The Special Education class was in the far corner of the kindergarten building, itself set apart from the rest of my Christian school by the faculty parking lot and a former parsonage a vague threat exiled to the periphery of the school.
We regular kids did not know what made them special. We only saw them rarely: kids as big as high schoolers whose bodies moved clumsily, whose voices were too loud, who seemed unintelligible. We did not know how to relate to them. We only knew they had problems that they were not normal. We were happy for them to stay in their own little world. We stared if they crossed our path or moved hesitantly and quickly past them if we encountered one of them in the hallway.
One unusual day they came out to recess at the same time we did. I hated recess in third grade. My best friend had been assigned a different teacher who was notoriously stingy with recess so I rarely saw him. Miles, the arbiter and architect of the male half of the social order in Ms. Kazian’s class had decided I was to be in exile. This meant I often wandered the playground (a three acre span of asphalt parking lot) by myself .
On this day I was wearing my camouflage. Many of the boys had a basic set of US military jungle camo, though some had the more rare British desert or Special Forces Tiger Stripe variety. I had finally gotten my set of camo that Christmas and I loved it.
All in camo and playing by myself I caught the attention of some bigger kids from fourth or fifth grade. They began picking on me and hassling me for no good reason. They started making fun of my camouflage. Slowly they circled in toward me, egging each other on with their insults and laughter. They smelled blood, and I knew I was in trouble. I was cornered in a lonely part of the playground. My nine year old bones could feel the violence coming. The two older boys drew closer until they were in my face barking insults and crowding me– then there was a push.
Out of nowhere this much bigger and taller boy swooped in and drove off my attackers. When I looked at him I saw that it was one of the Special Ed kids. My savior was part of this odd group of people that I was afraid of that I found strange and threatening. He had rushed in and defended me for no other reason than he saw a kid being bullied. We made eye contact and simply nodded acknowledging that every thing was okay now. As we walked away from each other my little heart filled with shame as I remembered how I had thought of these people and how wrong I had been. I resolved not to make fun of the Special Ed kids or think badly of them any more.
Even now, when someone makes fun of someone for being a “retard” or when I fail to perfectly keep my own childhood resolution, I feel a pang of conscience and think of my playground hero. I think of him, and all that his act of kindness taught me.
