Daniel and Bobbie were students in my third grade class many years ago. Like all children, there was something special about each of them.
Her mother admitted that Bobbie had never gotten dirty. She had rarely fallen down, and anyway, there were the pillows.
Bobbie was considered a miracle child by her middle aged parents. Her arrival changed their retirement priorities. Her mother told me they put Bobbie on the plush carpet in the family room, accompanied by piles of imported pillows. They supplied her with books, and watched her grow.
By kindergarten, she could already read and produce plays. Her mother admitted that Bobbie had never gotten dirty. She had rarely fallen down, and anyway, there were the pillows. We laughed, and I promised to keep an eye on her.
In the classroom, Bobbie was the best reader, with a technicolor imagination and the voice-over to go with it. The other girls shrank from her at recess, resisting being cast yet again as a lesser character in one of her productions.
Daniel didn’t talk at all. His mother escorted him to his desk the first few days of class. His delicate oriental features matched hers. She stood behind him at his desk, firmly holding his head so he faced me.
“Listen to Teacher! Do What She Tell You!”
His eyes were wild to avoid mine, but his cheeks did not twitch against his mother’s palms. He kept perfectly still until she nodded at me and retreated from the room.
Then he turned his face to the side wall and absorbed the content of the odd and even chart, the list of how many days in each month, the multiplication chart, and the poem of the day.
I soon realized he could answer questions in writing, but didn’t speak; he could solve any math problems, but didn’t explain. His mother told me he gave classical piano recitals. Just no verbal conversations, no eye contact with me or the other kids.
“Listen to Teacher! Do What She Tell You!”
Observing him at recess, skirting around the scene on the playground, silently exploring on his own, I wondered who would make first contact with him.
After a few days, I noticed Daniel and Bobbie sharing an imaginary canoe in the sandbox. Daniel in the front, rowing. Bobbie in the back, directing.
“Row faster! This is where the whirlpool starts! Take me over to the bank by those bushes. We can stop and cook there. We’ll have to gather kindling for the fire. And don’t forget to tie the boat to a bush when we get there!”
Daniel went through all the motions, pantomiming her commands as if he’d been a life-long riverboat man. They acted out her fantasies with no planning or review. Spontaneous sketches in Bobbie’s head, which could dissolve and end instantly. Maybe a butterfly approaching; the shadow of a cloud could end a scene or bring a dramatic change. Some reason to gallop to safety, whatever.
I never heard the other kids question the pretend-play between Daniel and Bobbie. I was enchanted, but I couldn’t think of a way to ask about it that wouldn’t be imposing on them. This was their free time, why have to explain it?
Daniel went through all the motions, pantomiming her commands as if he’d been a life-long riverboat man.
Some weeks into the fall, each class in the school was asked to present a folk dance for an upcoming festival day. We settled on a simple circle dance with some cross-over steps, direction changes, and stomping. The theme would be a Bull Fight, calling for costumes, colorful and fancy. Everyone was abuzz with excitement.
We practiced with music until we had it down. The class voted for four Matadors who would take turns confronting the bull with their capes. Then they chose Daniel to be the bull.
On the day of, summoning all his intensity, he became The Bull. He used his curved fingers as horns and sparred with each Matador as the class moved the perimeter of the circle in unison. Steps in, arms up; steps back, arms down; side steps to the left, side steps to the right.
He pawed the ground and charged each challenger, backing all four out of the ring, one by one. At the loud cheering and applause, he bowed to all directions from the center of the circle. Then he trotted across the asphalt to the drinking fountain. It was a special event for us all.
On the day of, summoning all his intensity, he became The Bull.
As the weeks went by we all got used to each other, the routines and rhythms of each day. Both Bobbie and Daniel seemed more relaxed. But Daniel still never spoke.
One day after lunch, I brought in a new book to read to the class: Shel Silverstein’s The Missing Piece.
It tells the story of a Circle missing a pie-shaped piece of itself. The Circle rolled along looking for its missing piece, singing a little song. It found many pieces, some too small, some too big, so the search went on. At last the Circle found the piece that fit. But now, as a perfect Circle, it had no mouth to sing. So gently laying down the piece, the Circle continued on its way, singing its song.
“Hi-dee-ho, here I go, Lookin’ for my missin’ piece.”
As I read the last word, Daniel stood, raised his arm, and projected, “I LIKE THAT!”
The children burst into applause. He had spoken for all of us.
This brought a big smile. I like reading about your teaching days. Thanks.