Listen This Time

It's Funny what we actually remember. I remember that clearly too. I remember how upset I was that i was being punished for winning the fight. I remember my mom's comment when she saw that the kid out weighed me by a good 40 lbs and was 2 years my senior. I also remember how proaud i was of my mom for standing up to the bully of a princible when she tried to push her around her. My mom did listen to me that time, even though i had given he no reason to trust me, and something changed about our relationship that day.
Steve


Listen This Time
Major Betzann Carroll

Listen this time! Had there been other times? Yes, too many to count! Stephen had open-heart surgery at the age of two. Up until that point he was a perfect little person. So after his surgery he began making up for lost time. He was diagnosed with Attention Deficit Disorder. Later, the doctors said he had minor motor skill difficulty due to his surgery, which made it almost impossible for him to accomplish detailed work with his hands. Dancing was not high on his list either, and I don’t think he ever learned to skip. He could not participate in organized sports, because of his heart condition.

With all the “could nots” Stephen learned quickly the “coulds”. He made people laugh. He was ingenious and creative when it came to communication skills. His stories were captivating and his delivery superb. He was not disrespectful to adults but he did and said some funny things. He was the class clown. Most of the time I had to turn my head and laugh too. When he got to high school he joined the drama club and excelled at stand up comedy. Until high school his problem was finding a place to fit. We moved constantly and Stephen struggled to fit in. I was often called to school. I remember one night around 8:00 PM, having a second grade teacher call and say she just didn’t know what to do with Stephen. “Today he climbed the pole in the hall of the school.” She was a young teacher and was crying at 8:00 PM. I thought this poor teacher needed a break.

I told her, “the next time Stephen climbs the pole tell him to come down.” I talked to him that morning.

Sometimes he would put his little head in his hands and cry, “I don’t mean to be bad Momma. It just happens.” And it did, all the time. So it was no shock that I was summoned to the school on that hot Wednesday afternoon.

Stephen and Helen were both attending the Wesleyan Academy, a private school in St. Thomas, USVI. We were stationed there. I left The Salvation Army right away. I had to walk in the blistering sun, because my husband was picking up a donation at the waterfront. I grabbed my pocketbook, locked the door behind me and started the 45-minute emergency journey to the school, all up hill. Mrs. Joseph the principal, said it was imperative that I come right away. Nothing ever happened right away on the Island.

What was it this time? Last week they were reprimanding Helen for having two pencils on her desk. The week before Helen had entered an island-wide contest by making an art poster for the centennial. She came home in tears because the winners were being announced at the community gathering, which her school attended, and her poster was still sitting in the corner of the classroom. When I inquired, the teacher said that no one else submitted one, so she didn’t bother to submit Helen’s poster. Although Helen had dyslexia, she was an excellent student, at least until that week. It was not unusual to get a call about Stephen though. What had he done now? I was ready to punish him this time. If I made it! My face was beet red. The sweat was dripping down my forehead. The road, which was all up hill, was full of rocks, broken glass, and holes.
Roads, which tourists did not use were, at best, paths, shared with animals of every sort. With every step I thought how I would handle this incident. No television, no desserts, no friends over, no no, no!

My feet were now covered in dirt, the same dirt that was causing my throat to cough. I hunted in my purse for some change. There was a little food stand at the top of the hill and it had bottled water. I hunted but without success. Even the contaminated water at the fountain was looking good.

When I finally reached the school, I stopped to empty the stones from my shoes. There were no mirrors in the bathroom, which was just as well. As I reached the principal’s office I saw Stephen, my eighth grader, sitting on the floor outside the door. My child looked lost for more than one reason. But I had no time for sympathy now, I was too angry. How could he be in trouble again? “Get up, we are going home!”

“Mom, please, you have to listen,” he begged. I was not listening and I didn’t think I could. I could see the door was partially open, and a woman was with Mrs. Joseph. I asked Stephen if that was the other boy’s mother in the office. “No, Mom, it is one of my teachers. The other boy is back in the class. That is why you have to listen.”

I could barely hear the conversation coming from the office, but I knew they were discussing my son. I looked at Stephen and asked, “Has the other boy’s mother had been there already.”

