Some of my newer friends are unaware that I spent more than thirty-five years of my professional life as a teacher of children with specific learning disabilities and social/emotional problems ... with the last 27 years as a Head [Principal] of a Special School. This is a 'taster' of some of the joys and tribulations involved. ................................. WE DON'T OFFER MIRACLES Well, we don't. But if you meet a guy with longish hair, and a beard, and a bag full of the said goodies, do let us know, because we're certainly in the market for any which are going. Seriously, I have to make this clear to parents [usually mum, dad - sometimes- and grandma] at the preliminary meeting at my school. Oh, didn't I say? I'm the Head of a school for kids with special educational needs and I usually start off by saying this to prospective parents. I have to: because most parents have heard of some sure-fire scheme which is GUARANTEED to cure all educational ills - provided, of course, that they [the parents] can afford a residential training course at X University College, costing thousands of dollars and can recruit the whole neighbourhood for months on end for individual work with your child. Sorry, I say, we can't offer anything like that, but we can say that your child will be better off and happier with us than in his/her mainstream school. When the government inspectors arrived last year they asked how many dyslexics I had at the school. "Zero." They looked a bit puzzled. How many ADHD [Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder]? "Zero." How many EBD [Emotional Behavioural Disorder]? "Nil." Well, what have you got? Now I could answer that - about 60 kids.....some of whom are dyslexic, some ADHD, some EBD, some have a combination of the three ..... BUT THEY ARE KIDS FIRST. The label's often useful, but it's not what they are! What they are is funny, surprising, amazing, incredibly brave and a joy to teach. So I'll tell you a little bit about a few of them. It might help you to understand and appreciate them a little more. Let me introduce you to 'Cleo' - short [I kid you not!] for 'Cleopatra.' Surname 'Scroggs' [or close to that]. No, better yet, she'll introduce herself. "Der ... der... de... der; der... der... de... der" ["here comes the bride" - roughly]. Cleo aged 13 but looking about 7 years old, has already announced that she'll marry me and has given me detailed specifications for the ring I am to buy at the weekend. When you hear the name 'Cleopatra' what sort of woman would you visualise? Someone exotically dark, sultry and willowy with eyes to die for, I'll bet. Sorry, this Cleo's not a bit like that. She's a tiny and somewhat dumpy dirty-blonde, cross-eyed and with a perpetually runny nose [and a shiny sleeve to match]. Her voice is nasal, gravelly and she has a speech defect to boot. Not a lot going for her, I'm afraid ... but she has loved me dearly ever since she met me three hours ago and is 'looking after me' on my very first playground supervision duty. Looking after consists of zooming off to check one portion of the play area for trouble, then zooming back and clamping on to my hand, glaring possessively at anyone who approaches. The play area is in three sections; a large lawn, a hard play area and an adventure playground separated from the rest by a low wall and equipped with planks, logs and other 'building materials'. The kids have made a few play items, including a hut or shelter in the centre of the area. Playtime's going well up to now, no trouble in sight. Cleo zooms [sorry it's the only possible word] off again and arrives back, seconds later, red-faced and panting "Sir, they're shaggin' in the shelter!" Oh my God! "Cleo, go and tell the Deputy I need help - I'll get to the shelter. And where's Marjorie?" [That was a very important question because I'd been warned about Marjorie before playtime - apparently she had the unfortunate habit of losing her panties. Pants down, skirts up in a flash, if you'll excuse the pun. And she was a well-grown young lady at 15 if you see what I mean - and if you stayed at the school long enough you most certainly would!] Luckily, Marjorie was chatting to her friends, so that was some comfort. But there were still kids 'at it' in the shelter, so I set off at a run. "Sir!" screeched Cleo, "What are you doing? You'll give yerself 'eart attack, and I can't marry a corpse!" "No need to run, it's only Denise and John. Denise 'as got no tits an' she's not even started yet, and John can't get it up, not even for Marjorie" Thanks, Cleo, I'm so relieved ... but I still carried on running. Not all the kids are as vocal or outgoing as Cleo [and there are very few Marjories, thank Heaven]. Brendan was the complete opposite. Totally silent. His notes described him as an 'elective mute' - which means that he could talk, and had talked at some time, but chose not to talk now. Usually, this condition is brought on by some trauma, and since Brendan had come from Northern Ireland at the height of 'the troubles' it was certain that he'd been exposed to traumas a-plenty. But he settled down well, worked hard and seemed happy, if a little serious. He very much enjoyed our outside visits to the local park and almost - I swear - seemed on the verge of speaking once or twice. In his second term with us it was our turn to go on a longer trip in the school mini-bus. We had a driver, we'd chosen the venue and all the kids [including Brendan - he grinned broadly at the announcement] were excited at the prospect. The day arrived. The School kitchen had made all the packed lunches. The kids had their back-packs ready, and the heavens opened. Thunder, lightning and buckets and buckets of rain. The driver came to the classroom: "Trip's off. Sorry" Total silence for a few seconds, then a voice with a broad Northern Irish accent piped up "Soddin' 'ell, I've waited six bleedin' months for this, and it's pissin' down!" Silence again, all eyes on Brendan ... then a spontaneous cheer from everybody [including me, despite the language] rang out round the room. Brendan had spoken at last. Wayne was almost as quiet, but only because