Trembling Homework
I used to work at a homeless shelter for runaway teens on a night shift.
There were all sorts of problems that kids were having; economic homelessness, parental drug use, pregnancy, getting kicked out for sexual orientation, problems with the law etc.
Most of them were fully aware of their situations; we had a lockdown on their activities, the police and CPS were usually involved. Despite this, the house was a beautiful place. Kids were in a rare calm within the storm, and staff generally adored them; I have many fond memories of the kids I met. We made cookies at night and did little therapy sessions. I have seen every 90’s Tyler Perry movie and gave away half of my closet because donated t-shirts hardly cut it for kids who showed up with nothing more than what was on their backs. And from the other volunteers, I learned how to do the right paperwork amongst an endless stream of social work masters students who were out to change the world quietly even if they were wounded healers themselves.
Maybe three weeks into my shifts, a little girl came in who broke my heart. She was 11, very bright, pretty, and came with a long list of documented issues. Stealing, cheating, grades dropping, and violently abusing her little brother. Her grandmother was at her wits end. The little girl seemed unmoved by her grandparent’s obvious distress, her bright black eyes shining at me during intake. She was excited to be taken to the shelter.
Beyond the excitement though, there was an energy channeling right out of her like a delicate live wire exposed in her shaking, snapping hands. As we did her homework together, every question was lost before it could be answered; she would read it out loud and forget the answer, read it out loud and forget even when I told her the answer. The longer it went on, a facial tick showed itself. It was a simple crossword puzzle, with recognizable words. A shaky leg began to rattle the table. I took away the crayon — her only writing utensil- and got her a pencil so that “we can make beautiful letters”. On a hard scratched donated bench we sat for an hour and she was able to do 4 problems, each answer thrown to the air before getting griding the letters into the weak sheet. When she looked at me after it was over, I didn’t see a hardened, defiant little girl. I saw a child who was exhausted, and was trying to do her best. She started to cry out of frustration, and I had to sit on my hands because of the shelter’s policy against touching.
“It’s okay,” I said, “Let’s get ready for bed.”
A stack of undone homework went back into her rainbow backpack.
Her file said she was on a high dosage of ADHD medication, and it had rendered her unable to do anything except sit. Of course she would be doing terribly; of course her attention would turn towards easy “feel good” activities that were corroding her childhood; her mind was racing so fast only movement involved her whole being.
When we talked about what we wanted to do in the future during the night therapy session, she said she wanted to be sexy so people would pay more attention to her. The next week I learned she had been in trouble for wearing revealing clothing. Her mouth was too dry to brush her teeth.
I kept thinking about how drug companies make money off of kids. And how doctors kept prescribing children ADHD meds. And how this little girl was on a dose triple to what I had topped out at- and I had some pretty dark withdrawls once I quit ADHD meds for good. I can’t imagine what it would be like to have withdrawls as an elementary school child, unable to get attention, unable to articulate the real problem, left with strangers in a home who only saw a girl who wanted any attention possible.
She wasn’t the only one. A few kids came through that weren’t homeless the way other children were. They had a few things in common; they were middle class kids with decent homes and they were also on high doses of ADHD medications. The symptoms were always the same, stealing, cheating, grades drop, and extreme and violent defiance. Their parents simply couldn’t deal with them anymore. They thought they would hurt other kids. Being around them felt dark. But the kids themselves aren’t what’s wrong. They are just addicted.
I thought that drug abuse could be contained to people who indulged and were addicted to their medication; but I realized then it could be institutional, that it could ruin the lives of children unable to say no to the small pills they were fed, and that they would have no idea why they gnashed their teeth at night and only found relief in mindless activities and destruction. It’s been a long, dark realization that hurts to remember every single time and I wonder about her; bright black eyes and a bloody dry mouth, she would be in her early 20’s now.
