The Promised Cookie
No Longer Angry ChildrenBy David P. SortinoAuthorHouse
Copyright © 2011 David P. Sortino, Ph.D.
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4567-4272-0 Chapter One
The Cold New England Wind!
The cold New England wind grabbed the trees and shook the remaining leaves, which fell to the slick snow-covered ground. I heard the words, "seriously emotionally disturbed", and an echo on the wind—growing louder with each chilling blast. The words sat like a huge rock upon my chest and for a few moments I fought back a burning sensation and dryness in my throat. I was sitting in my dark green Plymouth parked in front of a rambling, white, 19th century country mansion. I had a 3:30 p.m. appointment with Tom O'Mera, the school's director, who would interview me for a job teaching S.E.D. children. But why was I really here? Would my stature, as a teacher of S.E.D. children be the final purification rite in my disturbing, emotional journey which first began that day when I, an energetic sensitive, third grader, first heard the label "a behavioral problem" as the adults peered at me. Or, were my motives for being here altruistic? Was I here because I felt my own experiences could provide some actual assistance in working with these children? The complexity of my emotions was compounded by a fear of failure—a fear that had begun in an Italian-American family whose concerns had been concentrated on unyielding standards of excellence and accomplishment.
My large Italian family had been stable and attentive, our home filled with love. But in the third grade I had discovered a Catch-22 weakness that many kids must face—the fear of their parents' death. In the third grade three things had happened to change my world. But it was not until years later that I realized that these three seemingly unconnected incidents were, in fact, intricately related. I experienced the loss of my grandfather—my first acknowledgment of death. Second, I recognized the potential loss of life in my future—my father could die. Finally, the third incident was my own problematic behavior. In my inability to comprehend that I was not responsible for the loss, that a death in the family did not represent my own failure, I began acting out my own fears through "inappropriate" classroom behavior. In addition, I became even angrier and more frustrated that no one was stepping up to tell me that I really was not a crazy.
In school I talked out of turn, fought, and teased the girls. Intent on order in the classroom, my teacher never let this behavior slide. Bam! Now she was a two by four board hitting me over the head. "Did you talk out of turn, David? Stand in the corner for an hour, David! Move your desk to the hallway for a week, David!" I couldn't discuss my anger with my family for fear of ridicule by my large extended Italian family of aunts, uncles and cousins, whose major focus was undying academic excellence.
My school principal suggested "professional counseling" and again, I feared my family's anger and embarrassment. But fortunately my parents took my part and finally chose a grandfatherly counselor who let me discuss my "anger problems" as though I were talking with my recently deceased grandfather. He was the patriarch of our large Italian family—the core of family strength. It was with this counselor that I was eventually able to clear my deepest fear: If my strong grandfather could die, then anyone could leave me. I did not yet comprehend that death was not a selective possibility but an ultimate reality. My fear of death soon expanded when my father received a promotion that required extensive travel to the west coast. Now I was certain that my father's plane would crash and he would leave me also. My fear intensified when the plane on which my father was traveling actually did make an emergency landing during one flight when the engines malfunctioned. My "school problems" were an attempt to force him to stay home. Years later, I read that educators and psychologists know that eight year olds can comprehend that death is irreversible. Why hadn't someone let me know that my classroom behavior was a normal response to my grandfather's death and to the fear of losing my father? The more I questioned, the angrier I became. However, talking about my fears with my grandfatherly counselor quieted my anger and I finally did come to realize the reasons for my "acting out behavior."
Certainly, it would have saved me much soul searching to know that I was not the bad kid that everyone had labeled. Yet, this labeling was the experience that gave me what people described as a calling to work with such students. My past had given me an edge as to how to help such angry students. In my time, they didn't have schools like C.O.P.E. but if C.OP.E. had existed, I could have been one of our students. Therefore, on the day of my interview, as I walked onto the school grounds and saw the telltale signs of the students, I had a deja vue feeling that I had been here before. I could see the students' scattered footprints carved angrily into the snow. I could hear their angry pleas for help and could actually feel their pain. On some subliminal level, I gradually realized that I could become an interpreter in the world of the seriously emotionally disturbed child. As you will read, my past childhood experiences had given me the unique ability to create a school environment that would become not only a school, but also an environment that would free these students from their anger and pain of being seriously emotionally disturbed.
* * *
C.O.P.E. was a two-story farmhouse, located on top of a hill surrounded by acres of dormant, withered cornfields. All life seemed frozen in time, including the long low hedges, leafless and coated with snow. The lawn and pathway leading to the main entrance formed a frozen mass of carved, random footprints. Not even the high-arched black roof escaped the stark, snow-white remains of the recent storm. Adjacent to the farmhouse was a small, white, Cape Cod-style cottage. About fifty yards from the cottage was a barn. The barn, like the farmhouse and cottage, was white with a sloping black roof. A tall brick silo stood next to the barn. Perched on top of the silo, like a hawk ready to swoop down on its prey was a large, copper cow weather vane. Cautiously, I walked to the side door of the farmhouse. Before I could get a grip on the doorknob, the door flew open and a woman around thirty-five years of age appeared. She asked if I was David; I nodded yes. She introduced herself as Jeannie, the art teacher, explained that Mr. O'Mera, the school's director, was waiting to see me, and then asked me to follow her to his office.
I walked into the musty building, closing out the light as I closed the door. As we began our journey to the director's office, I noticed the first room we passed was the kitchen. Later I learned that the kitchen was used as a teaching laboratory. Whatever its purpose, it was in total disarray: dirty pots and pans filled the twin sinks, garbage pails were overflowing, cups and glasses cluttered every inch of counter space.
We walked past the kitchen and up a series of staircases. The staircase was dark and treacherous; all I could see were frantic pencil scrawls, holes in the walls, and banisters torn from their holdings, on the verge of collapse. I would learn later that this was how the school's students expressed their anger, through abuse of the poor building and other...
