teacher. As soon as I sat down, Ms. Daniels started running her mouth. She told me that she suspected Eric had attention deficit disorder and perhaps some other issues. She wanted to put him through a full battery of psychological tests to determine the nature of his suspected learning disabilities and then meet again to discuss our alternatives. She said all this without one visible shred of emotion. My jaw was on the floor.
“I’m very concerned about him,” she said.
“Attention deficit disorder?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Are you qualified to make that judgment?”
“No, but I haven’t missed a call yet.”
I didn’t like the way she spoke and I didn’t like her. What was she saying? Eric was not a hyperactive child. Energetic perhaps, but very well behaved. I knew Eric’s handwriting wasn’t as clear as the other children’s, and artistically his work was inferior when compared to the paintings and models of his classmates. But so what?
He was just a little boy!
On the other hand, if you asked Eric about the history of mankind, his eyes twinkled as he took you down the timeline from one era to the next. If you wanted to know about dinosaurs, he could tell you everything there was to know. He watched Boyd Matson and the National Geographic Explorer endless hours upon end, virtually memorizing everything. Between television, museum visits, and books we read together, Eric’s beautiful mind was filled with information and imaginings I’d never had at his age.
There was nothing, I repeat, nothing wrong with my son.
I had been warned about teachers like this woman, this Ms. Ice P l a n t a t i o n
7 5
Cube Daniels. They can’t teach worth a damn so they blame it on the children, picking away at them, searching for justification of their own ineptitude.
She went on to say he was too easily distracted, had to be constantly reminded to get “back on task.” I told her I thought he was probably bored to tears.
She claimed that he had social issues with the other children, that he was a loner. Big deal, I said, Eric doesn’t like to play soccer.
He is a more cerebral child. That remark set off some kind of pyrotechnics in her miniscule brain.
“Mrs. Levine?” she said, and not very nicely, “I’ve been teaching for ten years and it doesn’t take too long for me to spot a troubled child in my classes.”
“Ms. Daniels? Do you have children?”
“That is irrelevant to this discussion.”
No children. Probably hadn’t been laid in ten years either, from the looks of her.
“Eric’s only seven years old! Cut him a little slack!”
“Mrs. Levine, I’m required to bring these things to the attention of the parents and the administration. If you don’t wish to accept my recommendations, you’ll have to discuss it with the headmistress.”
I sat back and looked at her. Who was this horrid woman trying to attach a label to my son? Over forty, unmarried, graying hair pulled back in a clasp, long denim jumper over a striped turtleneck, huge eyeglasses. As plain a Jane as has ever tormented children. And parents. I did not like this woman.
“Test him,” I said. “Test him and we shall see what we see.”
Eric and I would prove her wrong and then I would take out a full-page ad in the New York Times insisting her teacher’s license be revoked and that she be publicly caned. Maybe I’d cane her myself.
I was suddenly reconciled to testing him. To be honest, I was slightly curious. I wanted to know just how his fabulous young mind was wired. He was different from other children, I admitted to myself.
7 6
D o r o t h e a B e n t o n F r a n k The testing haunted me until the appointed day arrived. What if I was wrong? I couldn’t be. When we had hard results in our hands, then his obvious gifts would be revealed and recognized.
Most of all, I wanted to see Ms. Daniels writhing in pain in a pool of her own self-righteous, small-minded, and judgmental blood.
Every time I thought
“I’m very concerned about him,” she said.
“Attention deficit disorder?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Are you qualified to make that judgment?”
“No, but I haven’t missed a call yet.”
I didn’t like the way she spoke and I didn’t like her. What was she saying? Eric was not a hyperactive child. Energetic perhaps, but very well behaved. I knew Eric’s handwriting wasn’t as clear as the other children’s, and artistically his work was inferior when compared to the paintings and models of his classmates. But so what?
He was just a little boy!
On the other hand, if you asked Eric about the history of mankind, his eyes twinkled as he took you down the timeline from one era to the next. If you wanted to know about dinosaurs, he could tell you everything there was to know. He watched Boyd Matson and the National Geographic Explorer endless hours upon end, virtually memorizing everything. Between television, museum visits, and books we read together, Eric’s beautiful mind was filled with information and imaginings I’d never had at his age.
There was nothing, I repeat, nothing wrong with my son.
I had been warned about teachers like this woman, this Ms. Ice P l a n t a t i o n
7 5
Cube Daniels. They can’t teach worth a damn so they blame it on the children, picking away at them, searching for justification of their own ineptitude.
She went on to say he was too easily distracted, had to be constantly reminded to get “back on task.” I told her I thought he was probably bored to tears.
She claimed that he had social issues with the other children, that he was a loner. Big deal, I said, Eric doesn’t like to play soccer.
He is a more cerebral child. That remark set off some kind of pyrotechnics in her miniscule brain.
“Mrs. Levine?” she said, and not very nicely, “I’ve been teaching for ten years and it doesn’t take too long for me to spot a troubled child in my classes.”
“Ms. Daniels? Do you have children?”
“That is irrelevant to this discussion.”
No children. Probably hadn’t been laid in ten years either, from the looks of her.
“Eric’s only seven years old! Cut him a little slack!”
“Mrs. Levine, I’m required to bring these things to the attention of the parents and the administration. If you don’t wish to accept my recommendations, you’ll have to discuss it with the headmistress.”
I sat back and looked at her. Who was this horrid woman trying to attach a label to my son? Over forty, unmarried, graying hair pulled back in a clasp, long denim jumper over a striped turtleneck, huge eyeglasses. As plain a Jane as has ever tormented children. And parents. I did not like this woman.
“Test him,” I said. “Test him and we shall see what we see.”
Eric and I would prove her wrong and then I would take out a full-page ad in the New York Times insisting her teacher’s license be revoked and that she be publicly caned. Maybe I’d cane her myself.
I was suddenly reconciled to testing him. To be honest, I was slightly curious. I wanted to know just how his fabulous young mind was wired. He was different from other children, I admitted to myself.
7 6
D o r o t h e a B e n t o n F r a n k The testing haunted me until the appointed day arrived. What if I was wrong? I couldn’t be. When we had hard results in our hands, then his obvious gifts would be revealed and recognized.
Most of all, I wanted to see Ms. Daniels writhing in pain in a pool of her own self-righteous, small-minded, and judgmental blood.
Every time I thought
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