So. Let's just start off this entry by saying today is a MOMENTOUS day. I just ran for 30 minutes without stopping, at a 10:15 (ish) minute pace, and ran almost 3 miles!! And the real kicker - I enjoyed it. I actually liked it!
But the real reason for my post is to share with you a story of why I am running this marathon in the first place. I am running for Hope - and all the kids out there (way too many) that are just like her. Hope (who's name has been changed for confidentiality) was my student for seven months. Hope is a ten year old girl with what was thought to be autism. As a professional, I can tell you with 99% certainty that Hope does not have autism. Hope has a cognitive disability and a language impairment. (Basically, Hope has lower than average intelligence and has difficulty processing and expressing language). But, like all kids, there's more to her than that.
Hope didn't come the first day of school. Chicago Public Schools has a policy where if you don't attend school on the first day of the school year, they drop you from their system and you have to re-enroll at your school. For Hope, this means that her bus services stopped after she didn't attend school on the first day. For her, this makes things difficult. Her mother doesn't have a car, nor a strong understanding of the importance of school. After nine days, I met Hope. She came to school with her mother. At that point, I was unaware if Hope was a girl or a boy. She had on dirty blue jeans with holes and a yellow shirt - which is pretty opposite of the required school uniform. Her hair was extremely short and slicked to her head with gel. Her unruly eyebrows and deep voice threw me off, but I brushed passed it and shook her hand to introduce myself. She immediately hit me and ran across the room to throw herself onto the floor. Her mom then burst into tears and shared months worth of information about their home life, excuses for Hope's clothes, why she hadn't been in school, and why her hair looked like it did. Hope's mom tried to chemically straighten her hair, and left the chemicals on too long; burning her hair off. I hugged her mom and assured her everything would be fine. "As long as she's here, she's clean, and she's dressed for the weather - send her in whatever she has. We'll make it work."
The first weeks with Hope were an adventure. She would talk with us about Freddy Kruger and draw pictures of Jason masks and knives. She would come to school wearing soaking wet clothes and shoes three sizes too small. Her contagious laugh started to warm our hearts to her, and soon enough she began to hug - and we were sold. Hope soon became my favorite thing about school. I knew our classroom was her safe zone - where she felt successful and happy. She had friends, appropriate relationships, and activities she could accomplish. And - she had food. Watching Hope eat was one of the most appalling things I had ever seen. Typically, children with disabilities have aversions to many foods. Not Hope. She would shovel all of the cafeteria food into her mouth in one heaping spoonful. Teaching her "lady bites" and how to use utensils properly were daily lessons. Each day we would sneak the leftover breakfast cereal and fruits into our bags so we could send it home with Hope. Her actions made it clear to us that quality food and adequate portions were rarities in her household.
As the year progressed we collected forms for Special Olympics. We began training in gym class for the track and field events and reading social stories about competitions and crowded spaces. Hope was so excited for her first competition and couldn't wait to get a gold medal. But the next few months posed big barriers to Hope's athletic career.
Child services, spotty attendance, smelly clothes, and letters home became normal. After a few stories, I became so worried about Hope's quality of life that I could barely sleep. I knew her safety and well being were being compromised and my heart hurt at the thought of something happening to this innocent and precious little girl. Hope had no idea that what was going on in her home was wrong - this is all she knew life to be. Her blissful mindset was almost sweet and comforting - as she had no idea that her home was not "normal". After one traumatizing incident in her home, we never saw Hope again. It was weeks later that our school received a call stating that she had been permanently placed in a foster home in a suburb over an hour away. Though my heart ached at the thought of never seeing Hope again - I know that she is out of a harmful and hurtful situation. Hope is finally experiencing LIFE - which is so beautiful.
If you want to help me reach my goal of $1000.00, you can do so here.
