Sean
By Danielle Sigmon

At the time, I was working as a teaching assistant at Rock Creek, a special education school in Frederick, Maryland. On that first day of school, I pulled into a parking lot sandwiched between two schools. One was Rock Creek; the other was a Frederick County public elementary school. To the right, three boys raced to the playground, laughing and shouting as they flew through the grass. To the left, I saw a string of short, yellow school buses parked outside the school’s entrance. A wheelchair lift lowered from one of them. I made a quick left and stepped through the double doors to find my classroom.

There were only four students in my class, sometimes less if one had an IEP meeting or if they had caught the ring worm that was going around that summer. The girls, Chloe and Amy, were excited that first day of school, greeting their teachers with a hug, pulling out drawings they had scribbled on paper plates. Timothy hung up his backpack on the hook under his name, grinning as I introduced myself. And then there was Sean.

He was a handsome 7-year-old boy. His blonde hair always lay neatly on his head, his bangs just brushing the top of his eyebrows. His skin was fair, like mine, lightly dusted with freckles. He loved Goldfish crackers and the bright yellow yoga ball that we kept in the corner of the classroom. He liked to play with the faucet in the bathroom, fascinated as the cold water mixed with slippery Softsoap while he washed his hands.

But Sean didn’t talk. He rarely made eye contact. Most of the time, he chose to sit in the window sill, hands over his ears, peering out into the school parking lot, silently watching the flag high up on the pole, its drooping stripes and stars imitating his own eyes.

When I met him, I wanted to be his friend. I wanted to be that one teacher who could connect with him and help him progress more than he ever had before. I was convinced he could be taught. He could communicate. But I had no idea how to do that.

The other teachers, Allyson and Carolyn, liked Sean, too. Sometimes we would even bicker over who got to be his travel buddy when we went on field trips. On contract room days, when the kids would practice skills like paper shredding and table-setting, we would rotate who got “Sean duty.” Loud office machines, clanking silverware, and recycling activities made way too much noise for Sean. So we took turns walking him around the school. I always took him to the gym where high ceilings provided lots of room to breathe. Or, if the gym was full of kids with basketballs and scooters, to our classroom, where I tried my best to give unique voices to the Sesame Street characters in the book he’d chosen for me to read aloud.

I spent a lot of time with Sean. He needed a lot of one-on-one time. And I always volunteered to take him aside. Some days, we were friends. He’d smile at me when I got him off the bus, swinging his lunch box as we walked to class. He’d clap his hands with me during recess, laughing as I hopped over the shaky yellow bridge. Other days, he’d sit at his desk chair quietly moaning, rocking back and forth, hands over his ears like usual, looking so distraught, so hurt. I’d take him to the nurse. He wouldn’t have a fever. I’d offer him his bottle of water. He’d toss it to the ground. He never complained. But his pursed lips and sunken eyes told me he wasn’t okay. I felt helpless.

One afternoon, when Sean was in one of his miserable fits, I took him for a walk around the school. I held his wrist, and sang “Under the Sea,” encouraging him to skip along, hoping I could cheer him up. I couldn’t.

I took him to the gym, and we sat on the floor Indian-style. Sean didn’t say a word. So I just talked. I talked about the Magic School Bus movie we had watched that day, about the talent show coming up, about how Timothy had been sent to time out earlier, anything I thought might spark a bit of interest in those lifeless eyes. For ten minutes, we sat there.

Once, he looked at me. I mean, really looked at me. His frozen pupils dilated, his lips parted slightly. He threw his arms down in an exasperated sigh. And I could see his frustration. I wanted to pull him close and beg him, “Tell me what you’re thinking! If you would only try…” But then he was gone. Hands over his ears. Pupils small and hazy. He had heard every word I had said. But he couldn’t whisper a response.

Had I imagined his brief escape, a moment of relapse? Maybe. But I choose to believe it happened. Maybe this is wishful thinking, characteristic of naïve young teachers like me. Or Maybe Sean will one day escape from the invisible cage that holds him captive. Maybe I can even help him find the key. Maybe not. But I don’t want to risk not trying.

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