In Which Tony Is Triumphant

Tony never had raised his hand in class before, not in the two months I've known him, so I was shocked to see his skinny arm among the many waving eagerly for a turn.

We were, this third grade class and I, learning the numbers 11 through 20. I had written the numeral and the word for each number on separate pieces of paper, and students were coming to the blackboard to match the two. And Tony wanted a try.

"Tony! Come on up!" I called, not knowing what to expect, frantically hoping he wouldn't need my help.

Slowly he made his way from his desk at the back of the classroom, this fuzzy-haired little string bean navigating past the backpacks bulging into the aisle. Usually when I call students to the front, they bustle foward in a jabbering flurry of importance -- there's English to be learned, after all -- but Tony can't speak, so I had no idea what he was thinking.

Until that moment, I actually didn't know the nature or extent of his disabilities. He can't talk, but whenever I see him in the hall and grab him for a little tickle, he grins hugely and makes sounds of delight -- before remembering, holy cow, so embarrassing. Teacher, go away. I'm practically a man.

He can walk, with a bobbing, halting gait, but P.E. class is kind of tough. To keep his head still, he often bites the sleeve or collar of his jacket. And because his fingers fold into his palms, writing isn't possible.

But what lay underneath this surface was a cipher. I didn't know what he could do, and I'm extremely ashamed that I had babied and expected far too little from him.

Now, though, he was at the blackboard. The words and numerals were in a jumble, and Tony had to find "14" and "fourteen." With laser focus, he first honed in on the numeral, swiping at the magnet holding it to the board and missing. He swiped again, then grabbed it on his third try. Clutching the magnet in one hand and the paper in the other, he slowly walked to the other side of the blackboard, where the numbers were lined in columns. He gave himself a second to plan his strike, then quickly and deliberately brought both hands to the board to stick the paper in place. He repeated this process with the word "fourteen."

I had been staring open-mouthed, and it took me a split second to realize he was finished. Fluttering my hands and sputtering, I managed to babble, "Good job! Good job! Good job!" But Tony, Mr. Cool, was all nonchalance and English fluency.

The rest of the students, though -- and it was the only time they did this all period -- began clapping.

They applauded as Tony returned in triumph to his desk.


This is Tony. I ask you, is he not the most grab-and-tickleable little dude ever in the history of the universe?