Chapter 3 Salma
Salma
Every year, I fall in love with almost all of my students. It takes time to get to know their idiosyncrasies and uniqueness, but once I learn them, I can’t help but see all of their behaviors through that lens. Virtually all children are good kids, even those making bad choices.
I understand why Tommy’s parents send him to school with a nanny.
The child is kinetic and is delayed in developing impulse control.
Winifred from Hong Kong is a marvel. I don’t know who taught her to raise her hand that way—left hand across her body, right elbow cupped in her left hand—but it shoots up to answer every question, always correctly.
Winifred also translates for Hong, who, even though he doesn’t speak English, has picked up “what the” as his utterance of choice, a one-stop phrase that somehow manages to express disbelief, frustration, and happiness.
And then there’s Kirsten V. Every day, I work with her on her kindness journal where she has to reflect on one kind thing she did or said all day.
She has an empathy problem, in that she has none.
There are many days when she can think of nothing, so I help her identify small actions she can take to develop that muscle.
Holding the door open for the person behind her.
Telling someone that she likes what they’re wearing, yes, even if it’s clearly from Target.
She has a way to go. Some kids who are antisocial come from wonderful families who are clearly troubled at their children’s behaviors.
They are great partners with whom to collaborate on developing home-school rules for consistency. This is not the case with Kirsten V.
Poppy has a bad case of the be-by-mes and has claimed me as her own.
We are developing a bond over our daily comparisons of our almost-twin-named cats, Lenny and Leonora.
Lenny is as naughty and hyper as Leonora is sweet and sleepy.
I must admit that hearing the story of how they found Lenny at the top of a bookshelf, terrified to get down—a mystery how he got there—is a delight.
The child has a gift for narrative, intuitively understanding how and when to parse out information.
The other day I showed her my driver’s license and asked her if she noticed anything. It took her a few minutes, but then she looked up at me with those eyes that are almost too big for her head and said with wonder, “You have my birthday?”
I laugh. “I think you have mine. I had it first.”
Poppy drags a beanbag next to my desk whenever possible and works sitting close to me.
She is not needy or intrusive. In fact, the closer she is to me, the more certain she seems to be.
She is a controlled and watchful observer.
She does not compete with others; she just waits them out.
If I ask a question in class, she is not the first to raise her hand.
She waits until everyone else has stopped talking and then, only if she is absolutely certain that she knows the right answer, offers it reticently.
She is in the process of creating a timeline showing how old we’ll be at each of our next fifty birthdays. “When I turn thirteen, you’ll be . . .”
On days I don’t have playground duty, she asks to sit inside with me and quietly tidies up the room.
Without the presence of the rest of the class, Poppy is talkative and chatty.
On days I’m outside during recess, she never leaves my side.
I walk her to the girls and one boy who engage in complex and long-form imaginary play in the shadowy space between three trees, but she only stands there watching them quizzically.
When I walk away, she follows and says in her wizened-old-man voice, “Everyone knows fairies don’t exist.” I lead her to the field where mostly boys are kicking a soccer ball, where she watches raptly, with her fingers hooked into the chain-link fence.
I will need to do something to help her become more independent, but for now, I leave her to do that which makes her feel the most comfortable.
I think a lot about the line between dependence and independence.
Kids need independence to try new things and learn what they are capable of.
The more they try and gain competency, the more they will be willing to try until, I suppose the idea is, they gravitate to the interests and curiosities that will drive them to fulfilling careers and hobbies.
In my years of teaching, there are precious few examples of parents engaging in healthy cheering-from-the-sidelines encouragement while allowing their kids to fail and supporting them as they grapple with the sting of failure.
Far more frequent are examples of overdependence or codependence, where the parent, hyperwatchful, looks for the opportunity to swoop in and fix the problem for Johnny before he even knows there is a problem.
I acknowledge that I have never been a parent, so my opinions on this matter are somewhat theoretical. I have not had to walk this line.
There is also another kind of dependence, one that feeds the parents’ need for control.
On this, I am an expert. Our parents wanted us dependent on them because, perhaps, it was one of the only spheres in which they actually had any control.
And maybe it would have worked if they’d been able to live up to the contract that is dependence.
I will let you be independent, but only up to the point that I’m comfortable, at which point I’ll pull back the reins or step in and create a boundary.
I have seen parents from different cultures who maintain a hard line on segregating outside of school with no after-school activities or playdates.
In our family, as with so much, we were caught in between.
Abu wanted us dependent so he could maintain control over our influences, but he didn’t want to be the enforcement arm.
That was left to Ami, a woman who either didn’t know how to or was simply incapable of being the chain yanker.
That required a special kind of boundary setting and strictness that she couldn’t muster.
I think she tried. As much as I don’t want to see it or give her any grace, I genuinely think she tried in her own way to live up to my father’s, and my culture’s, expectations of wife and mother, without fully understanding either.
At pickup one day, Marlene comes close and asks me to go for a drink or dinner. I just look at her dumbly.
I am a recipient of ill-gotten information, a voyeur.
Children at this age are still unfiltered, and the more comfortable they get, the more boundaries between school and home become increasingly porous.
I hear all kinds of things. Last year, there was a boy who made lewd motions in class and was teaching other students how to thrust their hips.
When asked, he told me that he had seen it on his father’s computer.
That was an awkward phone call home. I know which children don’t have bedtimes and fall asleep in front of the television long after their parents have gone to bed.
I know whose families are racists and whose parents scream obscenities at each other.
And again, conflictingly, nauseatingly, it makes me appreciate all the small ways my parents didn’t mess us up.
Poppy discloses things, assuming I know her life.
I have learned that Marlene, her Mawmaw, moved here to be closer to Mawmaw’s parents.
That her other mom is called Mamby. She still lives in Chicago and can’t keep a job.
That her grandparents do not like Mamby.
That she and Bear see her grandparents almost every day.
That even though they are living apart, Mawmaw and Mamby still yell at each other, and when they do, she takes Bear and they play Fort in the closet.
That Mawmaw told Mamby last night that she won’t stand by and watch her destroy herself.
That Poppy likes it when Mamby is with them because, otherwise, Mamby doesn’t eat or get hugs.
I feel a deep empathy for this child trying to be everything to everybody.
Other than the first day, Marlene has not asked me how Poppy is faring in her new school. I don’t think it’s a lack of interest in how her daughter is doing as much as she is caught up in her own maelstrom; she is always preoccupied and harried, as though pickup has been an interruption.
I want to understand Poppy better to assist her in her transition to her new school and become a little more independent, although I’m not entirely sure that a lack of independence is the issue.
Perhaps she is too independent already, assured and confident in her own ability to self-soothe.
I would like to ask Marlene what Poppy’s interests are, other than Lenny, because parents’ insights are critical in such an effort.
But Marlene did not complete the parent survey I circulated at the beginning of the school year.
It is difficult for me to find a time for such a conversation with Marlene without Poppy present.
Unlike most kids, Poppy does not race off to the playground, yelling at her mother or caregiver over her shoulder about where to find her.
No, when Marlene arrives, Poppy simply separates from me and reattaches herself to her mother’s side.