“He’s not having fits,” I said. “You’ve already had him examined by a neurologist who found no sign of convulsive activity. I’d be willing to bet that Joey is falling out of his chair because he’s not successful when he’s in it.
“What he needs to know,” I continued, “is that he’s smart and can learn and doesn’t have to act like a fool. I think Joey would rather have the kids in his class think he’s a clown than think he’s dumb. Joey himself is pretty sure he actually is stupid, but at the same time he’s smart enough not to want anyone else to think so.”
“How can Joey ever feel good about himself when he has so many problems?” Mrs. Stone asked. “His teacher says he can’t read or write like the others – now a special class …”
“I’ll tell you honestly that I don’t think that Joey belongs in special education,” I said. “I taught in special ed for many years, and it’s the right answer for some children. But I don’t think Joey’s problems are that severe, and his intelligence and social abilities outside of school say to me that he belongs in a regular classroom. I think he’s smart enough to learn to use his strengths to bring his academic skills up to grade level. You’ve had top medical advice that his hyperactivity is not severe enough to warrant medication at this time, and I think maybe Joey can learn to control his impulsive behavior if it doesn’t pay off. We just have to try to convince the school to let him have a little more time, in a regular class.”
“That will be a miracle in itself,” Mrs. Stone said. “I think they’ve already made up their minds.”
“There’s one thing I want to get straight before we go any further,” Mr. Stone said. “Are you going to help? Are you going to work with Joey? Or are you just telling us this so we’ll tell somebody else?”
It was a fair question, and I knew what my answer should be. There were so many children now who needed help that I often didn’t finish in my office until seven thirty or eight o’clock; understandably, Cal would not be eager for me to take on another child. Still, there was something about Joey …
I returned Mr. Stone’s steady gaze and then turned to Mrs. Stone as well. “Yes. I want to help. I’d like to work with Joey, but I can’t do it alone. I’ll need a lot of help from both of you and from Joey and his school. I’d like to talk with his teacher every week or so. It’s important to know how he’s doing in the classroom, because no matter how well he does here with me, if there isn’t carryover into his classroom it isn’t going to help Joey stay in a regular class.
“I have two things I’d like you to do. I’d like you to have a pediatric audiologist check Joey – just to cover all bases and make sure there is no physical cause for the low scores in auditory processing. Second, I’d like you to try to see that he eats well, with an emphasis on fruits and vegetables rather than sweets and junk food. I don’t think there’s a diet in the world that will teach him to read, but it may cut down the hyperactivity.
“The main thing will be to get Joey to believe in himself and take responsibility for his learning and behavior.
“I tell you what. Let me try over the summer – and also talk to the Child Study Team and see if they will agree to take another look at Joey at the end of August. If there’s been enough improvement, maybe they’ll let him start in second grade.”
We went over schedules – Joey’s and mine. School closed for summer vacation the following week, so Joey and I would both have more time. Somehow we’d have to work it out in the fall, but for now I’d see him from a quarter past nine to ten o’clock on Tuesday and Thursday mornings.
Joey arrived Tuesday morning still steeped in sleep. Hair uncombed, eyes half shut, shirttail out, shoes untied. He plopped himself onto the chair behind the desk.
“Well,” he began, laying his head on the desk, “the good news is that school’s over. The bad news is that I had to get up to come here.”
“Would you rather come in the afternoon?”
“No. I got to swim in the afternoon. That’s how come we’re not going up to the lake till August. I got to be in about a hundred dozen swim meets.” Joey had opened the middle desk drawer and was fiddling around inside.
“Close the drawer, please, Joey.” He had already explored it several times on other visits. I wanted his complete attention now.
Some part of Joey was always in motion, touching this and opening that. He did it unconsciously, not really aware of what he was doing. He had no real concept of what belonged to him and what didn’t. Whatever was in reach was fair game. Before he could change, he would have to become aware of what he was doing.
Joey replaced the box of rubber bands he’d been playing with, and I said, “Good. Pay yourself twenty, that’s two blues or one red chip, for following directions so quickly.
“Now let me show you what we’re going to do today. This is your notebook; this is your bin. This is where we’ll keep the things you’re working on. Would you please write your name on the notebook?”
“Can I use the Magic Marker you got in the drawer?”
I laughed. This was the child that was reported to be unaware of his surroundings? “Sure,” I said. “It doesn’t erase, though.”
Joey got out the pen and then looked through the black and white marbleized notebook, blank except for the first page, where I’d made out our schedule for the day. He turned back to the cover.
“Maybe I’ll just do it in pencil first. In case. You know?”
“Good thinking, Joey – pay another twenty.”
Joey’s turn to laugh. “Twenty for just thinking? Thinking’s easy.”
“Maybe,” I said, “but it’s the most important part. You’re lucky you’re good at it.”
“Yeah,” Joey answered, writing his J backward with his left hand and then scrubbing it out with his eraser and making it correctly. The o came out fine, but somehow when he made the e it overlapped the o. Joey attacked it with the eraser again.
As he rubbed away, Joey looked over at me, grinned, and said, “This old eraser sure does have a hard life, doesn’t it?”
How could I have missed having Joey in my life?
After Joey had written his name in pencil and gone over it with the black marker, I took his folder from his bin and showed him how he’d done on each test.
Joey was only mildly interested, and I decided to be clearer. “The main thing is,” I said, “I want you to know you’re smart, so you don’t have to go around shouting ’bout how dumb you are and falling out of your chair.”
“I can’t help that.”
“Maybe.”
“And I am dumb. I’m the only one in my reading group. There’s the Eagles and the Robins and the Bluebirds. And then there’s me, all by myself. I don’t even got the name of any old kind of a bird.”
“I didn’t say you could read well. I said you were smart. There’s a difference.”
“What?”
“If you’re smart, you can learn to read better – if I can teach you the right way and if you work hard enough.”
Joey was going to be a difficult child to help, because testing had not shown either his visual or his auditory processing to be an area of strength. I had a suspicion that Joey’s auditory skills were better than the tests had shown and that the low scores in this area were more than likely due to lack of attending. His spoken language was so clear and he had picked up so much information that I felt his auditory reception couldn’t be that bad, even if he couldn’t repeat a string of numbers. Anxiety could also have interfered; it’s hard to remember anything when you’re scared. Later, the audiologist confirmed