Some years back, I worked as a paraprofessional in a classroom for severely disabled high school students. I was a "one-on-one" para, primarily responsible for the well-being of one boy, Jayse.
Oftentimes when I share about these two years, folks tell me I am a saint and laud my sacrifice. It's a kind but inaccurate sentiment. I needed a job. I wanted to work at the school. Here was an opportunity, and at the time I had no idea what this job would mean.
My second day with Jayse, he slapped me across the face. Jayse was a young man, average height, very strong, very wiry. I had red finger-shaped welts on my cheek all afternoon.
I cried every night that first week. Undoubtedly exhaustion and stress, but the greater part of my tears came from the break down of a very secure wall around my heart. These kids had no walls of there own and demanded vulnerability from me. They undermined my defenses.
Jayse had profound mental disabilities. I was told he had the mental capacity of a two year old. But Jayse had amazing perception of emotion. He sensed what I was feeling, regardless of my attempts to mask it.
After that initial slap, I was intimidated. The first month, I did what was necessary for him, but would work with another student when I could. I knew he was my responsibility, I even felt like God had intentionally chosen me to work with Jayse, but I was afraid. Jayce felt this, and made my job very difficult at first.
And then, one night in a dream, Jayse came up to me and said, "Pay attention to me". In reality, Jayse couldn't speak, he only hummed nursery rhymes. But the dream command hit the mark, and I knew needed to change.
Over the next months, I learned to dodge the occasional slap, to tell him with authority not to hit. I think he approved of this. He knew I was no longer afraid of him. We did a lot of sitting, walking, singing, and paper shredding together. I could sometimes get him to write his name, hand over hand, with me. He occasionally would draw a picture too, but the boy was an athlete more than an artist. If life had been different for him, he would have been a sports star.
Jayse and I got along famously. I really loved him, and he knew it. He was like a son, and at the school the teachers referred to him as my boy. I knew that he loved me too. He would come up to me sometimes, thumb in mouth, grab my head and blow in my ear. He would lean against me or hold my hand. And sometimes I would fall prey to one of those non-pucker baby-like kisses. A few times he tried to sit on my lap, which always required redirection, because while innocent, it looked really inappropriate.
He had different kinds of seizures. The Grand Mals were always the most frightening, helpless situations. As he labored to breathe, I would watch his lips turn blue and count the seconds, trying to tell him encouraging things until it was over. I don't know if people can hear during a seizure, but I believe he appreciated it.
He really liked cheesy tater tots and chicken nuggets. He had an insatiable appetite and a huge sweet tooth. His metabolism was so fast that I was told to give him food whenever he wanted it. He did not favor oranges or most vegetables... but maybe it's just because cafeteria food is, well, cafeteria food.
Loud noises, like the beeping of the bus in reverse or the fire alarm, became my nemesis. Jayse couldn't stand those noises. He would start to sing in an aggravated way, slap the side of his head and bite himself. I hated that. My ears tuned in to every potential noise hazard so that I could steer him clear of it.
Later on in those years, Jayse rarely hit me. Never hard, and always on the arm. When he was frustrated--even when I frustrated him, he would mostly hit himself. I would grab his arm and say gentle words, and he would calm down and let me clean him up. Only later did I realize that he didn't want to hit me, that he would rather beat himself than hurt me. His mental capacity wasn't limited to two years old. Jayce was just trapped in that wounded mind.
Those kids, and Jayce in particular, taught me more than my entire formal education. It was a classroom full of laughter and great suffering, but devoid of vanity, pride, pretension, prejudice, and class consciousness. While still trapped in his own mind, Jayce offered me freedom and healing in mine. It was the best job I've ever been given.
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