Lovey. Mary MacCracken

was she? It was almost ten o’clock. Had she gone back to Ellen’s room? Climbed back inside the jungle gym? Had she or her mother given up after yesterday? Would that one day be her only day with us?

      Come on, Hannah, I thought. Don’t give up before we’ve even started. It was going to be hard, but she had so much potential. It was all there – in her records, in her eyes – it just had to be tapped. Yesterday I’d almost resented her; now I was impatient for her.

      Just then something caught my eye outside the window. Hannah? I couldn’t believe it. She stood absolutely still about an inch away from the glass. Her face was turned sidewise, obscured by her long, matted, gum-filled hair. I tried to watch her without moving my own head. I had the feeling she would bolt if she knew she had been seen. But she was there, that was what counted. She had come back, she remembered where our room was, and she cared enough to watch us through the window.

      Then Brian saw her too and one hand fluttered against his side while he pointed with the other. ‘Look. There’s the girl. She’s looking in the window.’

      Rufus and Jamie turned and Hannah vanished. I ran across the room to our door, opened it, and stepped out, but there was no sign of her. Not in the bushes, not on the driveway. I came back and called to the boys, ‘Maybe Hannah’s in the office. I’ll –’

      But before I could finish my sentence the hall door opened and there stood Hannah.

      Fat face and hands dirtier than ever, but balancing lightly, almost airily, she stood on her toes in our doorway, clutching a crumpled paper bag.

      ‘Good morning, Hannah,’ I said. ‘Come in.’

      She stood for one moment more and then, half turning, half dancing across the few feet to the back of the classroom, she pulled open the closet doors. She stood once more, absolutely still, and then sank slowly to the floor. We were all staring at her. She was an absurd figure with her long dress and matted hair and yet she had an indefinable grace that contrasted with her heavy body and bruised eyes.

      I spoke a little louder than usual to break whatever spell was in the room. ‘I’m glad you’re here, Hannah.’

      Hannah sat without speaking, half in, half out of the closet. I suddenly realised that it was she who was in total command of the class. This was no way to begin.

      I moved towards the door. ‘Turn off the record player, please, Jamie. Okay, Brian, Hannah. Rufus, get the lights, please. We’re going next door to Patty’s room for Circle.’

      Hannah, of course, sat without moving, but the boys moved quickly out the door and down the hall.

      I waited one more minute to see if Hannah would change her mind. Nothing. Only her eyes flickered, alert, wary, watching me. Her face and neck were grimy, the pink wads of gum were still in her hair, but her dress was clean. It was the same shapeless style, tied at the waist with a string, but clean. I left Hannah in the closet and walked down the hall after the boys. A clean dress. Somebody cared about Hannah.

      The coat closet became Hannah’s place in our room. She sat there most of the first two weeks. She had her own cupboard, her own table and chair, even her own work folder, but she barely touched them. In the beginning her grief and anger and confusion were too large to let her work. The most important thing just then, more important than work or discipline, was to let her know that we accepted her.

      Children can’t begin to learn until they feel safe, and they can’t feel safe until they are honestly and completely accepted. A child like Hannah – hospitalised at six weeks, shut in closets, locked out of her home, beaten by both her brother and her father, rejected by the public school – not only feared other people, she feared herself as well.

      Hannah knew she was different; she knew that parts of her were frightening, both to herself and others. But she didn’t know how to change. She couldn’t cut herself in pieces, divide herself in two, bring in only the good part. She needed to know that she was welcome, all of her, the good and the bad. That was enough for now. Changes could come later.

      Hannah seemed to understand some of this, and gradually she became more peaceful. Each morning she left her bus and came through the Director’s office, down the hall, and into our classroom, closing the hall door behind her. She hung her sweater on the hook beneath her name and then settled herself in the closet to watch the boys arrive. She never greeted me, but she watched Rufus, Jamie, and Brian as they called to each other or exchanged a hug with me. The boys invariably left our door open and Hannah would get up each time and carefully, softly, close them again. It was as if she realised that she was safe in our room.

      Although she didn’t participate, she watched us closely. There is no better teacher than another child. As Hannah watched the others, I knew the time would come when she would begin trying to do herself what she had seen the boys do.

      Hannah was learning although she never opened her work folder. She began to touch it more often, going to her cupboard to run her finger across the name I had printed above it and taking out her folder, her paint smock, her book and notebook. None of them were ever used, but still they were hers. She would hold them in her lap and then put them carefully away and return to her seat in the coat closet. She was learning the details of our lives.

      Details and routine. Outside of school I never planned ahead, avoiding ruts as much as possible. In school, however, our routine was the same each day. In the topsy-turvy world of emotionally disturbed children, routine provides security. The sameness of each day made it easier for them to cope.

      The children arrived at nine o’clock and the first half hour was one of the most important of the day, although it might not seem so to an uninformed eye. Crises of the night before exploded in the classroom, and it was important for the teacher to be there to comfort or control. Treasures were brought in, and the teacher had to be there to share the pleasure of each small discovery. Sometimes problems arose on the way to school, or a child arrived without breakfast and the teacher needed to go down to the refrigerator in the furnace room for the milk and cereal that were always kept there. Although our children were not primarily underprivileged, often there was so much chaos in their homes that breakfast was impossible.

      By nine thirty most personal crises had been dealt with and we were ready for the larger world of Circle. Circle was a kind of morning assembly where the whole school gathered together. At least we had until this year. Now we were too many for one room, and so the Director had divided us into two groups, the older children in one, the younger children in the other. During this time there was singing and dancing and group games. The purpose was threefold: to help the children relate and participate in a group, to improve gross motor coordination, and also to give the teachers the opportunity to see the other children in the school. At staff meetings on Wednesdays we discussed everyone, and it was necessary that we had at least a surface knowledge of each child.

      After Circle, the children went to the bathroom and then came back to their classrooms. For the rest of the day, each teacher had a special programme for each child.

      In our room we started with the Best and the Worst. In searching for ways to help the children learn to communicate, I had discovered Best and Worst. Most of our children had grave difficulty with communication. Some couldn’t talk at all; some were elective mutes, able to talk but refusing to do so; some, like Rufus, were too verbose; some articulated clearly but without meaning. Because communication is so important, I worked hard at finding ways to involve the children.

      ‘Show and Tell’ didn’t work. Our children had little to show and nothing to tell. To get through to them it was necessary to turn up the volume and intensity of communication.

      A question like ‘Tell me what you did yesterday’ didn’t bring any response; it was too general, too vague. But when each and every day I asked them to report on the Best Thing and the Worst Thing that had happened to them, they not only responded, they began to savour the opportunity. Like most ideas, this started small and grew. When I had first asked the question four years before, answers had been a word or two at the most. But I insisted they all have a chance, whether they used it or not, and gradually they all began to talk a bit and – more amazing still