SPED-First Grade and Jerome

Please read the Young Empath prior.

First Grade Files: 

First Grade Jerome the Hurricane

(A Journal Entry)

In first grade, I was placed in what they called the “Sped class,” which today would be referred to as a self-contained ESE classroom. There were about ten of us kids, and let me be clear, some of them definitely belonged there. Myself? Questionable. But after surviving the trauma of kindergarten with Mrs. Johnson (a stern, short-haired woman built like a linebacker with the warmth of a wet sock), I was happy to be anywhere that didn’t smell like chalk dust and fear.

Our teacher was Miss Van, a young, beautiful, vibrant woman who radiated positivity and actually liked children. Compared to Mrs. Johnson, she might as well have been Snow White. Her aide was a sweet little grandma who smelled like cinnamon and gave hugs that could lower your blood pressure. I can confidently say that the teachers were phenomenal. The other children? Eh. Not so much.

I was content, even if constantly distracted. I rarely got any one-on-one time with my teachers, thanks to the steady stream of interruptions and dramatic meltdowns from my classmates. Honestly, it was like trying to meditate in the middle of a carnival. But overall, I was happy. There was only one time I was sent to time-out, and let me tell you, I learned real quick not to repeat whatever it was I did. (Probably breathing too loudly.)

Now, nap time? My personal nightmare. We each had our own blue mats that we’d roll out on the carpet like we were attending a tiny yoga retreat. The other kids would lie down, close their eyes, and somehow enter a full REM cycle in seconds. Not me. I was the wide-eyed weirdo lying on my mat, silently watching Miss Van tiptoe around like I was on a stakeout. I’d eavesdrop on her and the aide whispering about which textbooks to pull out after nap or whose mom forgot to send a snack. I was basically the class spy.

Honestly, I don’t remember learning anything academic that year. But empathically? Oh, I got a full Ivy League education.

Things were relatively smooth until after spring break, when Miss Van introduced us to a new student:

“This is Kenny D’s new brother. His name is Jerome, and he’ll be joining us for the rest of the year.”

Now, I knew Kenny D. Sweetest boy ever. Straight brown hair, freckles like a Norman Rockwell painting, and a soccer star in the making. Jerome? Was none of those things.

Where Kenny looked like he belonged in a Gap Kids ad, Jerome looked like he’d been raised by wolves—and maybe fought them. He had deep mahogany skin, skinny legs, wild puffy hair, and hands so scarred up they told a story before he even opened his mouth. And when he did open his mouth? Chaos followed.

From day one, Jerome acted like school was a war zone and we were all enemy targets. Lining up? He turned that into a demolition derby, shoving kids down like bowling pins. He pinched, shoved, kicked, screamed—and that was just before snack time. If there was a rule, Jerome broke it. If there was a quiet moment, Jerome filled it, with yelling.

The kid practically lived in time-out. The little rug in the corner might as well have had his name embroidered on it. We all just accepted that Jerome was on a first-name basis with the wall. And still, bless our teachers’ hearts, they kept trying. The aide would calmly say, “Jerome, honey, that’s not how we treat friends,” while Jerome was mid-headlock.

Inside the classroom, we were mostly safe thanks to the protective force field of adult supervision. But once we stepped outside? Lord help us. Recess was a contact sport. I saw one kid lose a tooth. Another got kicked so hard in the stomach that his juice box exploded. And Jerome? Just stood there like, “What? He was in my way.”

Now, don’t get me wrong, I was scared of Jerome. But not just because he was built like a toddler linebacker and had a spinning back kick like a ninja. I was scared because I felt him.

Even at six years old, I knew something wasn’t right. I could feel the storm inside him, fear, sadness, rage, confusion. He wasn’t just acting out; he was screaming without words. And I felt every single scream. At the time, I didn’t know how to explain it, but now? Oh, I see it crystal clear.

Jerome had seen things. Lived through things. He was a walking trauma file with legs. Foster care finally brought him to Kenny D’s family, and thank God for them. But even with a safe new home, the scars were deep. His behavior wasn’t bad. It was pain. And no six-year-old should have to carry that much of it.

So while I didn’t come out of first grade with any stellar math skills (still don’t, thank you, math trauma), I did come out with something else. I learned how to read people without words. I learned that behavior is a symptom, not a diagnosis. And I learned that some kids aren’t “bad” they’re just broken and waiting for someone to notice.

