October 26th, 2009
I have a friend who’s 4 years old and his struggles pierce my heart and haunt my dreams.
I tell him, “Here at school, we walk in the halls, not run.”
He looks up at me, wild eyed and full of energy, screaming, “BUT I WANT TO RUN!” And off he goes.
I tell him, “We don’t look around the breakfast room. Eat quickly! We have important things to do in the classroom.” His fingers are magnetized to the ones of his own reflection in windows, and his gaze wanders every which way, studying children whose nametages say ’Third’ and ‘FranKayla’. He touches their hair, then their clothes, then laughs out loud when they look at him in disgust.
I correct him, directing his flailing legs to the floor and his busy eyes forward. “Sit still,” I tell him. “Look at what’s in front of you. Stay in the moment.”
He dreams, devising reasons for all of the colors and fabrics and textures around him. He presses my sweater to his face, then looks at me in innocence before his head confuses his hands and causes them to slap me away. For five minutes–sometimes ten, sometimes a whole hour–he is gone.
I am tired.
He bites another student, then me. It’s important that we call his mother, but with a new child in her arms, she’s crying in Spanish when she gets to the school. Trim, her appearance tells me that she has been on the “chase ’big A’ down the halls” exercise regime for longer than I have. Sullen eyes tell me she has lost more sleep and cried more tears. There is nothing to say to a woman whose grief over diverted dreams I am living with just 40 hours a week. The other 128 are hers. If I feel responsible for his behavior, she takes credit for his life.
I want to comfort her, even as her son’s arms are crossed in front of him and held down by the strength of my forearms. My stomach churns and I hear myself asking him, in direct tones, to apologize so I can say, “I forgive you.” He knows what my words mean; he speaks perfect Spanish and English, and can switch between the two with the effortless grace of a bilingual adult. But he doesn’t understand.
He says, “No, never! Never, never, never forever! No!” I don’t understand him. He’s shouting into open classroom doors and my eyes, but the thick glaze over his eyeballs lets me know he doesn’t see me. His anger carries him away.
I hold him, squeezing his arms and legs as tight as I can without bruising him. I have to protect myself from a 4 year old 1/3 of my weight, who struggles to reach my hip.
His struggle exhausts him, then he hugs me, giving me a glimpse of the relationship that’s possible between us.
No matter how far he runs, it is my responsibility to catch him. Still, I struggle to walk away.
