The Gilfillan Center started as part of the assimilation
programs of the late 1800’s and used to be a boys home for Northern Minnesota’s
Native Americans. When I worked there, it was fully integrated with some of
Minnesota and North Dakota’s most vulnerable children that could be rough and
tumble one minute and an emotional infant the next.
I took a liking to my job and earned the trust of the kids
there by being reliable, firm and fair. I don’t know if I always possessed the
kind of patience needed to work in a place with delicate needs but I sure
learned to love kids even when it was hard to love them. Because when things
went South – as they often did – they went bad in a hurry. Kids you had worked
so hard to build relationships with would blow up, throw chairs, self mutilate,
defecate, spit, cuss and loose their minds without much warning some times…and
as a staff, we still had to find a way to love them. I used to say that being a
Residential Counselor at LeMoine Cottage was the best job I ever had 90% of the
time. The other 10% was when it scrapped the bottom of the barrel, easily
compared to a life in a fiery eternity.
Today I had a revelation. McQueen School is just like
LeMoine Cottage and instead of being the Senior Residential Counselor with a
supporting staff, I am a teacher that is sometimes “on an island” both figuratively and literally. I have a SPED
aide in my class but her sole focus is on the autistic boy she serves and
rightfully so. This is a small place but that young man is a Houdini and we
don’t want to loose him. The other classroom aide that I have hasn’t completely
earned the respect of the students. Although she’s a villager, my students see
her as someone without much actual power in the classroom. The biggest asset
she brings to the classroom is her Contact List stored inside her ever-present
cell phone. Parents can be summoned with a simple phone call.
But when do I make that call? When do I fold my hand and say
that “Enough is Enough, I’m calling home?”
Today started out like it was going to be an easy day – an
enjoyable one even. In Reading we discussed the cinematographers tricks of the
trade and shared our interests in movies. We learned a few bits of Lingo from
the Biz and even watched about 10 minutes of the Pixar Classic “UP.”
From there we moved effortlessly in to an equally enjoyable
Math lesson. In that class we combined Science & Technology into our word
problems – trying to make real world connections. The lesson revolved around
the digital age of photography vs. the chemical age with film development and
disposable cameras. For fun we passed around my cell phone and took Selfies. We
passed around my Digital camera and shot some candids. We passed around my Instant
Camera and “shook it like a Polaroid Picture.” We passed around my GoPro and
previewed our instant classic on the digital playback screen. The class was
engaged, smiling and working hard.
I sent them off to lunch and headed home for some pretzel
chips, a turkey sandwich and a cold glass of water.
When I returned to the cafeteria to retrieve my well
behaved, focused and loving students I found them mysteriously replaced with a
pack of Gremlins. Not the cute fuzzy kind but the swing from the rafters, fed
them after midnight, look you in the eye and rip your heart out kind.
The afternoon was a complete disaster.
It started with childish name-calling, finger pointing,
tattling and rambunctiousness. It turned into tears, quitting and in some
cases, blatant oppositional defiance. I never once raised my voice. I was calm
and repetitive with my instructions. Siblings and mothers had somehow been put
on alert by the presence of cell phones and other kin in the building because I
had 4 random relatives show up at my door. And 2 of those directed their angst
at me. Perhaps it was just an emotional response to seeing the kids crying or
pouting…but a lot of this happened within the first 20 minutes of me setting
foot back in to my classroom after chow. I had done nothing but yet I took the brunt
of Hurricane McQueen head on.
Somewhere in between the:
flipping of desks,
a mother taking her kid home,
3 kids tossing their work and putting their heads down,
tears from a girl in the front row,
and others desperately trying to conform to my educational
requests and not rock the boat…
one boy slipped back out in to the foyer and
curled up in a ball and cried…
It was his second time to the hallway today. This morning
while I assumed everything was on the Up and Up, he tossed his Math work to the
floor and stormed out in to his secret little hideaway that really is no secret.
Now in his second tantrum of the day, I asked him what was
up and when he failed to respond I asked him if he wanted a hug…he burst in to
tears.
It wasn’t me that any of the kids were mad at today.
It never really was – even in the Gilfillan days.
As I knelt down beside this tiny little boy that just needed
some time to cry I realized that this place is just like the Gilfillan Center
except at night – these kids go home…
Maybe that’s where the problem lies…
I don’t know. I’m just a guest.
Treading water and vowing never to give up, I safely
navigated the rest of the afternoon and realized that other parts of the
student body were experiencing much of the same issues as I was. We made it to
dismissal and nobody got hurt – is it fair that I can call that a “good day”?
I was looking forward to a returning to the volleyball court
with the team that I had shared some good fellowship with over the weekend.
Before I could even change over in to gym clothes I was met by a young lady
that missed 3 days of practice last week and was insisting that we host the
village adults in a scrimmage this week. When I told her that I’d like her to
regularly attend practice and that we’d think about a scrimmage against the
adults next week she retorted, “You Suck as a Coach!” and walked away…
Ohhh to feel so appreciated…. : )
I digress – it’s not all bad here. I promise. I sent a Pen
Pal letter to Cypress, Texas this morning from one of my 5th graders
that is an absolute doll.
When the girl that braided my hair caught wind of her
teammates thoughts on my coaching resume, she quickly set the young sophomore
straight.
Today has just been one of those days…
And then I noticed an envelope in my staff mailbox.
My wife and kids sent school pictures and a card that reads -
“Change – a bend in the road is not the end of the road
unless you fail to make the turn.”
My own children are healthy and beautiful and I can feel
their love from 3,000 miles away. My wife’s timing is impeccable. I needed that
shot in the arm – that reminded that I am fighting the good fight and doing
good in the world…
And then…
I noticed a box addressed to yours truly…
A care package form the bald guy that goes by the name of
“Dillon” – one word name – like Madonna, Prince and Kirby…
His family sent me a whole slew of goodies but the most
valuable thing in the box was a note from one of the best buds a guy ever had… a
guy that has turned over a few bar tables with me in our time…
A note that said:
“I admire your sense
of adventure, I am sure it’s tough being away from your family for so long.
This box is to let you know that there are others out there thinking about you.
Reading your posts and really are rooting for you. Time goes by on BookFace (His
cute nickname for FaceBook) or wherever
that you scroll past and don’t pay attention to what is going on in other
people’s lives. Political baloney, stupid minions, some dumb joke. What I think
you have is an audience right now. People are paying attention and genuinely
care.
The general population
wishes they had the balls to take a chance on something you are doing. Big Ups,
Shoot, I might be one of those people. Hang in there, I know its early on in
this whole circus, and you haven’t even come close to winter. Let me know if I
can do anything for you or the family.”
Don’t worry brother…. You just did!
I love you all and promise to love you even when loving you
is hard.
Kirby
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