the sea, a little boy barricaded himself in a beach blanket, a sand speckled security. . . . The young boy's head tapered into his traveling pillow's snugness - thinking. His hand clung to a corroding brown shovel whose pail had been discarded - rust rot. In his life, it seems time totals buckets and oceans overrun sandcastles. He wanted something to last. . . . A pail would solidify the sand against the sea. He knew now that castle builders must carry buckets. Downcast, he remembered oceans never run out of waves. Fatigue and fate foiled his findings, the little man drifted into sleep.
Oceans would always threaten his castles. But he would build them anyway.
Every Wednesday, school is half a day and we have staff meeting in the afternoon. After picking up subs from the local variety store, the staff: myself, Dawn, Linda, Thomas, and Steve meet back at the school and generally discuss student progress and behavior. One meeting, after having four students timed out and four students unfit to attend school in the past two days, we are frustrated and search for answers.
“The natives are restless,” says Dawn attempting to lighten the mood of the meeting.
“You would be too, locked in here with no one of the opposite sex. There are no girls. No girls,” says Linda. She is in her mid forties. After three years, Linda is tired of this. She blames the job for her graying hair and too thin figure. “It’s not normal for teenage boys to be isolated with each other. No wonder they’re acting up.”
Steve, a math teacher in his early forties, fidgets with his Coke can. His face is wrinkled and his curly gray hair is turning white. He looks beat. He used to be more optimistic. “What can be done?” Steve asks. He looks at the table. “I’ve said this before, the environment is depressing, this is a trailer packed with school supplies. We have a bland curriculum. There is nothing exciting about it. You can’t cover anything mildly controversial. You can’t do hands-on projects for fear someone will be killed with the materials. How much fun can it be to come here?” “How can you do something creative?” Thomas says. “Half the time, you don’t even know if they understand what you are saying. They’re in trances. Vincent is on so many different meds, he doesn’t even seem to know his name. Then there is Clint, well, Clint. Enough said.”
Thomas, who is quickly approaching forty, runs his hand through his dyed black hair. He works out all the time. He is finished here at the end of the school year. “Has anyone even tried to do something different?”
“I’ve tried making things more interesting by using art in English class,” I say. “I wanted the students to create a comic book from a short story; they would, draw out important scenes and write a bit about them. The idea went over great for the first five minutes then they all stopped, complaining the idea was stupid. They claimed they were too tired to do it. They wanted their text books back and an assignment to do exercise worksheets, in other words, to copy answers from the text.”
Dawn is attentive to staff comments and says, “Sounds familiar. Do the best that you can. I know that you are working hard. Some of the students’ parents and guardians are coming to visit them. That always sets them off. It brings up their past home lives.” She has no solutions; the rest of the staff and I didn’t really expect any.
Steve shakes his head and says, “Even without the upcoming visits. The students are emotionally disturbed. What do we expect? There is no cure.”
The males have lived in institutions for most of their lives. All have been at this facility awhile with the shortest stay being one year. They don’t expect to leave soon. Some never want to leave. The outside world is fear. Freedom is terror. The pressure of choice crushing down. No control, under the power of impulse, desire. The endless situations: the admitted alcoholic and the drink; the addict and the crack; the pedophile and the little boys; the arsonist, the buildings, and the match; the murderer, the weapon, and the voices. Out there, no one is watching, reminding, supporting, prohibiting. No one is there to ask these young men to think about the consequences.
Some would leave here eventually but never leave the system. The boys would become men and move into the adult mental health system. Perhaps, some would be outplaced to a new hospital due to a behavioral change, loss of funding, a geographical cure: nothing was working. They all keep track of their time inside. They know their admission / projected release dates like other kids know their birthdays. One day, as a behavioral manager, I have big trouble. The class is distracted. Clint is muttering. He is big: 6’1,” 220 pounds. He has history. He has violent history.
I employ an indirect cue. “Okay, let’s stay focused, if you have any questions, let me know. Please no talking.”
“Ffff . . .” Clint continues muttering louder.
I employ a direct cue. “Clint, you need to stop making noise or you will not earn your verbal point.”
