It was my first year as a teacher in the U.S., and I found myself in a "dual immersion" class, where I was teaching Spanish and English to a diverse group of children. At first, the mix of children from Mexico and local kids seemed a little strange to me, but soon I realized there was much to learn.
The first days were a whirlwind of emotions. But what really threw me off was William George. From the very beginning, his intelligence captivated me. Even though he was only eight years old, his Spanish was impressive; it seemed native. However, I also noticed something deeper: a wall that seemed to have been built around him.
William always arrived quietly, avoiding eye contact. I tried to get closer, but he would pull away, as if he feared my hug might hurt him. I realized that I needed a different approach.
It was clear that his academic performance was exceptional. He finished his activities quickly, so I thought about having him help one of his classmates, convinced this would help him. But instead, his behavior became aggressive; he got so upset that I quickly had to change my strategy.
Then I thought he was bored in class, so I decided to give him extra work, and for a while, he seemed calm, though I knew it wasn’t helping him socialize. William's loneliness became more and more evident. He always ate alone, often pushed his desk away from others, and avoided any activity that involved interaction. During lunch, he asked to sit at the ends of the table so he wouldn’t have a classmate too close.
I sent notes to his parents, concerned about his isolation, but they told me it was part of his nature, that I shouldn’t worry, that it was normal for him, and that in previous years it had been the same.
One morning, William decided to move his desk to the other side of the classroom. I was reviewing the agendas when the kids shouted, “Teacher, look at what William is doing!” I got up from my desk and walked over; I asked him to move the chair, and I said to him, "Look, you’re going to sit a little farther away, but not too far. You’re very important; you’re part of the group." I thought he wanted attention, and that if I gave him a bit of leeway, everything would pass. But William burst into a fit of rage, hitting the table and screaming.
He seemed like a different child. He screamed and hit the table so hard that other teachers came to see what was happening. The children were scared.
We managed to calm him down with the help of an assistant, promising him that we wouldn’t move his desk, but my heart sank when I realized that William was dealing with internal struggles that I was just beginning to understand. After talking to the principal, I discovered that, after three months, William needed medication to stay calm because he had high-functioning Asperger's.
High-functioning Asperger’s? Why didn’t anyone tell me? Honestly, I felt very ignorant about how to handle the situation. I had spoken with his mother several times, but, according to the principal, William was being treated by excellent specialists, and in previous years, he had gone through many difficult situations when his condition had been revealed. They didn’t want him to be labeled.
The next day, he returned to class; there seemed to be a change in him. However, a week later, he started whistling and making strange noises, to which I would ask, “William, we’re in class, are you okay? Do you want to step out for a moment?” He didn’t speak or say anything. I talked to the principal, who suggested that I send him to the office if this continued. Days passed, and unfortunately, visits to the principal’s office weren’t working.
I think that, in my effort to help him or perhaps due to my lack of knowledge and guidance from the experts treating him, I began to be condescending and excused his bad behavior in front of the class. I always had the perfect excuse to protect him in front of the other children. I knew my actions were due to my ignorance, which didn’t help at all.
One day, in an unfortunate turn of events, a child approached his space, and William reacted violently, almost stabbing him in the face with scissors. That really scared me, and I felt that the situation was getting out of control. I informed his mother and everyone I thought should know; they only said, "We understand, we’ll talk to the family, don’t worry."
William continued attending class. According to the principal and his mother, he was medicated. Yes, he seemed medicated, as he looked very passive and drowsy at times. His mother always sent a note saying, "Teacher, today William will be fine; he’s taken his medicine," and so the days passed. One morning, William decided to take the fire extinguisher from one of the hallways and hit one of his classmates on the back while they were lined up.
According to William, the child had been bothering him.
When I asked him to put the extinguisher down, he threatened to throw it at one of the kids. I was fortunate that the principal was passing by and said to me, “Stay calm, continue with the class,” and he took William away forcefully. That was the last time I saw William at the school.
I spent a month talking to psychologists, the school counselor, William’s parents, and even visited him at a school specialized for children with Asperger’s. It broke my heart the day I saw him; I greeted him, and he let me hug him, something he would have never allowed before, but a reaction from me led me to do it. However, his gaze and attitude were not just cold, but detached from reality. That day, I observed one of the classes; I saw how the children were separated, there were only eight with William, in a controlled environment, and I wondered if I could have done more for him.
This journey taught me a valuable lesson: we must be prepared to understand and support all our students, especially those who face unique challenges. Lack of communication and preparation can leave us unarmed.
It’s essential that we teach our students about diversity and empathy, so they understand that each of us can go through difficult times. That’s why I asked my students to write letters to William, expressing how much they missed him and how valuable he was to our class.
According to his mother, he had read them all but didn’t want to respond. We never received a reply.
I created two resources to help young children understand mental health and the importance of empathy. If you’re interested in how we can make a difference in the lives of our students, making them more compassionate and aware, take a look.
Mental Health PowerPoint Presentation PDF and GS, Reflection & Discussion Q's
Mental Health Craft, Social Emotional Learning Activity
Let’s remember that empathy is the key to building an inclusive and loving classroom. Every child deserves to be heard, understood, and supported on their journey.
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