Moot Points

Jason's samba

John Clark Reid

ADHD. Troubled past. Living in a halfway house. He seems pleasant enough if he takes his Ritalin. Sometimes he acts up in class, so just ask him if he"has an appointment." These are his cue words, and they'll remind him to cool down. I knew I would never remember.

On Monday, "Jason" (not his real name) arrived. Demure, evasive, eyes averted. He was a skinny little runt with geeky glasses. The guidance counselor appointed a student as Jason's guide. After the first period, Jason was forgotten—no complaints. He simply followed the pack as it strolled from class to class.

In the ensuing weeks he proved himself reliable, arriving at school on time, adhering to the smoking policy, working fairly hard during class and making friends. Never any real problem. Then one day he forgot to take his Ritalin.

I have the habit of playing classical music during class, but I was listening to Latin Jazz just before Jason's class arrived. I let it continue as the students straggled in from phys ed class. Jason was absent. My queries as to his whereabouts were greeted with knowing glances but no explanations. I started the lesson.

Five minutes later Jason arrived, hesitated at the door and grinned a huge grin. His body seemed to become unglued, as lithe as a puppet that is being grotesquely manipulated by a cruel master. In a swift motion he strode into class gyrating to the music in an almost impassioned attempt to allow the rhythm to find its true expression. The class roared with laughter. Several students rose from their seats and joined the animation. I was caught somewhere between horror and hilarity.

All inhibitions had given flight. Improvised insanity lured many to partake in the samba. It rose quickly and abated only after the number had finished. Then a general acceptance of decorum led the students back to their desks, except Jason. His desk couldn't contain his dancing feet. Further, a stream of rude comments—never before heard from Jason—pulsated from his mouth. I couldn't remember his cue. Not surprising. Before long I sent him to the office to "chill."

Calls went out, but no one was at the home during the day. Office staff expressed their displeasure to any and all who would listen. Intervention wasn't possible so Jason contentedly passed the rest of the day mucking about in the nurse's room. At the end of the day, his social worker arrived and took him home, promising to medicate the boy.

The following day Jason was present—Ritalin obviously having been administered. He returned to his routines, behaved well, followed directions and soon his overt dance was all but forgotten. Then one day he was gone. A more appropriate placement had been found, but I felt something greater had been lost.

Working in a high needs school with many students who are helped to function in the classroom with proper medication, I have never doubted the utilitarian reasons for treatment. Chaos would otherwise rule. Yet the other night, as Jobim sang his sambas and Stan Getz's saxophone offered a gentle obrigato, I could see Jason moving through my classroom and the spontaneous joy and expression that followed. Teachers may have gained discipline and order in the classroom. Students may have gained self-control and the ability to function acceptably in society. But what have we lost?

John Clark Reid teaches at Sir Wilfred Laurier Junior High School in Calgary. A previous story by Reid, entitled "Foot loose," appeared in the December 9, ATA News.