First Grade Files: Jerome’s Lunchroom Explosion

(A Journal Entry Continued)

I remember the day like it was burned into my psychic memory, which, let’s be honest, it probably was.

We were in the cafeteria, all of us first graders sitting at those long, uncomfortable benches that were definitely not designed for anyone with feelings or a spine. I was seated with my class, behaving myself (as always, because I had already learned the price of time-out carpeting), when I noticed Jerome sitting directly across from me.

Now, by this point, I was still trying to figure Jerome out. He confused me. Everything I did seemed to irritate him. If I smiled at him, scowl. If I ignored him, still a scowl. I could’ve waved a peace flag and offered him my chocolate milk, and the boy still would’ve looked at me like I was stepping on his imaginary turf. He reminded me of a lost baby cub from the woods, growling not because it was tough, but because it didn’t know where its mama went and was ready to defend every inch of territory with its teeth.

On this particular day, Jerome was giving me one of those evil looks. You know the one, where the eyes narrow into slits, the brow furrows, and his little lips tighten like he’s about to lunge. His entire face twisted into that familiar grimace, one I had grown accustomed to. A face that would later haunt my dreams and inspire me to become fluent in non-verbal hostility.

But this time? Something was… different.

There was a shift in the air. A tension. A gurgling. A vibe.

At first, I thought he was about to throw a roll at someone or scream across the room. But instead, something else entirely happened.

Jerome threw up.

Suddenly. Without warning. Like an exorcism of spaghetti and meat sauce.

It came out of him like a pink-and-yellow volcano, an eruption of chaos right there at the lunch table. And when I say I was frozen in horror, I mean it. I didn’t even flinch. I just stared, my six-year-old brain trying to compute what had just happened.

Because here’s the thing, I wasn’t grossed out by the vomit. No, no. I wasn’t normal like that. Instead, I was confused. Deeply confused. Jerome’s skin was this beautiful rich mahogany, but his throw up? It was pink and yellow. Bright. Vibrant. Like some sort of off-brand sherbet nightmare. I sat there wondering, How does that come out of him? Like, where did the pink even come from? Was it the sauce? Was it magic?

I was stuck between trying not to inhale the smell and solving a biology mystery that my young empathic soul was not prepared for.

Meanwhile, the other kids lost their minds. Some screamed. Others laughed. One girl gagged dramatically like she was auditioning for Broadway. The cafeteria aides rushed over with those little yellow powder packets they used to sprinkle on vomit like some kind of priest warding off evil spirits.

Jerome didn’t say a word. He just sat there, looking stunned, like his own stomach had betrayed him in the middle of battle.

And me? I stayed locked in a staring contest with that pink-and-yellow puddle, trying to find meaning in the madness.

That day, I learned a few important things:

1. Don’t trust spaghetti on Tuesdays.

2. You can feel bad for someone and also be terrified of them.

3. And vomit, no matter the color, unites all children in one universal response: chaos.

After that, Jerome and I had a sort of silent truce. Maybe it was the sheer embarrassment of vomiting in front of the whole class, or maybe he sensed that I wasn’t laughing. I was just watching, as always.

And while I couldn’t do anything to heal whatever pain lived in his little body, I like to think that maybe, just maybe, that moment was the beginning of him letting down his guard, even just a little.

Also, I never looked at spaghetti the same way again.

Jerome? He was my first lesson in life’s mysteries. One minute, he’s threatening karate chops, and the next, he’s gone. I often wondered if his birth family straightened things out and he returned home. But wherever he ended up, I hope he found peace. As for me? I’m just over here, dodging any more karate chops life throws my way.

I stayed wide-eyed and watchful and always feeling everything. That, my friends, is how you grow into a classroom empath with a sixth sense for chaos… and a sixth sense for compassion, too. 

As for my teacher…

Miss Van was young, beautiful, and probably had dreams of molding young minds into future scholars, she instead inherited a classroom that often felt like a toddler-sized version of The Breakfast Club on espresso. Her chalkboard was pristine, her silence could shatter glass, and I often wasn’t sure whether to raise my hand or just raise a white flag and surrender.

But as fate would have it, Miss Van was not returning the next year, not because she too had trauma from managing our lovable little madhouse, but because she was getting married.

