A Special Challenge

"Do you have a schedule?" he asks. I tell him that we go into a regular education classroom in the morning and then return in the afternoon.

"How do they know what to do?" he asks.

I explain the rules I've been trying to teach them: Listen; follow directions; keep hands and feet to self; be quiet in the classroom. I've put in a request with the school to draw up behavior intervention plans, but I will never receive a response. So I am using the strategies that I learned teaching the prekindergarten class during the summer: rules, modeling the right way to do things, trying to refocus them when they get off track and giving timeouts. But the rules don't cover many of their misbehaviors. Plus, there is no comparison between my class and the summer class, which had three teachers to seven higher functioning students who already knew how to behave.

Under Brown's guidance, I come up with my own schedule, infused with breaks for the students and play time. He also shows me how to use the behavior strategies in a real classroom. Modeling, it turns out, means not just showing them how to use the Play-Doh, but how not to use it -- sticking it in people's hair or eating it, as Spidey tries to do. Brown coaches me as I teach, leaning forward in the child-size turquoise chair. "Now, show him how to do it," he says as I model how to cut out shapes. "When he does what you want, give him a high-five. Save the hugs for really big successes."

While the students play, Brown lectures me on how to transition with five-minute countdowns and how to keep them attentive by varying my tone of voice. I learn that I do too much explaining. He tells me to be more commanding. It's something I'll hear again, from Rice, Lawrence, even Spidey's mom, who like the other parents is supportive. "You need to put more bass in your voice," Lawrence will say. This does not come naturally and brings to mind some of the veteran teachers that I've seen shouting at kids in the hallway.

Brown tells me to use the small, gray button in the corner of the room to call for help if I need it.

The next day, Wednesday, is our first day without him. "Choose one book," I say. Girly Girl brings back three. Just one, I repeat.

"No," she says, her hands clenching the books. "We don't say 'no' to the teacher," I say, my voice even.

"No!" she screams, and flings all three books across the room.

I look at her, surprised. "Pick them up."

"No!" Her face scrunches, her mouth opens, and she lets out a bloodcurdling scream. She reaches over and hits me across the shoulder. "Timeout," I say and point to the timeout chair.

She walks around the room, sweeping her hand along the shelves. Toys and books fly to the floor. I watch, stunned. The tantrum continues for about two hours until I finally press the gray button. The tantrums are part of her disability, Brown tells me. My students can't be suspended like regular ed students, he says, so I'll have to figure out how to deal with them in my classroom.