P^{uzzles, Stories, and Games
by John C. Erianne}

February 4, 2004 — Bridgeton High School

“Mr. Erianne, you’re here!” Mrs. DeMaio says. She is one of two aides assigned to H-10, a short, somewhat stout woman in her early sixties. I look around and I don’t see the other teacher’s aide — the one the kids call, “Miss Jackie.”

“Yes I am.”

“ Mrs. Sciapelli requested you, but when I got down here and didn’t see you, I started to worry.”

“Like I said the last time, I’ll be here anytime you need me.”

“Well, the kids like you and it’s hard to get substitutes to cover this class.” It’s true. I’ve heard other substitutes say so in the faculty lounge about how they don’t like covering this class because the kids make them feel uncomfortable. I don’t understand that attitude, myself. These children are no trouble at all and it’s the only class where I have a problem-free day and come away from the experience feeling valued.

“So, it’s just the two of us, today?” I say.

“Yeah. Jackie’s out sick.”

The bus arrives at 7:25 a.m. and Mrs. DeMaio and I go outside to meet the kids.

There are five special needs students on the bus: Robert, Shakeeba, Jamari, Kamil, and Jennifer.

As the bus stops, Robert and Shakeeba notice me standing next to Mrs. DeMaio. Shakeeba smiles and Robert waves to me.

The bus driver opens the side door and extends the metal plate of the wheelchair lift. After making sure the front lip is locked into place, she rolls Kamil onto the plate and lowers his chair to the ground.

“How’re you doing, Kamil?” I say. He smiles at me and lets out a yelp.

Mrs. DeMaio helps Shakeeba off the bus. Shakeeba uses a walker and so she moves a little slower than the other kids. “Mista E. Heezaboy,” Shakeeba says to Mrs. DeMaio.

“That’s right, Shakeeba. Mr. Erianne’s a boy.” Then Mrs. DeMaio looks at me. “Shakeeba loves to count boys.”

Robert points to me and says to Mrs. DeMaio, “He’s my guy.”

“He’s your guy? I hope you’re going to be good for Mr. Erianne.”

Robert doesn’t answer. Instead, he grins, squinting his eyes and crinkling his nose. Robert the trickster. Robert the class clown. He is five feet tall and built like a wrestler. If he did not have Downe’s Syndrome and wasn’t confined to that small universe between “H” Hall and the “D” Hall entrance, he would surely be one of the biggest mischief-makers in the school. Perhaps it is out of respect for mutual devils that I grin back at him and say, “We know, we know, Robert.”

“You my guy.”

“You’re my guy too, Robert.”

“I hug you.” Before I can say anything, he thows his arms around me.

“Robert,” Mrs. DeMaio scolds. “No more hugs. We want Mr. Erianne to come back and visit us, don’t we?”

“That’s alright,” I say.

While Mrs. DeMaio escorts Robert and the girls to the bathroom, I take Kamil back to the room. When the others come back to the room, they hang their coats and backpacks. I help Mrs. DeMaio remove Kamil’s jacket, then wheel him next to the long padded table sitting up against the back wall near the computer. We remove the velcro safety straps from his waist and feet, and I help her lift him onto the table. If he were able to stand upright he would be well over six feet tall. He has long legs, arms and fingers. I clasp my hands together behind his knees and lift as Mrs. DeMaio lifts underneath his arms. His legs are like two iron rods, as hard and as inflexible. Mrs. DeMaio pulls the privacy screen around the table so she can change Kamil’s diaper. I roll away his chair and replace it with the motorized chair sitting by the window.

We lift Kamil into his motorized chair and he moves to his usual place next to Robert’s desk.

“You feel like eating something, today?” Mrs. DeMaio asks Kamil.

He looks up at her. “OO OO OOSE!”

“Juice?” She walks over to the desk and gets their meal tickets. “You’ll be okay for a few minutes? “ she says to me.

“Sure.”

