“What’s the capital of Nebraska?” I would call out. It was a hook that I knew would work. He would call over his shoulder, “Lincoln!” and continue to dig his toe into the dirt.

“What’s the capital of Florida, Farhan?”

“Tallahassee!”

“Now ask me one!”

These conversations always took place over uncomfortable distances. Farhan was difficult. No, Farhan was impossible. He presented a challenge and caused me a headache almost every day. I will never forget the kid who taught me where there’s a will there’s a way.

It was the summer of 2002. I was hired as a member of the literacy staff for the Lewiston Multi-Purpose Center, and our job was to teach love of learning and literacy under the guise of a summer recreation program. Because the nonprofit program was largely funded by a Somali grant organization, we found that more than half of our children were members of refugee families who moved into Lewiston that year. I was excited to be a part of the program and couldn’t wait to start learning about this culture.

It was important for me to know all of their names. I found it hard to remember and pronounce names like Abdullahi and Awaalim. I made efforts to get to know each child and to start putting names to faces.

This was when I met Farhan.

Farhan was a wiry 8-year-old boy with energy that I wished I could bottle. On the first day of the program my director said to me, “I know Farhan. He’s a handful. All of the teachers have a hard time with him.”

I looked at this little boy. He looked just like everyone else, he had dark skin, large brown eyes and a row of bright, straight white teeth. I thought, “Piece of cake!”

It wasn’t long before this “piece of cake” had one of his moods.

He would frequently refuse to participate in activities. He would run and hide during outdoor games, and would use profanity that shocked me every time. Staff eventually threw up their hands and began sending him home for his behaviors. I was convinced that there was a way to get to this child and make the summer a success.

It took many ups and downs to get a feel for Farhan’s triggers. I watched him carefully. One rainy day we took to board games and other indoor amusements. I pulled out The Game of the States and began shuffling trivia cards and placing chips on each of the capitals.

“Oh I want to play with you!” Farhan leaped towards me.

“Do you know the capitals?” I asked.

Without skipping a beat Farhan broke out into a rendition of “The capital of Alabama is Montgomery, the capital of Alaska is Juneau, the capital of Arizona is Phoenix, the capital of Arkansas is…

“Whoa,” I said, “save it for the game.”

We started to play and for the next half hour Farhan blew me away with his knowledge of states, capitals and state trivia. I had found Farhan’s passion. My enjoyment of the game turned to enjoyment in watching this amazing kid rattle off information that even I, a college student, didn’t know.

The next day during a game of Red Rover, Farhan morphed into an angry and defiant mood. He drifted away from the group and started to pull grass and dig his toes into the dirt at the far end of the play yard. By this time I had grown to know Farhan well and took the initiative to retrieve him.

“Hey, Farhan!” I called, “Why don’t you join us?”

“No!”

“Why not?”

“Go away!”

“Is something wrong?”

“I don’t want to play your stupid games!” With that he ran to the other end of the yard. The chitchat just wasn’t working. The more I tried the more confrontational he became. I debated whether I should let him cool off or keep trying. Then it hit me. “Farhan, what’s the capital of California?”

“Sacramento!” he hollered from a distance.

“What’s the capital of Montana?”

“Helena!” with each answer he drifted another step towards me.

“What’s the capital of Texas?”

“Austin!”

“Now ask me one.”

“What’s the capital of Pennsylvania?”

“Um…Philadelphia?” I had to think.

“No, it’s Harrisburg!” he corrected me.

“Oh, that’s right! I always forget that one!”

We quizzed each other for a while until I said. “Are you ready to come play with us?” He thought for a moment and looked toward the group of children laughing and running into each other’s arms.

“OK,” he conceded.

This worked like magic for many weeks. I really thought that I had gained ground with him until one day he snapped on me. I knew by then that the key to avoiding his behaviors was to keep him busy. I had asked him to carry our crate of toys into the school. He started to swing the crate and antagonize other children. “Farhan, stop it!” He giggled menacingly. “Make better choices, Farhan!” I said to him. With a devious grin he swung the crate once more. “Give me the crate. You can’t carry it if you’re going to hit people with it.”

“No!” he yelled.

“I’m not kidding, Farhan now!” His little hands tightened around the handles and his knuckles started to turn pale. I placed one hand on the crate and another on his wrist. “Please let go.” I said.

He stared at me with his stubborn little grin; he was beginning to make me angry. I pulled on the crate and attempted to pry his little hand from the handle.

“Ouch!” he yelled melodramatically, “You a ****!” He ran away into the building leaving me with the crate in my hands and my mouth agape. I couldn’t believe he had said that to me. My heart was broken and I felt as if all of the headway I had made with him had been flushed down the toilet. I instantly regretted the tug-o-war and tried to figure out what I could have said to avoid this. However, I realized that I couldn’t let him get to me.

I had to be the adult and understand that a little boy’s words were just words. I had to emerge unscathed and not let Farhan see that he had hurt me. Capitals weren’t going to fix this one, and capitals weren’t going to work forever.

The next time he turned into Mr. Hyde I coyly asked, “Farhan, what’s the capital of Italy?” He paused, looked up at me, and blinked.

“Rome?” he asked as he cocked his head.

“Right! Who is the president of the United States?”

“George W. Bush!” he chirped, “The first president was George Washington, then there was John Adams, Thomas Jefferson and James Madison…”

“Oh boy,” I thought, “Now I have to memorize all of the presidents!”

* The child’s name has been changed.
Sara Flowers of Minot is a recent graduate of Central Maine Technical College, having earned an associate’s degree in liberal arts.