Clap! Clap to the Music!

I'm standing in the classroom, looking through the door into our little mini-lunchroom. Margueritte, the substitute teacher (who I secretly think wishes to somehow justify the fanciness of her name), is there, doing sexy moves to hip-hop music. Around her, ten highly retarded students eat lunch, while their teachers and personal assistants sit around, waiting for tomorrow-- the first day of winter break. Vanessa is dancing also, and her brain-damaged interpretation of hip-hop moves is clearly remembered from her pre-car-accident life, when Vanessa was a normal adolescent girl. The strangeness and sadness of her glassy-eyed, obese self doing these unusual, almost athletic moves in extreme slow motion is overwhelming to me. Apparently, it also affects Margueritte, who is trying to turn it into a teachable moment.

"That's right, Vanessa! Clap to the music!" says she, at the top of her lungs, to the girl who could no more clap to music than manipulate numchucks.

"Everybody! Look at Vanessa! I think we should give Vanessa a hand! Everybody, give Vanessa a . . . Clap!" insists Margueritte. Everyone ignores her. She is very loud, as is the whole room. The day has been long, tedious, and unrewarding, like most days in the "skills based" special-ed room. But Margueritte's sudden, bossy mania is not helping matters. Like me, Mr. T.J. has retreated to the dark and the quiet of the classroom, which as far as I can tell is seldom used for anything approaching a class. Once, a down's syndrome boy and another even-goofier boy came in here, sat on the floor, and laughed about each other's farts. Another time, a girl came in here to do a computer learning program. She seemed to believe it consisted of clicking the mouse on everything on the screen until the computer switched you to the next question. Mr. T.J. and I are both watching Margueritte, wondering how long she is going to keep up this behavior that should embarass her, but instead embarasses us. Becky calls to me and demands that I get her a fork. Instinctively, I almost say, "Get it yourself. What are you . . . crippled?"

She isn't crippled, in fact, but although she is 21, she appears to be 9. She has a hump on her back, a face that is astoundingly elf-like, and tense hands like scaly claws with skin that is perpetually chapped and peeling off in layers. Although we have our own kitchen here, the drawers are mostly empty. A donated coffee-maker, crock pot, and aluminum baking pan reside in upper cabinets. Otherwise, there is nothing. I finally find her a plastic spork, and insist that she say thank you. After a great deal of stuttering and giggling, she manages to do so. In the background, Margueritte is still there, going off like a car alarm: "Clap!" she insists, "Clap to the music!"