Hold My Hand

Just outside of the door, Megan took my hand eagerly as we started walking down the hall. A few feet down the hallway however, Megan stopped abruptly, almost as if she had forgotten something. She looked up into my face, and I saw that the beautiful beam of light had vanished. I saw that it had been replaced instead by concern, as much concern as a young 4 year old could contain, reminiscent of the look she had given me in the waiting room just about an hour before. Then, Megan asked confidently but as quietly as before, “Could you teach me the difference between the numbers and the letters, so the kids at my school won't laugh at me when I say 1?” I stopped in my tracks. I think my heart skipped a beat. Not only from what she had just said to me, but her frail posture and the pained look on her pale face caught me off guard. I was stunned. Megan, wide eyed, calm and innocent, showed the sincerity of one of the youngest of learners I had ever encountered. I looked into her now anguished little face. Megan had expressed exactly what she NEEDED and WANTED to learn. In her mind, Megan had conceptually figured out what might take her pain away and how to make that her new reality. In that moment, Megan's expression made an indelible impression on me. One that has remained to this day. Megan knew even at her young age, that she needed to learn things that she had not learned in the most `appropriate' setting for her age her preschool. She had somehow figured out that she had not been able to learn the difference between the letters and the numbers. She and now I, both knew she had experienced her own personal heartache, emotional pain and sadness after she had been teased and laughed at, probably repeatedly by the other little learners. I would soon learn that her preschool was a developmental specialized preschool. Someone must have known something about her emerging delays. How could this happen? Megan was still such a `baby'. Her youth had not yet begun, as her tender childhood was in its prime. She desperately wanted to find that someone, who would understand her needs. Someone, who would continue to gently guide and teach her. Someone, who would allow their hand to be `taken' as she saw fit. Someone, to believe in her. Someone, who would be able to help her `understand the differences'. Someone, if only they could, make the other children stop teasing, and laughing at will at her. Someone, who would hold her hand and remedy her destiny. “It… must be…. hard… when… the other children… laugh at you.” I stammered, as I slowly knelt down to her level this second time again that far from typical day. We both knew my response was more of a question than a statement. Megan's head was lowered to the floor, and I gently touched the tip of her chin, missing the jelly, and raised her head to gain eye contact. It was then that I saw it all. What would she do if I said no? That instant the clay began its formation from a misshapen ball into something far more usable and beautiful. Time would determine how fine this sculpture would become and I knew this sculpture was already priceless. I asked, “Megan, do you want to learn how to read?” She slowly reached for my other hand. Her hand seemed so tiny holding mine. Her face dropped and she looked mostly at her feet. Her response stunned me again. “No…,” she whispered hesitantly, “….I don't think I am smart enough for that. But if you could help me so the kids won't laugh at me, I would be happy.” Megan looked up at me with the earnestness of an interviewee, trying to convince an employer that she was the right candidate for the open position. The pleading in her eyes marked her whole face. Her eyes were filled with tears she was at such a turning point. Why had Megan chosen me to help her? Why wasn't another adult responsible for Megan's learning? Couldn't someone else easily be helping Megan so that I would not have to make this tough decision? I had no idea all I would have to go through to make her wish come true. She had already determined that she `couldn't learn to read'. What was I, as an educator to do with that? What cues and clues had she internalized that made her determine that other children could learn to master the skill of reading, but not her? Why did Megan not see her own budding potential? How does this, could this, happen with a child who is so young? The number and intensity of these questions would continue to rise, much like a swollen river that finds its way over the banks, flooding my weary brain. Then it came to me. Could she have wanted to see what others were learning from me? Maybe Megan wanted to see if she thought she could trust me? Maybe she wanted to see for herself if I could teach her what she wanted to learn? Possibly by watching what other children who already trusted me were learning, she would know first-hand how they learned with me. None of this felt right. I determined I would personally take on the responsibility of teaching or making sure someone else would teach Megan to read. I made the decision, determined at that moment, to find a way to get her into the little girls' group, if funding was somehow possible. I would need more permissions, but I had lots of experience getting those for sure! It took almost a month to get Megan's funding paperwork completed and approved. Megan joined the group of little girls and she almost immediately found a place to plant herself. She loved the other girls...