Lion of Judah: Robert's Story (Part One)
by Leslie Golding Mastroianni
Editor’s Note: Look for part two of ‘Lion of Judah: Robert's Story’ tomorrow.
Hope for miracles but don’t depend on them.
–Jewish proverb
Part One
“I’m not going in there unless Miss Leslie comes with me.”
These words, said by my ten-year-old counseling client, Robert, standing before a wall of disapproving adults who bore looks of distaste, marked one of the high points of my counseling career.
Here is Robert’s story.
I was employed by the Devereux Foundation, a huge mental health facility with campuses in and around Philadelphia after graduating with Masters degree in Counseling from West Chester University. Nobody understood this, but for my first year there I worked in a Bachelor’s level position as what was called a “Therapeutic Staff Support.” My job was to follow the treatment plans given to me by the therapists in charge of the families and children in my caseload. I know it was the best decision I’d made. I was inexperienced.
After a year at Devereux a new Director of Behavioral Health came on board; her name was Molly and she was years younger than I was (I had returned to school for my Masters as an adult student in my forties.) She saw something in me and offered me the vacant position of Department Manager. Now it would be my responsibility to write behavior plans for the young “TSS” workers and keep an eye on them. My confidence was now up to performing these duties. However, it was also part of my job to visit each child or family in our division and observe and interview them.
This type of therapy is called “wraparound” because instead of sitting in an office and talking to clients for 50 minutes at a time, we could see and hear what they were really like on a natural basis. We visited children and their families in their homes and schools. To me, this was invaluable! Often there existed a glaring difference between a child’s behavior at home and at school. This particular situation, which I observed many times, told me a lot. Unfortunately, the homes where many of our children lived were slovenly, over-crowded, the television blaring constantly, no fixed mealtimes…and no quiet, clean place to do studying and homework. Logically, this caused a downward spiral in school performance. But—at least at school everything was clean and orderly and bells rang to tell the children when to eat lunch. I can’t say enough good things about the teachers I encountered during these school visits. Simply, they worked miracles on very low pay.
Robert was part of my caseload. He refused to be called “Bob” or “Bobby.” At the time he was still attending a public school, but because of his extremely negative behavior, was teetering on the edge of being expelled. My heart sank when I read his case file, an alphabet soup of letters on the “Diagnoses” line: ADD, ADHD, IED. This last meant “Intermittent Explosive Disorder” and of course my stomach quivered when I read that. Robert was not only a child who couldn’t sit still and pay attention, but who could be violent.
I remember clearly the first time I met Robert. His classroom was quiet and well-organized with children sitting at computers, studying the screens and then writing. The teacher, a young man, was obviously glad to see me. He introduced me to Robert.
Robert was sitting at a computer, struggling to read an article about how lions were treated badly in Africa. I glanced at what he had written; the title of his essay was “The Poor Lions.” His literacy skills were not what they should have been at the age of ten. But the title he chose revealed part of Robert to me; he may have been struggling on many levels—being a Black boy in an almost all-white school among his multiple “diagnoses”—however, this kid had a heart.
Before I continue there is something to point out. In graduate school the emphasis had been on behaviorism. We were groomed to be “clinicians.” The heart and soul and intuition had little to do with what we were supposed to do with children; behavior plans, structured activities, charts and records were our guiding principles.
I was quiet in graduate school, dutiful; I was intimidated by my professors and felt awkward as one of two “adult students.” However, as it turned out, any success I had as a counselor had nothing to do with being “clinical.” It may have been because I was married and a mother by then, but again it was more probably me just being myself. My heart led my head every time. We did study Carl Rogers and his “person-centered therapy”—not behaviorism—that influenced me most. This was lightly touched on.
I sat quietly at Robert’s side, making sure I wasn’t watching his every movement. I studied him covertly. He was a sturdy boy of ten, tall for his age, with skin the color of black coffee with liberal drops of cream. He had an exquisitely formed head and the word that leaped to mind was leonine. Afterwards I checked the definition: resembling a lion; proud and powerful. He is a lion. A young lion, yes, but a Lion of Judah; and a “poor” one. What had society done to him? This was my heart talking, but I was powerless over it. I did, however, force myself to be calm and just a bit “clinical.” Looking into his eyes, though, it was possible to gauge the depth of his intelligence—and his anger. (I must admit to a squirm of guilt, privately calling him Lion of Judah; I doubted if he was Jewish and he was Black. But then, I thought, every professional has the right to his or her own private thoughts; besides, we both belonged to minority groups. As long as I kept it to myself…)
Robert tolerated my presence over the next three weeks, not saying much to me but not withdrawing from me, either. The teacher frequently smiled in my direction. Then one day, for no apparent reason, Robert exhibited signs of his “Intermittent Explosive Disorder. ”He threw himself on the floor, shoved chairs violently, screamed incoherently. The other children backed away from him in fear. While on the floor, he kicked his feet up into the air; I cautiously approached him in an effort to possibly calm him and his foot collided with the bridge of my nose. He wore heavy shoes.
I had never been punched or kicked on the nose and it hurt badly indeed. Blood spurted onto my white blouse and I clapped my hands to my face. The teacher hustled me out of the room and sent me to the school nurse. It was determined that I should go to the hospital immediately to find out if my nose was broken; I was sure that it was. Fortunately, X-rays revealed otherwise and I was sent home.
My husband brought me towels and ice-packs, feeding me Tylenol. I lay on our couch, traumatized. Robert wasn’t a young lion; he was a little monster! So ran my thinking and I was sure nobody expected me to return to that school. Molly, our Director, would understand if I didn’t want to work with Robert anymore…
Look for part two of Leslie’s story tomorrow.
Leslie Golding Mastroianni had a Bachelor of Arts degree in English Literature and Master of Education in Counseling. As a counselor, she worked at the Devereux Foundation in suburban Philadelphia and several other community and family-based mental health facilities. She has been writing since the year 2000. Her novel, Buying A Year, was published in 2004. She is a teacher and shares informal talks and lectures on writing to children’s groups, adolescents, and retired people living in various homes and facilities.