Sticky Mat Situations

As I busied myself unfurling yoga mats stiff from underuse, I stole glances at the teenagers scattered across the threadbare, mismatched couches. "Emotionally challenged" teenagers, to be precise, although to me the term seems redundant. Frankly, "emotionally challenged" anyone seems redundant.

The woman who hired me to teach after-school yoga to these kids had been careful to prepare me for the worst. They will resist you. They won't listen. Cherie (not her real name), the big African American girl, will find a thousand reasons not to participate. Even though they had invited me to take on this class, I had to fill out an employment application, promise to get fingerprinted for a background check, and somehow locate decades-old transcripts to prove that I had indeed attended college. I imagined stacks of dusty old boxes warehoused in a rat infested basement beneath some ivy-covered building. I asked if I could just take a picture of my diploma," although the odds of finding the dusty old box housing that are pretty slim as well. I was thinking Cherie and her fellow yoginis could not possibly be as challenging as the bureaucracy that is the State Board of Education. 

Cherie was easy to spot. She was not all that big, but she was the only African American girl in the room. While she chatted with her friends, she kept her gaze on me. Sizing me up, perhaps, figuring out how hard she'd have to push before I give up on her. Teaching a willing student is easy; teaching someone who would rather be at the dentist than in my class is a challenge. I love a challenge. I started to feel feisty.

"I like your shoes," she said as the group began to settle in. I was tempted to make excuses for my very un-yoga-like shoes -- I was going directly to dinner and a show, and I would have no time for a complete wardrobe change if I wanted to catch the train downtown -- but I decided to keep all that to myself. I thanked her, still feeling a bit self-conscious. "Yeah, I really like them." Hmm. Maybe she wasn't judging me; maybe she really just liked my shoes.

The excuses began in earnest the moment we started to stretch. One girl claimed to have her period. She suggested we just spend an hour and a half lying down in relaxation. Another was wearing jeans that would make yoga nearly impossible. Cherie simply announced she was really bad at yoga. The group was small, so I chatted them up. Some of the negativity began to evaporate; emotionally challenged or not, teen or adult, most folks appreciate it when somebody appears interested. I learned a little bit more about each of them, more than first impressions could have revealed. I shared some innocuous stories about myself. Some of them smiled. Cherie could not stop giggling.

Everybody made at least one trip to the bathroom during our session. Everybody, that is, except Cherie. Cherie, the one who would give me a run for my money, refuse to participate. Cherie, the one who announced how bad she was at yoga, was as graceful as a swan. She was surprisingly flexible and strong, and she had great balance. But what impressed me most about her was her effort. She kept trying, no matter how frustrating it was. If she couldn't quite get her body into the pose I was suggesting, she worked on another one. Occasionally, she (and several of the others) would share a story. I caught Cherie glaring at the girl next to her when she rolled her eyes.

When I told the girls to lie on their backs, the eye roller asked if she could lie on her stomach instead. I asked her if there was some medical or physiological reason she could not lie on her back. She seemed surprised that I had asked, and admitted there was no such reason. "Well, then, no," I responded. She looked annoyed, but she flipped over. Cherie laughed.

The State's mandatory employment application had inquired about my experience with "special needs" children. It wanted to know why I was qualified to work with them. I wasn't, at least not officially. This was all completely new. I thought saying I had taught first year law students for years might sound too glib. My own children have never been labeled as "special needs," have never had an IEP (Individualized Education Program). But I never thought for a moment that each one did not have his or her own special needs, could not benefit from some individualized parenting, or education for that matter. I left that answer blank, but, unqualified as I am, I felt confident I could at least figure out how to connect with them, maybe even make some sort of difference in their day.

The class went way more smoothly than I could have hoped. "I have issues," said Cherie at one point.

Don't we all, I thought. Don't we all.