A Special Challenge

I spent the mornings helping to teach a summer prekindergarten class with another trainee and a mentor special education teacher. In the afternoon, I was instructed in, among other things, education theory, lesson planning and special education law. We learned to write an individual education plan (IEP), which spells out the District's plan for meeting a child's needs. We also learned about behavior intervention plans, which involve the students' parents, teachers and school administrators working together to address behavior problems. I wasn't so naive as to think it would all go smoothly, but the child-centered approach matched my philosophy. Behavior management, I thought, was a give-and-take.

Respect them -- don't yell or berate -- and they'll respect you in return.

Later, I learn that I've been assigned to H.D. Cooke, where I will teach in a preschool cluster program for students with developmental delays, one of many small classes of special education students scattered throughout the city. I am supposed to use the same materials as regular education classrooms so that my students can be mainstreamed when they're ready. Barbara Simmons, the DCPS supervisor of programs for students with emotional disabilities, interviews me. She says that while the principal at H.D. Cooke will be my direct supervisor, I will also be supervised and supported by the school system's headquarters at 825 North Capitol St., commonly referred to as 825. In addition, she tells me, 825 will furnish my classroom and provide teaching materials.

Three weeks before school starts, I visit H.D. Cooke. I'm greeted by the principal, Rosalyn Rice, an eager, professional woman in a plum pinstriped suit. She gives me the rundown: The student body is mostly Hispanic, with African Americans making up roughly one-third. About three-quarters come from low-income families. The test score improvement goals under the No Child Left Behind Act haven't been met the previous two years in a row.

She shows me my classroom, which is small and bare. An air-conditioning unit hangs in one window. "The AC doesn't work," she says, sounding defeated. "We've called about it, but no one's come out yet."

I nod. The industrial carpet covering the floor is a dingy gray and fraying in spots. There are no teaching materials and no information on my students.

One week before the students arrive, I meet with the school's special education coordinator, Dorcus Lawrence, in my classroom. I still don't have a student roster. "I've tried to call and e-mail 825," with no response, Lawrence tells me. She looks around the room, surprised. There are new rugs from Ikea, toys from Target and supplies from a teachers store. My own children's book collection lines the shelves. I've put play food from my childhood in the pretend play corner. I tell Lawrence that after so many unanswered e-mails to 825, I outfitted the room myself.

"It'll be okay. I'm going to march over to 825 today to get these kids' names," Lawrence says as she moves to stand up. "We'll get to the bottom of this."

She pats my hand. "Save your receipts."

ON THE FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL, I AM READY. I wear a black suit to show these kids I mean business. At 8:30 a.m., I walk to the cafeteria to pick up my students, though I still have not received a roster. The cafeteria is teeming with children sipping orange juice and eating crumbling blueberry muffins. At 9, Rice calls roll, and the students line up by grade. None is mine. My first pupil arrives on a special education bus at 11.

"He must be in your class," the janitor says after knocking on my door.

A rotund little boy huddles in a corner. I squat so that I am eye level with him. I will later learn from the Quiet One's father that he was a normal toddler before a mouth infection and high fever at 14 months left him with speech and cognitive delays. His gross and fine motor skills are also impaired, and he will work for much of the school year to write the first letters of his name. He will be my shadow, the Quiet One, staying close, often refusing to go with any other teacher. But right now, I know none of this, as he turns toward the wall and I talk to the back of his head, a scruffy mop of short black hair. All I know is the information listed on the bus form: his name and phone number.