But the real reason for my post is to share with you a story of why I am running this marathon in the first place. I am running for Hope - and all the kids out there (way too many) that are just like her. Hope (who's name has been changed for confidentiality) was my student for seven months. Hope is a ten year old girl with what was thought to be autism. As a professional, I can tell you with 99% certainty that Hope does not have autism. Hope has a cognitive disability and a language impairment. (Basically, Hope has lower than average intelligence and has difficulty processing and expressing language). But, like all kids, there's more to her than that.
Hope didn't come the first day of school. Chicago Public Schools has a policy where if you don't attend school on the first day of the school year, they drop you from their system and you have to re-enroll at your school. For Hope, this means that her bus services stopped after she didn't attend school on the first day. For her, this makes things difficult. Her mother doesn't have a car, nor a strong understanding of the importance of school. After nine days, I met Hope. She came to school with her mother. At that point, I was unaware if Hope was a girl or a boy. She had on dirty blue jeans with holes and a yellow shirt - which is pretty opposite of the required school uniform. Her hair was extremely short and slicked to her head with gel. Her unruly eyebrows and deep voice threw me off, but I brushed passed it and shook her hand to introduce myself. She immediately hit me and ran across the room to throw herself onto the floor. Her mom then burst into tears and shared months worth of information about their home life, excuses for Hope's clothes, why she hadn't been in school, and why her hair looked like it did. Hope's mom tried to chemically straighten her hair, and left the chemicals on too long; burning her hair off. I hugged her mom and assured her everything would be fine. "As long as she's here, she's clean, and she's dressed for the weather - send her in whatever she has. We'll make it work."
The first weeks with Hope were an adventure. She would talk with us about Freddy Kruger and draw pictures of Jason masks and knives. She would come to school wearing soaking wet clothes and shoes three sizes too small. Her contagious laugh started to warm our hearts to her, and soon enough she began to hug - and we were sold. Hope soon became my favorite thing about school. I knew our classroom was her safe zone - where she felt successful and happy. She had friends, appropriate relationships, and activities she could accomplish. And - she had food. Watching Hope eat was one of the most appalling things I had ever seen. Typically, children with disabilities have aversions to many foods. Not Hope. She would shovel all of the cafeteria food into her mouth in one heaping spoonful. Teaching her "lady bites" and how to use utensils properly were daily lessons. Each day we would sneak the leftover breakfast cereal and fruits into our bags so we could send it home with Hope. Her actions made it clear to us that quality food and adequate portions were rarities in her household.
As the year progressed we collected forms for Special Olympics. We began training in gym class for the track and field events and reading social stories about competitions and crowded spaces. Hope was so excited for her first competition and couldn't wait to get a gold medal. But the next few months posed big barriers to Hope's athletic career.
Child services, spotty attendance, smelly clothes, and letters home became normal. After a few stories, I became so worried about Hope's quality of life that I could barely sleep. I knew her safety and well being were being compromised and my heart hurt at the thought of something happening to this innocent and precious little girl. Hope had no idea that what was going on in her home was wrong - this is all she knew life to be. Her blissful mindset was almost sweet and comforting - as she had no idea that her home was not "normal". After one traumatizing incident in her home, we never saw Hope again. It was weeks later that our school received a call stating that she had been permanently placed in a foster home in a suburb over an hour away. Though my heart ached at the thought of never seeing Hope again - I know that she is out of a harmful and hurtful situation. Hope is finally experiencing LIFE - which is so beautiful.
When I think about Special Olympics Chicago and what they offer to their athletes, I think of Hope. I think of how she longed for a gold medal and how she practiced so diligently to stay in her lane as practice for her upcoming 50 M race. SOC offers their events at no cost to the athletes. There is no way that Hope would have ever been able to participate in a SOC event if it would have cost her family money. And unfortunately, Hope's story is not unique. There are hundreds of Chicago athletes that have stories that parallel hers. I am running 26.2 miles to give an opportunity for the Hope's of Chicago to live the life they deserve.
If you want to help me reach my goal of $1000.00, you can do so here.