Mrs. DeMaio leaves and Shakeeba is counting boys again. She points at me and says “Heezaboy,” then at Robert and Kamil, “Heezaboy and heezaboy. Un . . .Two . . . Fwee boys.”

“That’s right, ” I say. “How many girls, Shakeeba?”

“Fwee.”

“Yep.”

“You don’t say dat,” Robert says.

“What, Robert? You don’t like girls?”

Robert shakes his head.

Kamil howls, “AHAHHAAH.”

“See, Kamil knows what I’m talking about. Robert, I’ve seen you flirting with Jamari. Tell me again you don’t like girls.”

Robert shakes his head again. “DOH!”

Shakeeba is laughing and Jamari says, “You funny, Wahburt.”

“I not funny, you funny.”

Jennifer is sitting quietly next to Jamari. She doesn’t seem at all interested in our shenanigans. I’m sure she views me as something of a disruption to her normal routine. What I took to be shyness the first time I encountered this class, I now suspect is a slight autism. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her interact meaningfully with anyone other than Jamari or Miss Jackie. And now Jamari is paying her no mind and Miss Jackie is out sick.

“You alright, Jen?” I ask.

“When’s Miss Jackie comin’ back?”

“I don’t know.”

Mrs. DeMaio comes in carrying a tray of juice and pop-tarts.

Breakfast over, it’s time for puzzles. Robert is the student helper for this class period. He passes out the puzzles. I am always amazed by how cooperative these kids are, and how seriously they take their responsibilities.

Robert is also something of a savant when it comes to puzzles. He routinely assembles two-hundred piece puzzles with ease. Today, one puzzle isn’t even enough for him. He is half way through his second puzzle by the time I get out of my seat to check on their progress. “Man, Robert. You’re really tearing through that puzzle.”

“I know,” he says, smiling as if he’s just revealed some great happy secret about himself.

“Robert loves puzzles,” Mrs. DeMaio offers.

I glance over at Shakeeba who is making solid progress on her own puzzle. “Hi, Shakeeba.”

“Hi.”

“Good work. Is that a dog?”

“Yeah, a dog,” she answers, her eyes wide, looking up at me through thick, Coke bottle glasses.

“I gotta dog,” Robert interjects.

“Oh, yeah,” I say. “What’s your dog’s name?”

Instead of answering the question, he pats me on the arm. “You handsome,” he says.

“Okay, thank you, Robert. You’re handsome, too.”

“I got a brother.”

“What’s your brother’s name?”

“I got three brothers.”

“Three brothers? Wow.”

“You got a brother?”

“No, but I have a sister.”

“What he’s name?”

“Come on now, Robert. Leave Mr. Erianne alone and finish your puzzle,” Mrs. DeMaio says.

“You fired, Miss ’Maio.”

“Robert, you don’t want me to tell Mrs. Sciapelli you were bad.”

Of the five of them, Kamil has the toughest time with his four-piece puzzle. The last time I substituted in this class, he became frustrated and knocked the wooden puzzle board and the pieces on the floor and refused to try. He has limited mobility in his right arm and I can see him gradually nudging the puzzle board closer to the edge of small flat tray attached to his wheelchair.

“No, Kamil,” I say. He stops and looks at me. I center the puzzle board on the tray and place the wooden triangle at the center of the board. “Show me where the triangle goes.”

He points his useless hand at the triangle-shaped hole. “Eeh.”

“That’s right. Now put the piece there.”

He moves it a little bit at a time until, after about five minutes, he nudges it into the hole. He does this with the other three pieces until, finally, he completes the puzzle.

“I’m so proud of you,” I tell him, understanding what an effort it is for him to do something so small. For him, it is more than just a puzzle; he is bending universes to his will.

After the third period bell rings, the kids put away their puzzles.

“Alright. In a few minutes, Mr. Erianne’s going to read us a story, so let’s line up our chairs .”

Reading a story to these kids is a lot like reading a story to a kindergarten class. They are enthusiastic participants, but their comprehension and listening skills are limited. I have to repeat myself often and emphasize certain words. Today’s story concerns a family of pigs as they attempt to make a pot of chile.

