The first day I walked into my new teaching position at the group home for adults with severe and profound developmental disabilities, I wondered what in the world I had been thinking when I had accepted this job. It had more of a nursing home/mental hospital feel to it than that of a classroom. And I was more of a preschool teacher than a personal care attendant.
Each day I would conduct three one-hour classes for 6 or 7 students at a time who would come to my room using walkers, wheelchairs or walking slowly with the assistance of an aide. The highest academic level I could ascertain was kindergarten, as I discovered one day when one of my students demonstrated that he could actually read--very slowly, in his quiet voice, with much coaxing on my part. And yet I had been hired to teach these students a curriculum out of a book that was being used to equip those with special needs to eventually be able to find work and live independently.
My students, however, would live out their days in their various group homes, always in need of assistance with the most basic needs in life. They somehow knew that being subjected to lessons I had to rework to fit their level of comprehension was a waste of time. The testing I had to put them through quarterly was an even bigger waste but because it was the one measurable component of the education program, it was necessary. What I came to discover early on was that no matter how many times we went over the alphabet, counting to 10, shapes, colors and other lessons I had borrowed from my years of teaching 5-year-olds in preschool, my students would not retain the information or ever improve their test scores. One man could list all of the mascots for college basketball teams though, and that was enough for him.
So we spent our days singing songs, making art and playing games. I brought out my preschool repertoire and taught them, "If you're happy and you know it, clap your hands" as they tried to clap with hands that could not go together. Some of them figured out how to tap other objects on the table to "clap" and others just waved their hands in the air. Joining in was the lesson we all learned.
Their favorite game was Bingo using large cards with pictures. Even then they struggled to find the matching picture on their card with the card I was holding. I found super large playing cards and we played War. I would pass out all of the cards, turn over my card and then run to each player shouting out which card they were holding. When I would find the card that beat mine, a man with Down syndrome would put his hands in the air and shout out "BINGO!" And we would all cheer.
Several of my students were older than I was and all of my students required a great deal of medical intervention for various disorders; most commonly seizure disorders. Somehow I would find peace while watching a student have a seizure, knowing there was nothing I could do. It was difficult going to work not knowing what I would face and I would go home exhausted, but while I was there, I felt a supernatural presence strengthening me for the task at hand. Knowing I was not alone was the lesson I learned.
The most profound turn of events for me had to do with an older woman with Down syndrome. She would try to run away from the aide assigned to her if she didn't feel like coming to class. When she couldn't get a piece to go into a wooden puzzle I offered her, she would nearly break it trying to force it in, yelling at it the whole time. She would run out of the room if she felt like it, forcing me to call someone to catch her and bring her back. I would warn her that she had better be good and do her puzzle and she would shake her finger at me in a mocking way, giving us all a reason to laugh.
When she became ill and was hospitalized, it was a typical scenario. But the last time she did not recover and I would write a short poem to read at the memorial service we held. Our class curriculum shifted from preschool to a daily discussion of the afterlife. Everyday we would sing "Jesus Loves Me" and talk about what it would be like to live in heaven. One of my students had been told that in heaven he would no longer need his wheelchair. All I could think was that in heaven we could have a real conversation! As I was getting dangerously close to completely abandoning the curriculum I was supposed to be teaching, this no longer mattered to me. I finally understood why I had walked into that group home.
I recently read an account of the life of Henri Nouwen, a Catholic priest who wrote about being "beloved" and spent his final days with those having mental and physical developmental disabilities living in community. At the end of this book there was a brief mention of how his special needs friends had come to pay their respects at the time of his death and it brought me back to this time when verbal or nonverbal, my students communicated to me daily in a language of love that transcended everything else. It is a spiritual union that is possible when the spirit within each one of us can awaken and bond with another. There are no words to describe it.
Each day I would conduct three one-hour classes for 6 or 7 students at a time who would come to my room using walkers, wheelchairs or walking slowly with the assistance of an aide. The highest academic level I could ascertain was kindergarten, as I discovered one day when one of my students demonstrated that he could actually read--very slowly, in his quiet voice, with much coaxing on my part. And yet I had been hired to teach these students a curriculum out of a book that was being used to equip those with special needs to eventually be able to find work and live independently.
My students, however, would live out their days in their various group homes, always in need of assistance with the most basic needs in life. They somehow knew that being subjected to lessons I had to rework to fit their level of comprehension was a waste of time. The testing I had to put them through quarterly was an even bigger waste but because it was the one measurable component of the education program, it was necessary. What I came to discover early on was that no matter how many times we went over the alphabet, counting to 10, shapes, colors and other lessons I had borrowed from my years of teaching 5-year-olds in preschool, my students would not retain the information or ever improve their test scores. One man could list all of the mascots for college basketball teams though, and that was enough for him.
So we spent our days singing songs, making art and playing games. I brought out my preschool repertoire and taught them, "If you're happy and you know it, clap your hands" as they tried to clap with hands that could not go together. Some of them figured out how to tap other objects on the table to "clap" and others just waved their hands in the air. Joining in was the lesson we all learned.
Their favorite game was Bingo using large cards with pictures. Even then they struggled to find the matching picture on their card with the card I was holding. I found super large playing cards and we played War. I would pass out all of the cards, turn over my card and then run to each player shouting out which card they were holding. When I would find the card that beat mine, a man with Down syndrome would put his hands in the air and shout out "BINGO!" And we would all cheer.
Several of my students were older than I was and all of my students required a great deal of medical intervention for various disorders; most commonly seizure disorders. Somehow I would find peace while watching a student have a seizure, knowing there was nothing I could do. It was difficult going to work not knowing what I would face and I would go home exhausted, but while I was there, I felt a supernatural presence strengthening me for the task at hand. Knowing I was not alone was the lesson I learned.
The most profound turn of events for me had to do with an older woman with Down syndrome. She would try to run away from the aide assigned to her if she didn't feel like coming to class. When she couldn't get a piece to go into a wooden puzzle I offered her, she would nearly break it trying to force it in, yelling at it the whole time. She would run out of the room if she felt like it, forcing me to call someone to catch her and bring her back. I would warn her that she had better be good and do her puzzle and she would shake her finger at me in a mocking way, giving us all a reason to laugh.
When she became ill and was hospitalized, it was a typical scenario. But the last time she did not recover and I would write a short poem to read at the memorial service we held. Our class curriculum shifted from preschool to a daily discussion of the afterlife. Everyday we would sing "Jesus Loves Me" and talk about what it would be like to live in heaven. One of my students had been told that in heaven he would no longer need his wheelchair. All I could think was that in heaven we could have a real conversation! As I was getting dangerously close to completely abandoning the curriculum I was supposed to be teaching, this no longer mattered to me. I finally understood why I had walked into that group home.
I recently read an account of the life of Henri Nouwen, a Catholic priest who wrote about being "beloved" and spent his final days with those having mental and physical developmental disabilities living in community. At the end of this book there was a brief mention of how his special needs friends had come to pay their respects at the time of his death and it brought me back to this time when verbal or nonverbal, my students communicated to me daily in a language of love that transcended everything else. It is a spiritual union that is possible when the spirit within each one of us can awaken and bond with another. There are no words to describe it.
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