Choices

When I look at Troy's school website I see a Flash-based photo album scrolling through the achievements and activities that occur over the course of the year.  What I do not see; however, is Troy.  No, I am not complaining that he is not being featured in the "popular" or even "good" kids lineup.  My heart aches for the things he misses out on simply because of who he is. 

Troy has a difficult time fitting in, as most Junior High School children do.  I want to stress the word "children" because it is worth noting that that is what they still are, despite their seemingly insatiable desire to portray themselves as anything but. 

Troy has had difficulties in every school he has attended (nine at last count).  He is so high-functioning and puts forth such a great first impression that initially or at some point along the way he is inappropriately mainstreamed.  That is when the trouble starts.  Once the teachers realize their mistake (I wasn't going to say "I told you so," but seriously, I have so consistently warned administrators about this it is almost funny to see it play out.  Only it's not.), the damage is done.  Troy has damaged his reputation by seeking sensory input one too many times, argued with classmates or teachers, or just plain said the wrong thing.  It is at this point that all bets are pretty much off that he just might make a friend this time.

Troy is, in fact, his own worst enemy.  He does and says things that just don't shake out the right way.  Then he wonders why he feels so alone.  Once he feels that the world is against him, what could possibly motivate him to reach out to others?  Yet he does, time and time again.  He must be my child after all.

Today found me parked outside the furthest temporary building from the school, my heart wrenched inside out.  Troy has done something he knew to be wrong and is paying for it.  Big time.  I will forgo the details of how he ended up here, but he is spending the next six school days in the almost-alternative-school setting called Choices.  Yesterday was his first day.  Yesterday, when I was so sure this type of punishment might just be the thing to shake him up enough to make better choices in the future.  Yesterday, when I thought he would wear his shirt tucked in and be subjected to the solitary confinement of a desk with cardboard blinders.  But yesterday he came home afraid.  He was pushed around, name-called and antagonized like fresh meat on a junior high version of Oz - the HBO one.

Still, as he is going to high school next year, I can't help but feel it is an important experience for him.  I cautioned him this morning about keeping his head down, speaking only when prudent, trying to pull from all of the advice being offered to those entering the prison system for the first time on any television show I have ever seen.  Most importantly I told him to talk to the adults and find out what their expectations were for how he is to react when others think no one is watching.

We do not live in a high-crime environment.  This is the junior high school I attended 25 years ago.  It is not Candy Land, there are still people who want to be thugs or delinquents.  And these are those who are in the Choices program with my son.  My son who trudged to the wooden steps like they were gallows.  My son who wore his non-graphics shirt tucked in with a belt and his ID on his noose of a lanyard.  He waved at me several times while I waited for him to be let in the building; something I wish he hadn't done as it might label him a mama's boy, of which he is absolutely guilty.

Watching those boys who gathered to be security wanded and let into the building at precisely 8:55, posturing themselves to be aggressors, strutting and cursing and bragging about sexual conquests (yeah, right, I thought), I couldn't decide if I should be afraid of them for Troy's sake, or grateful to them.  For all the things I could not teach this boy, there has usually emerged someone to help when I needed them most.  His dad happened to not be deployed during a particularly crucial stage of potty training, but over the years there have been a handful of neighbors and friends who got us over humps of throwing a football, riding a bike and growling the occasional "Man up, Troy" that this mama just didn't have the wherewithal to muster.  In a cosmic way, I would like to think that these children that Troy will spend the next week with will guide him to where he needs to be in order to survive high school, and for that; so long as they do not physically harm him or emotionally scar him for life, I salute them.  Maybe they even deserve to be featured on the school's Flash-based photo album.