A diary entry from 2005
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When do I cross the line from helping to enabling? I keep running into this question year after year. I work with many families with little or no money who often need help from the mental health community. I work with students with disabilities. Specifically, middle school children with emotional disorders and/or learning problems. Every now and then I have a student in desperate need of services outside the realm of what a school is equipped to give. Such is the case for Kelvin.
Kelvin is a student in my class who has suffered great losses this year. Kelvin’s baby brother died earlier this year, his favorite aunt was killed in a bizarre car accident two months later, and an uncle passed away two weeks after his aunt died. To say he has had a string of bad luck is an understatement.
Any one of these tragedies is enough to bring an adult to his knees. But, not Kelvin. The day of his brother’s funeral he came to school after the burial so that he wouldn’t ruin his perfect attendance. And the day after hearing of his aunt’s death, he came to school “to make her proud.”
But, as is common for anyone dealing with tragedies, Kelvin started having problems. He would suddenly start crying. He began to withdraw from friends. And as is common for adolescent boys dealing with difficult emotions, Kelvin started lashing out and getting in trouble more and more.
Yesterday, the counselor, social worker, assistant principal and I met with Kelvin’s parents to discuss how we could get him more help. We told them about a program. The parents were receptive. So, we started moving forward. Because his parents are one of the millions of functioning illiterates in America, we called the clinic to make the appointment, we called the insurance company to ensure that the services would be covered, we provided a letter to the hospital describing our observations and concerns, we provided three pages of anecdotals, and we had a cab take them to in-take where Kelvin was immediately placed into their outpatient day school. His mother was offered free bus passes, but she declined, saying she would be able to get him there. Kelvin would start the program the next day—today.
Relief. All the elements had come together. Today Kelvin would be getting the help he so desperately needs.
This morning I drove into work feeling good. I took a detour from my regular morning route to treat myself to a café mocha and spent a little extra time in the parking lot savoring the sunny morning and listening to the radio before walking into the school.
And there was Kelvin. With him were his father and grandmother. It was 8:30. The program, more than an hour away from our school, was expecting Kelvin to be in its class at 9:00.
Despair.
The father said he had no way of getting Kelvin to the school. I informed him that the mother had declined bus passes because she said she would get Kelvin there. The father said he wasn’t aware of that because he hadn’t gone to the clinic with her and hadn’t spoken to her since yesterday. So, we got him bus passes.
The father asked me for the address. I went on the Internet, got the address, wrote it down, gave it and read it to him. The father asked me what bus line should he take.
I got back on the Internet and searched the CTA routes. As I was explaining the directions to the father and Kelvin, his little grandmother started yelling at me: “The school needs to provide transportation; you need to get him there.” At this point, I was tapped. I just didn’t have an ounce of energy left in me to be diplomatic, so I just ignored the grandmother and said to the father, “You really need to start going; he’s already late.”
And I am sapped. Kelvin is at a crossroads. He lives in the projects. Gangs are trying to recruit him. He has a severe learning disability. He has serious mental health issues. Yet, he is very good with computers, speaks eloquently and can be very sympathetic to others in need. He has a smile that just melts your heart. Is it enough?
Kelvin and I were once having one of those student-teacher talks where we were discussing what our futures would look like in five years, 10 years time. He started telling me, “When I get shot…”
I stopped him.
“What do you mean ‘when I get shot?’ I asked incredulously.
“Ms. Blogger,” he said matter-of-factly, “everyone in my neighborhood gets shot.”
He then continued with his story, telling me how his father would hunt down and kill the shooters. I must have had an inquisitive look on my face, because he said, “Well, of course, I mean if I don’t get killed. I mean if I just get hurt from the bullets.”
I told him aside from television and movies I had never actually heard a gun shot.
Now he was incredulous. “You’ve never heard a gun shot?”
“No.”
“I hear them every night.”
“How do you sleep?” I asked him.
“Fine,” he said. “I just put the pillow over my head so I don’t hear nothin’.”
Will Kelvin make it?
Can I help him?
I just don’t know.
I want to say every child can be saved. Every child can have a future. But, how much gumption does a child need?
With every fiber of my being I want Kelvin to have a wonderful life. But. I just don’t know.
(Sidenote: Kelvin and Paz were best friends when I taught them. Paz is lying in an almost vegetative state, recovering from the bullet that entered the back of his head and exited his forehead, at the City Hospital. I asked his mother if Kelvin knows. She did not know. Last we heard, Kelvin had dropped out of high school and was in an opposing gang. Maybe it's better that Kelvin does not know.)