I hold up the book so they can see the pictures. “Jennifer, what is Father Pig doing?”

“He put stuff in the pot.”

“That’s right. Good, Jennifer. Do you think he’s doing a good job?”

“Yeah,” Robert blurts out.

“Really? I don’t know, Robert. What do you think, Jamari?”

“No.”

“He’s making a mess, isn’t he?”

Kamil laughs. “The pigs are funny aren’t they, Kamil? What do you think will happen when the Mother pig wakes up and comes downstairs?”

“She be mad,” Shakeeba says.

“I think you’re right. Anyone else think Mother Pig will be happy when she sees the kitchen?”

“No,” Jamari says.

Robert shakes his head.

“How about you, Jennifer?”

“No.”

“Well, let’s see what happens.” Mother Pig wakes up feeling refreshed and skips, happily downstairs. The kitchen is in shambles. Firemen (dogs) are out on the lawn gobbling up generous portions of Father Pig’s chile as Mother Pig stares frantically out the kitchen window.

“So, what did Father Pig do wrong?”

“Ee make a mess,” Shakeeba says.

“Yes, but why did he make a mess? What did we say earlier about the recipe book?”

“Ee put too much stuff,” Shakeeba answers

“Right. He didn’t follow the recipe.”

“See that,” Mrs. DeMaio says. “That’s what happens when you don’t follow directions.”

I look at my watch. Almost time for fourth period. “What do you think?” I ask Mrs. DeMaio. “About time to get them to the cafeteria?”

They have Adaptive Phys. Ed. in the East Cafeteria with Kay Ballinger fourth period. It is also my only free period. Mrs. DeMaio goes with them to the cafeteria and I head to the faculty lounge.

Kevin Quigley, one of the other substitutes, is sitting in the lounge when I enter. He is a trim, fit man in his early fifties.

“Hey, how’s it going?” There is the slight hint of an accent, I can’t quite place. South Boston? I slide a dollar into the soda machine and hit the ginger ale button.

“Great. I’m having an easy day, today.”

“Oh yeah? Where are you today?”

“I’m with the handicapped kids down in H hall.” I crack open the can and head for the door. “So, where are you, today?” I ask.

“Math Teacher. Pastirko.”

“So, I guess you’re having a fun day.”

“Gee, how’d you know?”

“And you haven’t experienced her tenth period yet. You’re in for a treat.”

“You mean my day gets worse?”

I shrug. “Could be.”

“Oh well, see ya later.”

“Yeah, take it easy.”

About five minutes before the end of fourth period, I hear them coming down the hallway. “Hold up, Robert,” Mrs. DeMaio says. “Jamari, let’s stay together.” I hold the door open for them.

“You guys have fun in gym class?” I ask Jamari.

“Yeah.”

“How about you, Shakeeba? Have fun?”

“Yeah. Played a game.”

“Okay guys,” Mrs. DeMaio tells them. “Line up your chairs.”

Once they arrange their chairs in front of the big calendar hanging on the bulletin board at the front of the room, Mrs. DeMaio turns to me. “Can you go through the calendar with them while I step out for a few?”

“Sure.”

“Okay, Robert turn around. Everyone face me.” I pick up the yardstick and point to the calendar. “Today is . . .Jamari?”

“Wenday.”

“Right. And what’s the date?” I ask, pointing to the number. Robert holds up two fingers. “No, Robert. But that’s a good guess. Anyone else?”

“Four,” Shakeeba answers.

“Good. Right. It’s Wednesday the fourth. How about you, Kamil?”

Kamil smiles. “Ooor.”

“Alright. Kamil’s got it. Jennifer, we haven’t heard from you yet. Do you know the year?”

“O-four?”

“That’s right, great. It’s two thousand and four. Okay, you guys are on a roll. What month is it?”

Shakeeba raises her hand. “Feb-oo-ary.”

“Alright! You guys are awesome.”

Mrs. DeMaio returns and I tell them to return to their desks. “How’d they do?” she asks.

