The weeks that followed were somewhat of a blur. I don’t remember anything else about my first year, except for him (and a terrible puke experience. Let’s just say the janitor not only cleaned the floor but handled the situation too).
He stole my heart. And my patience. And my temper. But mostly my heart.
He moved from another state because he had witnessed his dad being murdered. Basically a drug deal had gone wrong, and his little eyes were the ones who saw. He had severe behavior problems. Wouldn’t you?
He would run out of my classroom. Lock himself in the bathroom and bang his head on the door. He would hide under the lunch table. I found it ironic once, that the Special Ed. teacher couldn’t help me get him out from under the table. He would have crying fits, sprawled out in the floor. I literally had to hold him like a baby. After I would finish the song I was singing, he had calmed down enough to get back to first grade work.