“Fuck you.”
“Clint, you have not earned your verbal point.”
“Fuck, fuck, fuck . . .”
“Clint, you need to go to time out.” Clint does not go to time out. He goes for me.
I get lucky. I put Clint in a full nelson. I call for help. Help comes quickly. Clint is dragged off by four hospital staff.
At the end of the day, I am shaken. I go home; I did not become a teacher to do this. I went into teaching to help people, improve people, not to try to force a person to act civilized. I feel that I am doing a lousy job, even though my colleagues tell me different. I look at the want ads. The next day, Willie has been sent to a lock-up in a straight jacket. The voices told him to destroy his room and he complied.
I learn things. I learn about students escaping from the hospital down manhole covers into the sewers. I learn about rapes. I learn one student died from a restraint last year; the patient suffocated to death under his own weight and the weight of the restrainers. I learn and see things that I won’t write down: violent and sexual acts that I wouldn’t have imagined. I do some thinking. If I stay and regroup, maybe, I can improve things. I will try to be more creative and more challenging and more positive. The Peak staff and students claim that they want something different. I will provide it.
In my English class, the students are assigned a project in which they are to create a cartoon character; for a final product, they must turn in a written physical description and biography of the character, an illustration of the character, and a five scene comic strip.
“This is for babies,” says Melville. At 13, he is the youngest at the school. He is 4’11,” with a skinny build, a baby face, and dirty blond hair. He colors a white sheet of paper black. “This is kindergarten work.” “I want worksheets. This is stupid,” says Clint. He sits with his arms folded. “This is a waste of time.”
It is a long period and no one finishes the assignment.
Months pass, at this point, the school’s population is five. Willie is still in lock-up; three other students are not allowed to go to school. They lie on the psych ward floor and scream most days away.
I am beat. My creative approaches are not working. I am drowning in negativity from the staff, the students, and anyone that I talk to about the school. From my friends, I hear “just quit” again and again. I lose weight. I begin to see the world as a land of tortured souls, full of abuse and mental illness. I am haunted by this work. I cannot give the students what they deserve. I have lost the drive to persevere. The light at the end of the tunnel is a burglar’s torch. My passion for life and teaching is being stolen. I disengage. In two weeks, I find a new job and resign. I take a position as an English Teacher at an Alternative School with a less restricted student population. My second to last day, Dawn hands me the letter of recommendation that I have asked for. She says, “Ryan, read it over, let me know if it is OK.”
To Whom It May Concern:
Ryan McHugh has worked in the capacity as teacher at the Peak Educational Program; a school for emotionally disturbed adolescents since the beginning of the school year. In this short period of time, Ryan has quickly learned and implemented the diverse behavioral plans of each student as well as taken the time to learn about the students and their leaning styles and adapt his lessons accordingly. He is conscientious in his work, professional in his presentation, and holds high expectations for himself and his students.
Ryan has been an asset to our educational program and it is with regret but also with high regard that this recommendation is being written.
Please feel free to contact me with any questions or concerns.
Sincerely,
Dawn Burke Supervisor
I say, “It is fine. Thanks.”
I start to leave. Dawn turns to me. “Well, your last day is tomorrow.” She looks at the paper in her hand. “It was nice working with you. Good luck at your new school.” She looks up. “I hope some changes are coming here. I know what it has been like. Good luck.”
On my last day, my students give me a “Best of Luck” card filled with “I will miss you. Go Hiking. Aaron”; “I don’t blame you. I wish I wasn’t here. You were nice”; “Have fun, we won’t”; and “Best wishes to you. You were a good teacher.” Willie’s name is absent; I have never seen him since he was brought to lock-up; I will never see him again. I shake Matt’s hand; Aaron waves from the corner. I wave back. The staff wishes me the best.
“Write us,” says Steve.
Linda says, “You won’t no one ever does.” She laughs. I say, “Goodbye.” I never write. I am sad yet relieved. I gave them what I could. I leave. I can leave. I know that I couldn’t have done more. I don’t think that I changed anything. I like my students. They like me. I know my students will never leave these lives. I hope that they will be OK. I know the odds aren’t with them.