Every summer, I run a free art class in a room at the local library. Anyone ages six to twelve can sign up, and I provide basic supplies for anyone who might be low-income or otherwise unable to obtain them. I take sign-ups via email, first come, first served.
I get an email from a woman with what looks to be a simple question. But oh, boy…
Mother: “Are your classes accessible?”
Me: “That would really depend on your child’s disability. It’s only me teaching, so I can’t provide one-on-one support, and I don’t have access to any special tools or equipment.”
Mother: “I don’t feel comfortable disclosing my son’s disability. I just want to know if your classes are accessible.”
Me: “Without knowing what your son’s needs are, I cannot make any promises. If your son is both developmentally and chronologically in the age range, has enough vision, mobility, and hearing to participate, and doesn’t have any behavioral concerns that might require extra assistance, I can do my best to make it work.”
Mother: “Sign him up.”
The day of the first class, I’m getting the kids in to their tables and checking that everyone at least has a pencil and eraser, a pack of markers, crayons, or colored pencils, and some sort of paper. Some kids have nicer supplies and others get the basic Crayola packs I pick up from a discount store, but everyone gets something. The point of this class isn’t to be the next Michelangelo; it’s to learn some skills and have some fun.
Fifteen minutes into the first class, the door opens and a lady walks in with her son. He’s carrying one of those giant gas station Icee drinks, which is an absolute no-no in the library.
Me: “Hey, could you please take the drink outside? The library only allows water in their rooms.”
Mother: “He’s almost done.”
Me: “Can he please finish it outside?”
I really don’t want to risk a spill and possibly be told I can no longer use the rooms.
Mother: “Give him a minute.”
Me: “Okay, I need you to step outside and finish your drink. The library doesn’t allow food, and I’m currently responsible for this room and can’t afford cleaning fees.”
Mother: “Kid, give me that. She’s not going to let you have it.”
The kid stomps his feet and whines but eventually sits down in a chair.
Me: “Do you need any supplies?”
Kid: “Duh.”
I bring over a few sheets of white construction paper, two pencils, an eraser, and a sixteen-pack of Crayola crayons. The kid looks at it and looks up at me.
Kid: “This is baby stuff.”
Me: “Well, we’re just practicing, so it will work okay. We’re only learning techniques today.”
The kid points to a little girl whose parents have sent her with a small pack of Prismacolor markers.
Kid: “I want those.”
Me: “You’ll have to ask your mother to buy you some. I didn’t bring any of those to share.”
Kid: “But I want those now.”
Me: “I can give you some Crayola markers rather than crayons.”
Kid: “I WANT THOSE!”
I look toward the door, but the mother is gone. I turn to the kid.
Me: “Hey, look, I need to teach now. If you want to stay, you need to use what I can give you. Or we can go find your mom.”
Kid: “F*** you.”
Me: “Okay, we’re getting your mom. Come on.”
Instead of coming to me, the kid runs over to the little girl with the Prismacolor markers, yanks them out of her hands, and runs out into the library main area.
Me: “Okay, guys, can you sit quietly for just a few minutes? I’ll be right back. If you need anything, talk to the librarian, okay?”
I follow the kid out into the library, but he’s nowhere to be seen. I explain my predicament to the librarian, and she makes an intercom announcement for the mother while I go in search of the kid. I’m checking down every aisle when I finally spot him in the non-fiction section, with books open all around him, and marker scribbled all over the pages.
Me: “Hey! This isn’t okay for you to be doing. I need you to leave the books alone.”
The kid gives me the finger.
I approach, and I manage to grab the pack of markers and step back with it. So what does the kid do? He begins tearing pages out of the books.
Me: “No, please don’t do that.”
At this point, a second librarian has caught up with me. She sees the kid and immediately looks pissed. She goes over to him and grabs his arm, removing the books from his grasp. He begins hitting and kicking her, but this woman has apparently dealt with this before. She manages to get control of him and marches him back to the desk.
The mom is nowhere to be seen. [Librarian #1] makes several more announcements while the kid is kicking and screaming profanities, but the mother never reappears. So, the library follows procedure and calls the police.
I go back into the class and return the markers to the little girl. An hour later, when the class is over, the kid is gone, so I assume it’s been handled. I apologize profusely to the librarians and ask about the books. They inform me the mother was influenced by the officers to pay, and it’s all okay.
I get home to an email.
Mother: “I cannot believe you would call the police on a disabled child. You told me the class was accessible and that you could work with him. If you can’t handle a child with disabilities, you shouldn’t be teaching.”
Mind you, I am a VOLUNTEER.
Like, sorry, lady. But if your son’s disability involves behavioral issues, you need to make sure you’re only leaving him with places that can support that. I understand options for activities for disabled children are limited, but this sort of situation hurts the child as much as the poor person who has to deal with the inevitable behavioral outburst. Her son is probably banned from that library, and I certainly won’t be accepting him in any future classes.