“No, and I don’t think she’s coming. Shymel is back in class, Mom, and that is what I am trying to tell you. Shymel bumped into me at lunch and my tray spilled on his sneaker. I said I was sorry and tried to wipe it up with a napkin. Shymel wanted me to lick his shoe. When I said no, he punched me. The next punch, I punched back. Now I am getting kicked out and Shymel is back in class. Please, mom, you have to listen.”

As I thought for a minute, the teacher walked out of the office and Mrs. Joseph beckoned me with her finger. “Stephen, you sit down and stay there while I talk to your mother!” The sharpness in her voice was a wake up call, because she had never used that tone of voice with me. “You sit here Mrs. Carroll, and I will lay out Stephen’s conduct and why he is going home. He was fighting, and fighting is not allowed. Sign here and then you can go get his things. He is not allowed in the class.” I asked Mrs. Joseph if she had talked with Stephen. “Absolutely not. I talked with the teacher. He was fighting and that’s that. Sign here please, I have someone waiting for me.”

“Is it the mother of the other child who Stephen was fighting with? Is that who is waiting? What was the other boy’s name and has he been dismissed.”

She, Mrs. Joseph, took up the paper, and seeing that I had not signed it handed it back to me. “Please Mrs. Carroll, just sign the paper.”

As I picked up the pen, Stephen pushed the door open and started crying and screaming, “No Mom, you have to listen, you have to listen!”

“Out of the room Stephen. Take your foolishness “out the room”,” was Mrs. Joseph’s scolding.

Stephen had one hand on the mahogany chair squeezing so tightly that his knuckles were pure white, and his other hand was on my arm holding tight enough to draw blood. He had never been this emphatic or pathetic. He dropped to his knees and my seventh grader was now pleading with me to listen. “Get up Stephen and take your place outside my door on the floor, Now!” said Mrs. Joseph.

“No, Mrs. Joseph, I think it is time we both listen to what Stephen has to say. I am not leaving until he is respected enough to express himself.” I pulled Stephen to me and held him for a few minutes, helping him find his composure. Stephen was small in stature and thin for his age. His little back was heaving up and down and his heart (his specially stitched heart) was pounding so hard I thought it would pound right out of his shirt. His trembling hand wiped the tears from his face. He turned around to face his accuser. Then he began to tell the whole story. I asked Mrs. Joseph what a child was to do if someone punches him. Her response was that they were not to fight. “So should Stephen stand there and get beaten?” She said he was to come to the office or tell a teacher. “What teacher do you want him to tell, the one who was here minutes ago laughing? She refused to answer. I asked where Shymel was.

Her reply was, “He is in class.” I asked if his mother was coming and if she was taking him home. The answer was no. Now it was my turn to get excited, but I was not falling to my knees, nor was I going to be ordered around by a school principal. She had belittled Stephen and I had just watched. Memories of Helen’s tears came to mind. Perhaps, just perhaps this time Stephen was right. I was so glad I listened.

“Mrs. Joseph, I know that Stephen gets into mischief,” I continued. “I also know that he tells the truth. If you want to send him home for fighting, that is your decision. However, you are not sending him home without the same treatment for Shymel who started the fight. You are not making my son sit on the floor in the hall to wait for his mother, while the other mother was not even summoned. Mrs. Joseph, I walked here from the market place thinking there was an emergency, and I was right. The emergency is that you are being unfair to my son and I am taking him home. However, I will take the necessary steps to see that this and other incidents are handled correctly. My husband and I will be here tomorrow. As far as I am concerned, Shymel owes Stephen an apology. If you and your teachers choose to show favoritism, then my husband and I will deal with it. There is more to this incident than a fight. It is a fight for fairness for every child.”

Mrs. Joseph was speechless. As she would put it, she was not “a custom” to a parent or student talking back to her. I guess I was surprised myself. Upon reaching the outside steps of the school Stephen stopped. He took his hands and pulled my face directly even with his and said, “Mom, I am sorry and I love you. Thank you for listening and believing me.” I didn’t speak. We sat down on the steps and I just held him for a while. It was my turn to cry. This was my son, my only son. How could I allow him to be hurt?

My husband is much more forceful than I. He handled Mrs. Joseph just fine. It was a defining moment for my son. He knew I believed in him. I wish I could say he never had another problem in school, but there were a few. He graduated from Arlington High School, Eastern Nazarene College, and Salvation Army Training School. He is now a minister with a son of his own. He and I will always remember the day Mom listened.

How thankful we can be that God looks at us in fairness. And He always listens!