Finally…finally…the long, strange saga that was first grade came to a close. My days of tiptoeing around chaos, dodging Jerome’s flying limbs, and whisper-eavesdropping during nap time were over. I had survived the Sped class from the underworld, and Miss Van’s classroom, which, let’s be honest, had a vibe somewhere between a support group and a battlefield.

But as fate would have it, Miss Van was not returning the next year—not because she too had trauma from managing a class that resembled a toddler-sized version of The Breakfast Club on Red Bull, but because she was getting married.

That’s right. Miss Van was trading in her lesson plans for wedding plans, and somehow, by the grace of glitter and social lottery, I was invited to witness her matrimony. Not just me, a few select kids from our class got that golden ticket. And let me tell you, the moment I heard, I treated it like I was about to attend the Met Gala.

My outfit? Legendary.

I wore a yellow and white gown that could only be described as princess-core, first-grade edition. But it wasn’t just any dress, it was Mommy’s childhood dress. Vintage couture, baby. I had my white tights (panties underneath, thank you very much—we’d already established I had more fashion sense than Rachel), and shiny white patent leather shoes with the tiniest heel. Those shoes clicked when I walked. I repeat: they clicked.

I felt like royalty walking into that church. In my mind, people were turning to look at me. The ushers were thinking, “Who is that girl?” and I was thinking, “The future of fashion, darling.”

The church was beautiful, stained glass, candles, all the good Catholic wedding ambiance. And thank God (literally), when I scanned the crowd for any signs of impending doom, Jerome was nowhere in sight. I had legit nightmares of him sprinting down the aisle, kicking over flower girls and head butting guests in his signature Jerome-style. Or worse, projectile vomiting all over Miss Van’s dress like some tragic sequel to the spaghetti saga.

I took my seat in the second-to-last pew, right in front of my mom, flanked by two of my girl squad besties. We felt so mature. So important. Like we were part of a secret club for sophisticated children who could sit quietly and clap on cue.

And then, the doors opened.

There she was. Miss Van. The one we had only known in sensible skirts and expressionless glares, now glowing like a human candle. Arm in arm with her father, walking down the aisle in full bridal bliss. I swear she was radiating.

Everyone stood up, and my little mouth hit the floor.

And YES! It happened.

We made eye contact.

Just for a second, but it was everything.

Miss Van smiled directly at me, then lifted her hand from her bouquet to wave. To me. The world may say it was just a polite gesture, but in my heart? That was a shout-out. That was a “Hey girl, thanks for surviving my class and being fabulous.”

I practically screamed in my head: She knows I’m here! She SEES me! I’m important! I have clicked heels and a custom dress!

After that glorious wave, I basically blacked out. I mean, not literally. But the rest of the wedding was a blur. Once the priest got going with his sermon, my brain decided it had reached its spiritual limit. I remember nodding off, jerking awake, then nodding off again while trying to keep one eye on Miss Van in case she shot me another special look. She didn’t, but I had already gotten what I came for: validation and fashion glory.

I don’t remember the vows. I don’t remember the music. But I remember that moment. That connection. That first real brush with grown-up celebration—and my own ability to feel special even in a sea of people.

It may have been Miss Van’s wedding, but in my heart?

It was kind of mine too. 

Entry: The Return of First Grade (Now with Better Hair and Less Vomit)

Apparently, Miss Van did not appreciate my wedding gift (which, for the record, was the honor of my sparkling presence at her big day), because she promptly promoted me into the second grade SPED class. Gee, thanks. Nothing says “thanks for clapping at my wedding” like a backhanded academic downgrade.

But my parents weren’t having it. Nope. They took one look at the placement letter and said, “Absolutely not,” like seasoned courtroom attorneys. They decided to hold me back—not out of punishment, but to protect me from a lifetime of being labeled. A smart move, but at the time, it felt like social exile.

Cue the shame spiral.

I was mortified. My little empathic heart broke knowing I wouldn’t be with Kenny D, or even Rachel and her backwards tights. I had silent arguments in my head for years.

“That could’ve been me on that sixth-grade field trip with Kenny…”

“If I hadn’t been held back, I’d be graduating now too…”

I had a whole imaginary highlight reel of the life I thought I’d missed.

But hindsight, as always, wears 20/20 bifocals.

The truth is, my parents were absolutely right. If I hadn’t repeated first grade, I wouldn’t have crossed paths with the people who helped shape the confident, creative, hilarious human I am today. (Right?)

Stay tuned for the best and worst of primary school and the introduction to “Gremlins.”