he was unbearably timid. His mainstream school had not helped at all. His parents were extremely distressed when they visited the school. They told me that when they had kept an appointment to discuss Wayne's learning difficulties, they had passed Wayne sitting alone at a desk outside his classroom with a pack of crayons and some paper. When they challenged the Head, she said that Wayne was only capable of colouring, and couldn't stay in the class because he couldn't read and disturbed the other children by continually asking for help. The Head concluded by saying that they should not expect too much progress, and that, at the very best, Wayne could only be semi-independent in his adult life. Needless to say, I phoned the Head and she told me more or less the same thing. Testing showed that Wayne was very much within the normal range of intelligence, but that he had very specific learning difficulties including dyslexia and dysphasia. To shorten a long story, let's just say that Wayne thrived with us ... and I'll tell you at the end just what he achieved in later life. With Wayne, testing helped us to find his difficulties, engineer a learning programme and meet his needs. Sometimes we find the root cause of a child's difficulties purely by accident. It is all too easy to miss out the most obvious gaps in a child's educational experience. I'll tell you about Tony. He wasn't actually a pupil at my school, and I met him as part of an experimental teaching project during a post-graduate course at our local University. My tutor, Margaret, had a wry smile on her face when told me that I would be working with Tony - so I knew something was unusual at least. Tony was 13, nearly 14, and his reading age was zero. Zilch. He could read no words at all. I know what you're thinking: dyslexic - that's what I thought. But no, he passed all the auditory and visual sequential memory sub-tests with no problem. On reading his notes, I could not see ONE reading method which had not been tried before. Thanks, Margaret. Last throw of the dice; let's try language-experience approach. "OK Tony, what do you like?" "Motorbikes, Harley-Davidson's" "Right, we'll make a book about Motorbikes" Bored shrug. "You want me to cut out from mags, and stick 'em in a book? Done it." "Let's give it a go, anyway" So we did. Tony stuck some pictures in a book. "Right, now what do you want to say about this picture?" Puzzled look: "This is the greatest bike in the world" "I'll write that down" ... 'this is the greatest bike in the world' saying it as I write. Silence, Tony looks down at the words. "That's what I said!" Puzzled look from me now. Tony's face erupted into life. Sharp intake of breath. "That's talk written down ... is that all reading is - talk written down?" Nine years in school! I'm speechless. But that's it, breakthrough. Tony was reading in six weeks. Not all mainstream schools are poor at diagnosis and testing. We had plenty of information about Nigel. We knew, for instance that he had brittle bones and was hyperactive [I've since learned that the two conditions are often associated - one of Nature's less funny jokes] which didn't exactly thrill me since I have an old school [built in 1927] with very narrow corridors and lots of exposed heating pipes - not good for a child such as Nigel. It was also noted that Nigel had severe sequential memory deficits and therefore would be likely to have difficulty with all areas of the curriculum. So I thought I knew all of his problems. I was wrong. First morning and there's Nigel haring down the corridor at about 100 miles per hour. "Whoa ... " says I "Come here" Nigel struts into my room, five years old and bold as they come. "Yep!" he says, "You're the 'ead, aren't you?" "I am ... now why do you think I've stopped you and brought you here" "That's easy. I was running. I could fall and break my leg or my hip or my skull and you'd have to call an ambulance and take me to hospital." "Exactly right - so we'll have to help you to stop running. Here's an idea. When you go through any door, say to yourself 'I must walk, I must walk'." "Great idea!" says Nigel [five years old, remember] "No wonder they made you 'ead, 'cos you've got a brain on you" Nigel exits my room, says "I must walk" and walks down the corridor. Success? Not quite. Break time, running footsteps outside in the corridor, and there's Nigel at full speed chanting "I must walk, I must walk". So I stop him, ask him what he's doing wrong. He admits he was running. "But I said, 'I must walk'" Thinks "But I was running" Thinks again. "Oh bloody 'ell - sorry, sir - I should say 'I must walk BEFORE I run, shouldn't I?" He got it right - sometimes - after that. There's a great debate at present about 'inclusion' - usually discussion as to whether kids with special needs need to be educated in regular or in special schools. To me, the only important inclusion occurs when kids leave the education system and make their own life, so just to complete the tale, I'll tell you what's happened to these kids now they've grown up. Cleo works as warden / caretaker in a sheltered home for battered wives. I visited her there a couple of years ago. She still wants to marry me or, failing that [she said] spend a little time with her in her shelter. Wicked Cleo, too late on both counts. Nigel has a similar 'caring' role: he is a care assistant for disabled adults, and has also won the highest level of the Duke of Edinburgh Award Scheme with a visit to 'Buck House' no less. Brendan's a fireman. He visited us last year to give a fire safety talk to the kids. He's married with two of his own. I went out for a drink with Tony a few years ago to celebrate his getting his Captain's ticket. His interest had shifted from motorbikes to ships. He still can't out drink me. And what about shy, timid Wayne? Just last July he got his Engineering Degree [with a special commendation and a prize] making both us and his parents very proud. But before his degree course, this timid, shy young man [who wouldn't amount to anything, remember] backpacked alone around the world visiting 72 countries on the way. Semi-independent indeed!