My Benjamin
His name was Benjamin* and I was in my first year of teaching in a small, rural school. He was not an attractive child and the layers of dirt, grime and smell did not help his likeability. He rarely spoke and sat in the corner of my classroom, and could have easily been forgotten. He had passed through prior school years with failing marks and words like “not achieving at his potential” and “does not complete assignments”.
I was a brand new teacher and I was ready to save-them-all and so he became one of my projects. And this project would teach me a very hard lesson in humanity. One that helped shape my understanding of human behaviors and trauma experiences.
It was the day of Open House and all my students were excitedly preparing their desks with art projects and papers displaying their best work. It was a flurry of pride and nervous anticipation. As always, Benjamin sat in stony silence with a thousand-yard stare. I swung by his desk and asked if he needed help getting his desk ready for his parents to see his work. He slowly shifted his gaze towards me, and frowned.
“They won’t come, why would I bother.” he stated.
“You might be surprised, let me help you.” I said.
“No”, he insisted. “They will not come.” And his eyes pleaded with me to understand.
Finally I excitedly shared that I had called his parents and they had promised to come. I watched as his face completely changed from indifference to child-like excitement. He believed that I had just accomplished something amazing.
So, I helped Benjamin set up his desk and I felt so good. This was what teaching was all about!
That night was crazy chaos, as only an Open House can be. The room breathed with excitement and nervous energy. The parade of parents exclaimed over the talent of their child. The children’s paper prizes were scooped off desks to be shared and fixed to the fridge or hung with scotch tape and pride to a wall. Every single desk was cleared but one. And when I turned out the light at the end of the night, I looked at Benjamin’s desk and knew I had failed.
Benjamin did not return to school that week, so I took the projects from his desk and kept them. When he walked in on Monday, he sat in his desk in the corner with a thousand-yard stare and I waited until recess to pull him aside.
“Hi, I’m sorry I missed you at Open House. I have your wonderful projects here, I bet you can hang them up at home” and I handed them across my desk.
He looked at me with eyes that were far too aged for an 8 year-old. “You know that my parents don’t want me to bring home this junk.” he yelled. And he scooped them up and crushed them into the trash.
I retrieved them after he left and smoothed out the deep wrinkles. I hung them at my desk and I tried to engage Benjamin. I worked everyday to bring back the animation and smile I had seen the day of the Open House. He never came back and soon he quietly faded as the year progressed, and I was spun into the needs of 28 other students. You see he was not a bother or a behavior in my classroom. He was quiet and non-existent. His report cards continued with the same remarks and the same failing marks. I was a new teacher and I didn’t understand his behavior, so I let it go.
I found out several years later that Benjamin lived in a world of neglect, drug abuse and domestic violence. The “system” had finally stepped in and had removed him from his home. He had lived a reality that I had not understood. And he responded in a classic way, he shut himself down. He became sensitized to the everyday trauma at home, and his mind closed down at school. As his teacher, I had coaxed him from this space briefly but had failed to truly listen to him.
Had I listened, I would have known that his parents were not capable of coming to his Open House, they were living addicted to meth.
Had I listened, I would have noticed that the grime and the dirt and the oversized shoes were screaming “help”.
Had I listened, I would have recognized that he had shut out the world to protect his mind from the horrors that visited his bedroom each night.
Had I truly listened, I might have been the one caring adult who heard all the words he didn’t say.
Over the years, I have had lots of Benjamins come through my life. I have learned that listening is not about words, as much as behaviors. Listening to children is really not so hard, if you can stop and learn a different language.
Language of Children
I am not a slob or a thief, I have moved from foster home to foster home and no longer own things I once loved. Listen to me and help me get organized. Teach to my emotional level, not my chronological age.
I am not a daydreamer, my mind protects me from the scary things I see at night. Listen to me and know that I need safety and security in your classroom before grades and testing.
I am not adhd, I am hypervigilant and every time you do something new in class, I am worried the bad things might happen again. It’s my survival brains job to predict the future to keep me safe. Listen to me and provide transitions and structure.
I am not a liar, my mother drank alcohol during pregnancy and it has given me a memory error. I have distorted or misinterpreted memories about myself and the world, I don’t consciously intend to deceive (confabulation). Listen to me and anticipate the temptation to lie to cover up a “no-no.” Give me time to think about how to answer your request for an explanation.
I am not lazy, I just need to survive five more seconds, because last night my dad drank and beat my mother. I can’t stop hearing my mom yelling at my dad as he smacked her across the room. Listen to me by being calm and in control of my world in the classroom.
I am not defiant or angry. I am SCARED. Don’t assign adult abilities to understand and regulate my emotions to me, I am a child. I need you to regulate me, this means that I need you to be regulated first. Scared children do scary things, and they cannot be helped by scared adults. Look past the behavior and see me.
I am all alone. I am worried that all the kids don’t like me and I’m as bad as everyone says I am. No one listens to me, even though my body is screaming my hurt and pain. My behaviors are speaking louder than my words, why can’t anyone see what I’m too scared to say.
As adults, we must learn to see past the shark (behaviors) and see the scared goldfish (needs of the child). Learn the language of children.
- name changed to protect identity