a clinically challenging child. Paul was questioning things that didn’t make sense to him and standing up for himself in a more aggressive manner—a heartening change from the withdrawn child he had been. Dr. Watkins also noted that the teachers would benefit from advice on classroom management, telling me he saw them as relatively unsophisticated in this arena, something I felt was understandable for a new school with a new team.
Paul’s first report card was issued in November, by which time the medication transition was behind him and his behavior had resumed an even keel. His homeroom and reading teacher wrote:
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Paul is a wonderful child who is in the process of redefining who he is. Last year, I saw this withdrawn, quiet student who was not always available for learning. This year, I see a child hungry to learn new things. He asks questions, expresses opinions, and shares his feelings. While these expressions may not always be presented in the most socially correct manner, he is taking risks and learning his ideas and thoughts have value.
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Later that fall, the school began a behavior modification plan for all students in Paul’s age group that would put him at a disadvantage. Before it was implemented, Paul’s homeroom teacher called me to express her concern. After explaining that the plan came about because some of the children were hurting each other’s feelings, she said, “Since Paul’s behavior has improved, and, considering he was never guilty of being hurtful to his peers, I’m worried that if Paul feels the plan is unfair, it could spark a setback for him.” I appreciated her thoughtful communication but don’t remember feeling worried.
When Paul came home and talked about the new system, I didn’t detect any apprehension on his part either. The children were to carry a chart to each class, and those who met the standards for behavior would get a star; those who did not would get a check. Three checks in any given day for a child would require a conference with the parents.
Several days later, the director called me to say I needed to come in for a conference the following morning because Paul had received three checks that day. I said I would be there and was sorry to hear he was having trouble. I told her about the homeroom teacher’s concerns and said that I too hoped this new strategy didn’t represent a setback for Paul, mainly because he’d been doing so well and was not a part of the troublesome behavior that precipitated the need for this system.
The director’s response was confusing. “Paul was the sole reason for the implementation,” she told me. “I don’t know where the homeroom teacher is coming from.”
I rescheduled my work obligations for the next morning and went to the conference, eager to meet with the teacher and the director to learn about Paul’s behavior and the ways I could support him and the school. To my surprise, Paul was a part of the conference, meaning I was unable to clear up my confusion. At the end, I said I had a question that I would prefer discussing without Paul. The director said she needed to walk Paul back to class but would return. I waited with the teacher, but she never made it back.
It wasn’t long before I was called to come in again for a conference. Paul had received three checks that day in one forty-five-minute class, something I didn’t think was possible based on the premise that a student was to receive either a star or a check for each class. Even so, I went in, but the director did not attend the meeting. In truth, I never had any further communication from her about anything.
Because Dr. Watkins believed that the methodology behind the behavior management system was indeed working against Paul—just as the homeroom teacher had surmised—he called the school and scheduled a meeting with the director and the teachers. His appointment was canceled by the school twice, and his third attempt was answered by the school’s newly hired psychologist, who would be the point of contact from there on out.
I didn’t get why the school kept Dr. Watkins at arm’s length. But eventually, he was able to work with the school’s psychologist, which turned out to be productive. Together they devised a new system for behavior management, which took effect in March. Shortly thereafter, Paul’s teacher reported: “Paul is responding well to the system devised by Dr. Watkins. In fact, he has earned the maximum number of points in ninety percent of his weekly classes.”
In spite of the mysteriousness surrounding some aspects of the home-school communication, things were going well for Paul, and I was grateful. But in the spring, at what I thought would be a routine ARD committee meeting with county officials and the school’s new psychologist representing the director, I was told Paul could not return to Meadow School for his sixth-grade year. I was shocked. With my heart pounding, I struggled to maintain my composure.
“Why?” I asked, incredulously.
After a minute of deafening silence, I looked directly at the school’s psychologist, “Is this decision based on Paul’s academic standing or his behavior?”
This man, whom I barely knew, slammed his fist on the table and said, “Both!” That would be the only explanation I would ever receive. On top of the fact that I didn’t understand, I was alarmed by the lack of professionalism, not to mention compassion. Trumping this poor showing, though, was the implication for Paul’s fate. I desperately wanted consistency for him, and I knew all too well that our options were dismal. But one thing was certain: I was powerless. And my confusion took a back seat to my worry.
Even though I was upset about the school’s decision, which was not documented in the report cards or elsewhere, I did not broach the subject with Paul’s teachers. I decided that when the time came for the year-end parent-teacher conferences, I would listen more than talk. I felt it was imperative to maintain the bond I had established as a parent at the school. For one thing, Paul loved these people and, for another, I didn’t know when we might need them again. Furthermore, I did have others with whom I could commiserate about this unexpected turn of events and the treatment that I saw as appalling.
In the conference with Paul’s two primary teachers, I was pleased with their feedback. Mirroring the written reports, they raved about Paul’s sensitivity, his sense of humor, and his academic progress. I was told his teachers were sad to see him go and did not agree with the administrative decision. They said Paul was far from the biggest academic or behavioral challenge facing the school and reiterated how well he had weathered the storm of the medication change that had plagued him at the start of the year. They also lauded Dr. Watkins’ advice to the school in general.
One of the teachers told me it was a challenge for the school to adjust to being accountable to the county for the few funded children enrolled there. She mentioned too that the county paid for a classroom aide the school said Paul needed, who wasn’t used for Paul. I did not know whether any of this was a factor in Paul’s dismissal, but I wondered. In fact, as one is prone to do in a communication vacuum, I wondered many things. Maybe I had been a pawn from the outset, a test case to pursue funding without the school having to conform to the full-blown MSDE approval process. I will never know. But this was another undeserved blow in Paul’s journey, one with tentacles reaching into the future.
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LUCKILY, I FELT a kinship with the special educators in the county, and I sensed the feeling was mutual. We may not have always seen eye to eye, but we were always respectful. One county professional and I went together to Baltimore to visit a school, which we then agreed to rule out for Paul. The school was impressive but served students with head injuries, multiple physical handicaps, and emotional disturbances. Paul had come into his own with his peers at Meadow School, and we didn’t want to see him lose that. We also noted the skill level of the students in Paul’s age group was beneath his. Every professional we worked with, including Dr. Denckla, agreed.
I worried about the detriment of a program that would teach to Paul’s weakness. Because his test scores were poor and he was often hard to reach, he was easily underestimated. However, he was capable of critical thinking and needed intellectual stimulation lest he wither away in the pitfalls of low expectations, which frightened me more than anything.
The county submitted applications for Paul to a couple of other schools located in the Baltimore-Washington vicinity where, once again, we were disadvantaged