“Splendidly,” I answer.

“Now I can tell Mrs. Sciapelli how well you guys did.”

We play Bingo until lunch. Mrs. DeMaio helps Kamil with his game pieces and I call out the numbers. Robert looks disappointed when Kamil wins the first round. Basically, we play until everyone gets “Bingo” before starting a new round. Although there are no real losers, Kamil manages two first places Bingo wins. “Kamil, ” I say. “You’re the champ of the day!”

He squeals gleefully.

This is the only time other than days when I have cafeteria duty that I enter the cafeteria. Normally, I leave the building at lunch time but, when covering this class, I’m expected to eat lunch in the cafeteria with the kids. They eat slowly and with the exception of Robert, who brings his own lunch, have their plates full of whatever meal is on special. Today, it’s enchiladas. I eat a slice of pizza, and drink a carton of milk. I eat more quickly than the kids do, but can’t leave until they are ready to return to the room. It’s strange. The other students are often cruel and violent towards one another, but they do not bother these kids. It’s not that they are kind to them either — it’s more like they don’t even exist to the other people in the school. All around, there is noise and chaos. Kids throwing things. A near-fight on the other side of the room, broken-up by the quick intervention of a teacher. People cutting in the lunch line. Shouting. Talking loudly. But our table seems to be covered

by an invisible bubble shielding us from our surroundings. The kids do not acknowledge the existence of the other students and the other students do no seem to notice the five handicapped students sitting alongside me. The other students don’t even seem to notice me as long as I am with these kids.

After lunch, we excort them to the bathroom and then back to the room. There is not much for me to do after lunch. Another teacher, Cindy O’Boyle comes into the room seventh period for Arts and Crafts. The kids are also joined by another student and her aide. Lindsey Kelly, like Robert, has Downe’s Syndrome, but functions on a slightly higher level and is able to attend regular special education classes with the help of her own aide. Since she is able to get around the rest of the school, I actually see Lindsey more often than the other kids.

“Hi, Mista E,” Lindsey says.

“Hey, Lindsey.”

Lindsey’s aide, Mrs. Burrell takes a seat next to Lindsey, who sits at the empty desk next to Jennifer. “Mr. Erianne,” Mrs. Burrell says, “don’t I just see you everywhere?”

“Seems that way.”

I sit at my desk watching them. Jamari is the student helper for this class period. She passes out the glue and the crayons. Today, they are finishing their Valentine cards. They’ve made they’ve made three cards a piece and have even made their own envelopes. I am amazed by how quietly and meticulously they work at any task assigned to them. They finish coloring the cards and place them in the envelopes. Mrs. DeMaio helps them clean up and Jamari collects the crayons and the glue and places them in the cubby hole where she found them.

Cindy O’Boyle returns to her own classroom. A few minutes later, Mrs. Barrell leaves with Lindsey. I help Mrs. DeMaio lift Kamil out of his chair and onto the padded table. He spends the rest of the school day napping while the others watch 102 Dalmatians. Although the movie is hardly on my top ten list of great films I can’t help but get caught up in their enthusiasm for it. Robert points to the screen. “Oh, they he dog! What he doing?” Jamari is laughing so hard, she’s practically hyperventilating. I find myself laughing with them in admiration of their joy, all cynicism laid aside.

But the school day ends as the credits roll. I notice Kamil is awake and staring at me.

“Kamil,” I say, “are you playing opossum?” He smiles at me and I motion to Mrs. DeMaio.

I return the motorized chair to its place near the window and bring his own wheelchair next to the table. Mrs. DeMaio and I lift him into the chair and strap his waist and ankles. The rest of the kids gather their things and put on their coats.

We escort them to the bus and I say goodbye to them. Robert makes faces at me through the window.

“Bye, guys. See you later.”

I zip up my coat and walk across the icy parking lot to my car, a ‘91 Mercury Tracer closing in on two-hundred thousand miles. I start up the car and the low-fuel light is on. I ride on fumes all the way to the gas station.