by Tziri Frank

A Bird's Eye View

Being a people watcher and a fan of psychological gobbledygook, I consider myself a fairly good judge of character. OK, granted, when I'm wrong, I am horribly inaccurate, with disastrous results, but that has only happened a couple of memorable times in my life. Usually, however, I easily amuse myself with observing unsuspecting individuals and then determining what kind of personality they must have based on their words and/or actions. Like a memorable day this summer...

You could tell from the crowds that were gathered in huddled circles that something major had happened. As I drew closer, sounds of horrified amazement reached me.

"Did you hear?" wondered one very large woman on the cell phone that seemed to be permanently attached to her ear.

"Can you believe it?" asked one very skinny woman as she jogged in place on her endless quest for a perfectly toned figure.

"Hoodlums, I tell ya. Only juvenile delinquents would do something like that," declared a harassed mother as she tried in vain to stop her four-year-old from beating his little brother's brains out with a baseball bat.

Suddenly, a rather boring and dull day in the bungalows had become much more interesting.

"Uh, what's going on?" I asked the crowd at large.

Silence reigned as all faces in the group turned to look at the only person in a ten-mile radius who was out of the loop, me. Then, in an avalanche of words, each person attempted to fill me in.

"It was completely uncalled for," asserted the large woman, brandishing her cell phone for effect. It promptly began to sing the Israeli national anthem. "Hello, hello," she shouted, immediately forgetting that she was in the middle of a conversation and wandering off in search of a spot with clear reception. As she left, we all heard her shrill voice repeating the day's mantra, "Did you hear..."

"The poor child barely weighs anything at all; that's what makes it so awful," sighed the skinny woman, who had now progressed to doing chin-ups on the lowest branch of a nearby tree. Gracefully, she executed a perfect flip to illustrate the slender form of the individual being spoken about. Then, she took out a pocket mirror and eyed her reflection critically. I definitely detected a note of envy there.

"Children like that should be locked away where they can do no harm!" declared the harassed mother, as she pried a stove pipe out of the hands of her four-year-old, now attempting to rearrange the shape of his little sister's face. Lovingly, she patted his head and gave him a look of pure maternal pride.

"Uh, I still don't understand exactly what happened," I pointed out patiently, "perhaps someone could give me some clear facts and details."

So they did.

The day had started off innocently enough. Within the carefree atmosphere of the enclosed colony, several young children had been playing happily on that lazy summer morning. Suddenly, into the youngster's game of catching frogs and digging for worms, wandered Yitzi, a special-needs child. Yitzi was not actually a member of any family on bungalow grounds, but a well-meaning colonist had persuaded his mother to leave the "unique" young boy in the country for a couple of days. This way, the overwhelmed mother would enjoy a well-deserved respite, and Yitzi would enjoy the freedom of life in the country.

It didn't take long for bungalow adults and children to get to know the newcomer. For many of the small community, this was their first experience in dealing with a child who was "not normal," and they were unsure how to relate to him. Therefore, one daughter of the well-meaning individual who had invited Yitzi was appointed as a shadow. Yitzi was never left alone, because, due to a rather low-functioning level of Down Syndrome, he was often unaware of his actions and needed constant supervision. On this particular occasion, however, the eleven-year-old had wandered into the morning's pastime completely on his own.

"Hey, Yitzi," said Avrumi, who was the six-year-old leader of the gang, "Don't step on that dirt pile! That's not dirt, that's worms that we caught for our pets!"

Yitzi was lost in a world of his own and did not respond. He did, however, take an inadvertent step forward. Squash! Suddenly there was no longer a pile of dirt, or worms.

"Hey," cried Avrumi.

"Hey," shouted Eli.

"Hey," echoed J.J.

"Gimme the shovel," said Yitzi, who had a passion for shovels, "It's mine!"

"No, it's not, my mother bought it for me this morning at Wal-Mart!" declared Avrumi hotly.

"Gimme the shovel," repeated Yitzi, "It's mine!"

"Go away," shouted Eli, who was not sure how to deal with an older child who was not acting "big."

"Yeah", echoed J.J., who was the youngest of the group and tried hard to fit in.

"Gimme the shovel," repeated Yitzi in his curious monotone, "or I'll kick you!"

"No!" shouted Avrumi, clutching the red plastic shovel to his chest fiercely.

"No!" shouted Eli, as he jumped up.

"No!" echoed J.J., as he followed the other two to his feet.

"Gimme the shovel," repeated Yitzi, "It's mine." And he advanced toward the younger boys.

