Raising Blaze by Debra Ginsberg Read Free Book Online Page B

not obsessive.”
    I tell the group at large that Blaze is a completely contented child, that he’d shown no signs of distress about going to school or leavingme this morning. I am practically begging them to believe me, and I hate the sound of it. I finish by saying I can’t understand how some confusion over what to do on his first ever day at school justifies being referred to special education.
    Dr. Roberts, it seems, has been anticipating this and has saved the best for last.
    “Blaze refused to come inside after recess was over,” she says. “The teacher was unable to persuade him and so I went out there. When I tried to coerce him, he became very agitated. He yelled at me to go away and pushed me. He pulled at my nylons when I tried to remove him from the slide.”
    I look at her aghast. Pulled her nylons? Who is this child she is describing? A parallel universe version of Blaze? I can’t even fully bring myself to believe her, although after she delivers this proclamation (more like a sucker punch, I’m thinking), I feel like I want to pull her nylons and hit her myself. There isn’t much I can say now to dig Blaze out of the hole that he’s in. There’s no offensive strategy I can come up with. From now on, it’s all going to be about defense.
    “Blaze is a very happy child,” I tell Dr. Roberts. “I’ve never seen him hit or push anyone. I really don’t know what could have happened to make him react that way.”
    It seems that everybody has suddenly started talking at once. The speech therapist is saying Blaze might not have adequate communicative skills. Sally, the special-education teacher, offers the fact that her class is much smaller than the regular kindergarten class and, therefore, Blaze would be able to receive much more one-on-one attention. Dr. Roberts says that, of course, they’d want to do a thorough evaluation to determine “the best possible placement” for Blaze.
    As a final trump card and as if to prove what an utter failure Blaze has been in her classroom, Ice Princess brings out some work samples. The assignment was to draw yourself and your family, she says. The first few she shows are typical kindergarten drawings, some stick figures,some bodies filled in. Blue skies, yellow suns. Then she brings out Blaze’s drawing, a formless swirl of color.
    “He doesn’t like to draw,” I say, almost in a whisper. “I don’t make him draw at home.”
    “Coloring is an important prewriting skill,” Dr. Roberts says. “Children need to be able to color appropriately at the kindergarten level to prepare them for first grade. First grade is very challenging academically.”
    She assures me, again, that special education is the best placement for Blaze. I can’t help but feel that all of these people are implying, or at the very least trying to make me admit, that there is something wrong with Blaze. Nobody has mentioned what, exactly, but now I certainly am not lacking examples of what a catastrophe his first day has been. Tears start welling in my eyes and I struggle to keep them back. I begin to lose focus on the specifics of what is being said. I feel an unbridgeable chasm opening between how these people see my child and how I do and I am not sure that it is going to close anytime soon. I see nothing wrong with him and they see nothing right.
    Dr. Roberts tells me that we will have to decide on a “handicapping condition.” The law requires that, to qualify for special education, a child has to meet certain criteria. Some of my choices here include specific learning disability, deaf/blind, multiple handicaps, autistic, mentally retarded, severely emotionally disturbed, and speech/language impaired. How can I possibly pick from one of these categories? I have gone from having a beautiful, bright child to a handicapped kindergartner in the space of a few minutes. I don’t know how this has happened or why I let it happen at all. It’s the evidence they pulled out, I think.