The day a special needs child broke my heart

As a middle school teacher, I have had the privilege of forming deep connections with thousands of children. Miraculously, I have been able to make so many genuine connections with thousands of children over 20 years of teaching in the classroom.

I believe it was my sincerity and authenticity that made the children trust me. Children know fake and they also know when a teacher genuinely cares about their well-being and is genuinely interested in them as people.

For the most part, this gift came to me naturally. I looked them in the eyes when I spoke to them, and when they spoke to me, I truly listened with an open mind and an open heart.

I tried to learn everyone’s names and learn how to pronounce them correctly. As I got older and started to struggle with short-term memory issues, it became increasingly difficult, so everyone became cute, babyish, or sugary, and the kids didn’t seem to mind at all. When I first started teaching, I began the school year confidently, immersing myself in the teaching content.

It took me a while to realize that I don’t teach content—I teach kids.

I remember learning in a college class that kids don’t care what you know until they know you care. So, I stopped diving into the curriculum on day one and used the first weeks of school to teach procedures, routines, and behavior expectations, and most importantly, I used this time to get to know my students as unique individuals with hopes, dreams, fears and unmet needs. I wanted them to know that I care about all of them.

I went from simply looking at names on a roster, disciplinary records, test scores, or even what other teachers told me about them, and began to see complex but beautiful young people with gifts, talents, and intelligence that were not yet fully realized.

Above all, I was there to teach them not only to be literate and productive citizens, but also to be kind and empathetic citizens who care about all humanity.

Each new school year started with a clean slate, allowing students to show me who they were. I, too, allowed myself to be vulnerable and open without compromising the appropriate boundaries that teachers must maintain in order for their authority to be respected.

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I developed a reputation among students even when they were not my students.

I once heard one kid say to another, “Miss Jade is tough and you will work as hard as you can in her classes, but you will learn and she will do her best to help you learn. She cares.

He formulated my goal perfectly. This didn’t just apply to the students on my list. I also made connections with students I did not teach.

My class was always full of students, many of whom I did not know or teach. They asked me to help with their studies and asked for advice.

Children of all races loved having me as a teacher, but the black children were especially pleased to have a black teacher in the building. Many of them were not in my class, but they always hung out in my class.

According to a 2020 study, positive relationships between students and teachers have previously been found to increase children’s engagement in school learning and activities, improve academic performance, and reduce the prevalence of children’s externalizing behaviors.

According to a 2016 study published in the Journal of Applied Developmental Psychology, the transactional perspective of child development emphasizes the need to also examine the influence of student behavior on the quality of student-teacher relationships, since children are active participants in shaping their environment.

That’s how I met my sweet Penelope.

She was an independent student who was allowed to socialize and dine with the rest of the population. Although Penelope was never assigned to my class, she found her way into my room—and into my heart.

Like many others, she began calling me “Mom,” a nickname that stuck for several years. There was something about her that attracted me, and over time we developed a bond that I will always treasure.

It is not unusual for teachers and students to form bonds. When you spend 180 days a year learning with your child, it’s easy to form a connection.

I am a very warm and pleasant person, and I pass this warmth on to my children. When you love children, most of them love you back. They share their thoughts, feelings and life experiences, and I share some of mine.

If you make an effort to build trust and strong connections with your students, they will find it easier to learn with you. I loved my relationships with my children, but sometimes those relationships could lead to heartbreak. Whenever they hurt me in any way, it broke my heart.

So it was with Penelope. Every day during senior year she came to my class during lunch. At first she sat quietly and watched me teach in class. But in the end I assigned her to work with other students.

I quickly discovered that she was very smart and capable, just like so-called “regular” children. Her problems were more emotional and behavioral than intellectual, a fact that was often overlooked by those who saw only her emotional outbursts and struggles.

She expressed herself through poetry, wrote me nice notes, which she put on my table or left on my chair. These were her ways of saying, “Thank you,” “I see you,” and, most importantly, “I need you.” Our connection deepened, and she began to rely on our time together as a refuge from the chaos that often filled her young life.

But then came the day we both knew would eventually come—her last day before graduation. She walked into my class as usual, but there was a heavy sadness in the air, an unspoken understanding that our daily lives were about to end.

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After a few minutes of small talk, she asked me to adopt her. Yes, you read that right. She wanted me to adopt her.

I was shocked, somewhat flattered and very concerned. I’ve had kids ask for a lot of things, but never this. “Penelope, you know that I cannot adopt you. You have already been adopted by two parents who love and adore you.”

She didn’t agree with me. “They don’t like me. They just want a check. They constantly beat and insulted me. Please, mom, please, please adopt me.”

This meeting broke my teacher’s heart and lit a motherly fire in me. I knew Penelope well enough to know that she could be very creative with the truth. It’s very likely that none of this is true, but as a teacher I am a mandated reporter, so I had to tell the right people what she told me.

This poor child has known a lot of pain and loneliness. Her biological mother became addicted to crack, and the state took Penelope from her. She did not stay in the foster family for long. The couple adopted her.

Penelope is black and her adoptive parents are white. She often lamented that she needed a black mother who could help her understand her heritage and culture and help her fix her hair. The children picked on her because her hair was always disheveled. I think she saw the other black teachers and me as her biological mother.

After trying to reason with her and help her understand why I couldn’t adopt her, she crawled under my desk and curled up on the floor with her arms tightly wrapped around the legs of the chair, refusing to let go.

“I won’t leave,” she shouted defiantly, her voice trembling. “I don’t want to go. Please mom, take me home with you. Please adopt me.”

I felt a lump in my throat as I knelt next to her, trying to coax her out from under the table. “Honey, you know I can’t do this. You’re already 18 years old and you already have adoptive parents,” I said quietly, but she just shook her head, tears streaming down her face.

Hours passed and she refused to move. We sat in silence most of the time, the silence broken by the occasional sob. Over time, it became clear that I could not cope with this situation on my own.

Late in the evening I had no choice but to call the administrator. After he couldn’t get her to come out, he called the police. The police arrived. They were gentle but firm, and after what seemed like an eternity, they managed to pull her out from under my desk.

As they took her away, she fought them, kicking and screaming, her screams echoing through the empty corridors. She just kept screaming, “Mom, please adopt me. Please let me go home with you.”

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It was one of the most heartbreaking moments of my teaching career. All I could do was cry.

And here I was, despite all my good reasons, another black woman who had to be disappointed and rejected, a childless black woman who wished she had a daughter like her. Before the police car drove away, I slipped her a note with my phone number, promising that I wouldn’t leave her.

I was always just a phone call away. This simple gesture seemed to calm her down. And for some time she kept this promise. She called me once a week, then once a month, and then once a year. But one day the calls stopped completely.

I haven’t heard from her for many years. I often wonder where she is, how she is doing, and whether she has found the happiness she so desperately sought. I hope she’s okay. I hope she knows she is still loved and remembered.

This note I found this evening, crumpled and yellowed with age, reminds me of the connections we teachers make outside the classroom. It reminds me that sometimes the most important lessons we teach are not found in textbooks or lesson plans, but in the simple act of being there for someone who needs us.

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Jade Sheri Howard is a retired high school English teacher who spent 24 years in education before health issues forced her into early retirement. Now through her company Salt and Light Creations, LLCshe continues her mission to educate, inspire and empower people by developing uplifting products and writing blog posts and books on topics such as social justice, education, faith and self-improvement.