In the ensuing chaos, a brawl erupted, with fists and shovel flying. By the time an adult arrived on the scene, Yitzi was lying on the ground and crying in confusion. The three younger boys were also crying and looking confused. The red plastic shovel was completely misshapen and deformed, and the worms had fled in fear.

"And that is what happened," finished the well-meaning woman who had invited Yitzi to spend a few days with her. "Those kids just beat that poor, defenseless boy!"

"Did you ever hear anything like that?" asked the large woman to the listener at the other end of her personal communication device.

"I can't believe it!" declared the skinny woman, who had progressed to lying flat on the ground and doing vigorous push-ups. Since she was eyeing her stopwatch at the time, I didn't know if her comment was in reference to the story, or to the amount of time it was taking her to accomplish her designated task.

"How do mothers raise children like that?" wondered the harassed mother, as she gently scooped mud out of the eyes of her newborn as fast as her four-year-old could throw it.

"You know, I don't like to talk bad about others," said the well-meaning individual who had invited Yitzi for a few days, "but. I mean, I wouldn't normally care. It's only because children should learn how to act toward someone with special needs!"

Personally, I agreed, but something about the story bothered me. In retrospect, I think it was the gusto with which this well-meaning woman made sure to repeat the story to anyone who would listen, embellishing and enhancing the details as the day wore on. As I went about my "grueling" summer schedule that day, I came across clusters of adults and children all discussing the incident. By evening, the incident had grown to vast proportions, with the three-, five-, and six - year-old "hoodlums" declared savages who should be sent away to reform school.

Which is why I stopped short on my after-supper "power walk," when I came across a heart-warming scene. A group of young boys was once again digging for worms. I blinked in surprise and moved closer. Side by side in the dirt were the three "savages" and Yitzi. And they all appeared to be playing happily and peacefully together under the watchful eye of Yitzi's designated shadow. Apparently, they hadn't heard how terrible the day's events had been.

"I found a good one," said Eli in excitement.

"Quick, put it in the bucket," said J.J. eagerly, "Where's the shovel?"

"Shovel," echoed Yitzi, "It's mine."

"The shovel is for everyone to share," interrupted Yitzi's shadow, who was hovering at his side.

"You know," said Avrumi, in his designated role as leader, "this time we can let Yitzi shovel them into the bucket. From now on, we can all take turns."

And they did. For a few more moments I watched the children play happily, all memories of the morning's traumatic events obviously forgotten. I marveled at the patience of Yitzi's shadow, who devotedly monitored the proceedings. And then I realized what had bothered me about this morning's story.

"Where was Yitzi's shadow when he was attacked by the very boys who are being so kind to him now?" I asked the large woman who, believe it or not, was now talking on her cordless and cell phone at the same time. She shrugged her shoulders at me and went right on talking to both people at once.

"Why was Yitzi without a shadow this morning?" I queried the very thin woman who was kickboxing with her reflection in the pond.

"Huh?" she gasped and aimed a particularly high kick in my direction. I got out of there fast.

"Why was Yitzi unsupervised this morning?" I questioned the harassed mother who was lovingly shielding her babies from the rocks her four-year-old was hurling at them.

"I can't talk right now," she said softly, as she cowered down on the ground.

"Where was Yitzi's shadow this morning?" I asked the well-meaning woman who had offered to host, and supervise, Yitzi for a few days.

"Uh. well." she stammered and stuttered, "I needed her to run a few errands for me. and I was supposed to be watching him.. But, I just wanted to finish what I was doing first.. I know I should never have left Yitzi alone.. I never realized how seriously I had to supervise him... Please, don't tell his mother that I wasn't watching him, she made me promise I wouldn't do that!"

And then I understood. Using my vast psychological expertise, I came to an epiphany. The reason for the zealous repetition of the morning's incident had little to do with the actual physical contact of the brawl. After all, left alone, boys have been known to get into altercations, albeit not usually of a violent nature. No, the reason this woman had made sure to tell every person she could about what had transpired that day was to ensure that the attention of the story was shifted away from the serious responsibility that she had shirked, and focused instead on the negative actions of other individuals. I realized that in the fervent repetition of another's misdeeds was the guilty voice of a person refusing to take responsibility for their own behavior.

"You know," I pointed out, "I wouldn't normally say anything. but. (sound familiar?) We all do things we later wish we had done differently."

She looked faintly relieved. And then I continued:

"The boys are all playing happily now, so obviously, we don't want to teach our children to treat those with special needs in a way that is clearly different. Children have a way of working things out just fine on their own; they just need proper supervision."

But don't quote me on that. I won't take responsibility for my words!

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Tziri Frank is a proud mother of five beautiful children. She uses her experience with her own special child to inspire others in a thought provoking and often entertaining way.