scribblechic

I knew this moment was coming, it is an inevitability of our experiences. A handwritten message on a speech rubric, a casual note on eye contact. Except, for us, there is nothing simple about this encouragement; something in the words themselves strikes at a tender place. I have to remind myself that the author means no harm, but still I wonder if they understand the assumptions of effort in the critique.

To my son’s teachers,

There are years of patient practice in the art of looking up into the faces of expectation. My son does not meet this expectation lightly.

The young man who looks up, however inconsistently, has worked very diligently to do so. He does this to earn approval, knowing it is important to those he wants to please. He is emotionally invested in the effort, but the act itself is often a battle of wills.

Watch his body as he bends toward himself, the wheels turning as he debates eye contact over the internal pull to riffle through endless files of information he might extract if only you will forgive the social stumble as he navigates the cluttered cabinets that hold his thoughts. He’s looking to offer you a piece of himself, to gather his worth into something you might value.

When he remembers to look up, to please you, he’ll gauge you briefly for a hint of interest before scurrying back to his files.

If you smile, he’ll slip into comedy eager to draw more joy. If you look sad, he’ll forget his place, anxious to offer you comfort. If you look angry, he’ll shuffle into an assumption he has failed and retreat into his own disappointment. Every look means something uncertain and the weight of all those choices is sometimes insufferable. His hope is hidden in every sidelong glance, each fleeting glimpse to measure your expression for encouragement.

It is such a small thing, to be seen. Look tenderly at the young man you are asking to see and offer sight in exchange. If you smile, he won’t need a written reminder; he’ll mark his sight by your effort.

Tagged: Autism Spectrum, Education, Musings, Son