THE WHITE GIRL

It was the first day of the the new school year in September. I was asked to open a third grade class as they had not yet hired a teacher to fill the position. This was the high-achieving track and I was looking forward to the assignment, albeit with the same butterflies dancing in my stomach that have accompanied me to school every September since I started Kindergarten thousands of miles, and too many years ago. Although not necessarily a rule, the so-called “gifted” classes often have few discipline or emotional problems and, as they are usually aware of their classification, they tend to be eager and responsive. Teaching them is great fun.

As I crossed the schoolyard to greet my charges, they were lined up in two snaking rows, excited and anxious to meet their new teacher, although noticeably not dressed in brand new, first day of school outfits. Most of the faces were at least familiar, as I had been subbing in this school since they started pre-school or Kindergarten, and most knew me as either a teacher in their classrooom or certainly from the yard. As they squealed and rushed to get my hugs, it was clear that we were delighted to see each other. The known always feels safer than the stranger.

Girls and boys alike wore tight rows of black braids, trophies of many hours glued to a chair, or hair cleanly parted into multiple pigtails with multi-colored barettes holding them in place; others, a single long, thick, shiny braid, and then smack in the middle of the line, straight blonde hair with bangs. Whoa! Where did she come from? A Caucasion child - looking up at me with that determined smile of a teenager at the eighth grade dance - eyes shifting, hoping for the best. I wondered if the extraordinary cost of real estate in Los Angeles was finally integrating this last area of almost affordable housing.

Third grade is always a favorite - they’re still young enough to want to please the teacher, but old enough to have some basic understanding: unaffected enough to be delightfully enthusiastic and best of all not yet infused with bitchyness hormones. Therefore I could choose two girls to be the new girl’s “friends” for the day and insure that she’s not left alone at recess or lunch.

Her name was Catherine - she appeared to be a good student, performing above grade level, working quietly and carefully, appraising each new situation before moving in. Such behavior was to be expected. As the next days passed, I was pleased with her adjustment.

On the fourth day of school I marked her absent, but since tardiness (“She come late”) is woven into the fabric of school attendance, I thought perhaps she’d show up later. She didn’t - but her mother did - explaining that Catherine was epileptic and had had a grand mal seizure.

Wow, this was familiar territory for me - my daughter also has a seizure disorder - and I comforted the woman who was obviously anxious and agitated, assuring her that fortunately her daughter was in my class and I am trained to deal with seizures, should it happen in school. I thought about how my own child’s seizures had been dealt with cruelly and with ignorance by students and teachers alike and was pleased that I would be empathetic and competent.

Catherine returned to school, hesitant but seemingly happy - responding with intelligence and a sweet smile. And then she was gone.

Phone calls were answered with “No longer in service,” and further inquiries to the residence listed on school reconds determined that the address was a home for battered women and this family was again on the run.