"Okay!" the chipper parent announced.
"We've made some big changes to this year's Poetry Slam!"
My it was early.
"You know your students! Pick a dramatic one, well spoken, likes to be on the stage! You know your good ones!"
"In the past we have had representatives from each grade present a piece in Spanish to represent our language program...." my co-worker began.
"Cute! Maybe I can get you a spot! Wouldn't French be better?!"
"Look you elitist bitch, do you have any idea what goes on at this school or do you just busy yourself with shoving your head up your ass?" I inquired, or wished I did.
"Gotta go to the bathroom" Oliver stated as he walked toward the door, tugging at the crotch of his pants.
He was back in seconds. He was shifting a lot, agitated. He stood up and tried to take his pullover sweatshirt off. His shirt came halfway off too, leaving him semi-naked in the middle of the classroom. His fly was down. I thought I saw skin instead of underwear. All of the kids were staring and some were starting to laugh.
I started to laugh too and pulled Oliver's shirt back down.
"Come on, silly, you're half naked!"
He laughed and slumped back down, leaning back and practically laying on the girl in the seat behind him. Then he picked his nose. And ate it.
"Move up silly, you are in someone else's space".
He rose back up.
"Gotta go to bathroom".
He was back again in seconds and remained standing by his table while beginning to draw the activity.
"Can you sit down, Oliver?'
"More comfortable standing up".
"Okay" I was mentally begging him not to say 'PENIS'.
"I DON'T LIKE PANTS" he announced suddenly and strode across the room.
A few of the meaner spirited boys were laughing now and mimicking him.
I leaned into the face of one of them.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" I asked lowly, my eyes inches from his.
"Shutting up" he responded.
"Exactly"
I snapped out of my child abuse fantasy as Oliver again left the room. I was actually relieved that he wasn't crying, that he seemed relatively happy even while agitated. I don't know why nothing will stop me from adoring this kid, even when he picks his nose.
The sun wasn't up yet.
The presenter coached a participant through the acting portion of the foreign language teaching method we were learning.
"Muter! Muter!" he howled in German, sticking his teeth out and fake crying, all while encouraging the participant to mimic him.
I instantly thought of Buffalo Bill in "Silence of the Lambs", mocking his victim in the well by shrieking like a "woman", all while pulling his shirt into points to pretend he had boobs.
I decided that I could digest the rest of the information aurally.
"I have the fourth grade nominee for the Poetry Slam" I announced.
"Who?" my co-worker asked, relieved. She had made me select the kid that would represent the Spanish program, against my numerous protests. I don't blame her; I consistently shove stuff like that off on her and needed to take my turn.
"Fulton Roberts".
"WHAT?" she asked, alarmed.
I knew why. The cognitive problems. The attacks. The glass eyes. The social problems.
"He pretty much informed me he was going to do it. And I was relieved. It took me a minute to digest the idea, but when I did, well, I think it's going to be really cool. I think it reflects what we're about...how much we teach, how diverse our student population is....that we celebrate everyone, not just the... not just the....."
"Shiny objects. You're right, Hilary. It is cool".
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