Listen to thisMy earliest recollection of James is but a blur, debarking from the school bus as he did on that first day – running as fast as his five-year-old legs could carry him, backpack asunder, his chosen escape route taking him further away from the front doors of the school and perilously close to a major roadway. He spent most of the first day of school, and a good part of the second, under a desk in my office, quiet, cautious, hyper-vigilant. I think that he felt a certain measure of safety and security there, protected from the unknown. Maybe he imagined himself to be in a bunker, a fort, a hideout. Maybe he felt that there wasn’t a choice. For James, the world was a scary place, fraught with unpredictability, violence, loss, upheaval. No reason to think that it would be any different at school. Scared. Anxious. Alone. Five years old.
Fast forward to the middle of June, some eight and a half months later. James sprints off the bus, backpack asunder, runs to his classroom. He doesn’t spend time under my desk anymore, hasn’t since the first week of school, and though I’m still privileged to have an occasional visit, he’d rather be playing with his friends. With encouragement, he’ll take the initiative to try some of the strategies and skills that he has learned, tentatively sometimes, as if not entirely sure that he’ll be successful. He’s still vulnerable, though less frightened of being so, still emotionally fragile, though readily responsive to support. Along the way, he has improved his printing, has become better able to resolve issues with his classmates. Sometimes he takes the risk to ask others for help when things get tough. He feels better about himself, he smiles more, laughs, has fun. Perhaps most significantly, he feels safe enough to trust others. He asks for hugs. He is less scared. Less anxious. Less alone.
As a child care counselor with some 20 years in the field, I no longer believe in creating miracles or working wonders; that seems too presumptuous, too grandiose. The brash idealism that first propelled me forward, and in retrospect seems as self-centered as it was naive, has given way to a kinder and gentler pragmatism, an orientation that whispers rather than shouts, that looks for balance rather than dichotomy, that envelops rather than excludes. There are still times when success seems infinitesimal, there are still days when even the most carefully planned interventions seem for naught. But I have come to believe that one of the greatest assets that we as child care counselors have is the ability, the desire, the wish, the passion, to persevere. To persevere alongside the children and families that we work with. To embrace opportunity, to mobilize strengths, to believe in the power of possibility. To provide a safe place, a warm, welcome and caring environment. To teach, to praise, to encourage. To ask, to hear, to learn. To listen. Sshhh – to listen.
Everyone has a story to tell.
