"J-Chompz" in da house...

For anyone who doesn't know, I was picked up for the rest of the school year as a temporary employee at my internship. It's a therapeutic school, and the kids come in with a whole gamut of problems, ADHD, ODD, autism, and the like. I was put in charge of a 6-year old kid in the autistic classroom. I'd seen him around before---he's a little pixie of a kid, and super cute. Some vocabulary, but not much. What it amounts to is dealing with an 18-month old trapped in a 6-year old's body. I'm pretty much in charge of his day to day activities--making sure he does his work, sitting with him at lunch, and teaching him to use "nice touches" and to keep his shoes on (I spend half my day doing just that. I know his socks better than my own).
One thing he does to get a person's attention is to hit them. Yes, you read right. If he and I are having a "conversation" and my attention is distracted even for a second, "WHAP" right across my head. Now, the Homewood-raised auntie in me wants to go off, but instead, I say, "No, no, nice touches", at which point he demonstrates what I nice touch is by stroking my arm.
Another behavior he enjoys is biting---good old-fashioned, sharp baby teeth down on your arm, biting. And can this kid bite. More than a few teachers at the school have evidence of this kid's abuse up and down their arms in the shape of tiny, dark, crescent-shaped bruises. I haven't been privy to mastication of my dermis, but I'm told it stings. Just a little.
Yesterday I was sitting in the classroom with my charge, two other students, the teacher, and the mental health worker. I stared absently as he matched colors and numbers with Velcro in a manila folder as he hummed "Old McDonald" over and over again.
"Old MacDonald had a farm," I sang without enthusiasm. "Dude, we got to get you to sing some new songs. I can't keep singing these cheesy songs for the rest of the school year," I told him. He looked at me with a toothy grin and kept humming.
"I'm gonna teach you some Jay-Z. Nas. Something," I said as he turned to look at me, flapping his hands and smiling.
"Yeah, I know," I told him.
"We should give him a rapper's name," the mental health aide called across the room.
I laughed. "We really should though. We could call him J-Fizzle," I said cracking up. The kid kept smiling and flapping.
"I got it," the aide said. "J-Chompz. Cause that's what he does to every one's arms."
I fell apart.