a question of quitting
February 2, 2017 § 2 Comments
There is no greater measure of truth than the weighted minutes of nervous anxiety on the eve of a much dreaded day. One year ago it was a time for my daughter to confront self-doubts and insecurities as she procrastinated preparing for her band solo by sounding out the language to quit. Not one for standing alone under a spotlight of attention, I understood her pause and kept her company as she waded more deeply into her discomfort.
Last year she found the notes among her nerves and conquered her fears in a messy and brave posture of determination. This morning my daughter woke early to another performance, but this year’s ghosts were dressed in last year’s doubts. Two nights ago she unraveled into a memory from last year’s experiences. One new to my ears, but well worn in the quiet of my daughter’s thoughts. Her teacher, counting out a song, begged a question. My daughter asked why the pattern was different to which her teacher asked, “Don’t you even know how to count?”
It was a criticism in place of a question, a small condescension that directed quiet and silenced my daughter’s learning. She didn’t ask again and has since created her own cues to find her place in a collective melody. As part of a whole, she has disappeared in the silence between notes, but on her own she is lost in the sequence of unanswered questions. Without answers to fill what she does not know, she is certain only in the deficit she measures in doubt.
Such a small space between learning and letting go, wanting to grow and giving up.
Last night I listened as she fought her way through her sheet music until she had exhausted whatever joy might be had from each success. It’s a sad truth, a weighted reminder – our answers invite questions just as clearly as our questions invite answers.
One person has the power to inspire or intimidate.
My daughter wants to quit as much as she wants to play, to learn as much as she wants to leave. For all the words of comfort and empathy I’ve offered, the balance of my encouragements and another’s criticism rests in the silence somewhere between the music.
save me a space
January 16, 2017 § 8 Comments
It’s the smallest request, to hold a space for someone to belong. There is perhaps no greater kindness than to offer such generosity of acceptance to one another; no greater space than home in which to teach belonging except school. This is the heartache I have been sounding out for over a decade as I help my children navigate the broken spaces of their education.
I have written often these past years of academic challenges and the emotional harm of exclusion, but these themes were offered new insight last November through an online parenting course offered by Brené Brown. I’ve long admired her research on shame, but this course offered a discussion on belonging and fitting in that gave me a new language for contextualizing the challenges I have encountered as a mother raising special needs children.
I posed this question (specific to my son) towards the end of the curriculum:
How do we address subjects of shame and belonging when raising children with special needs? My sixteen year old boy (son) on the Autism Spectrum cries openly, fails colorfully and speaks genuinely, he has been made to feel “other” for these behaviors/qualities we celebrate and cultivate in adults.
In an effort to keep my question concise, I edited the following from my submission to the live Q&A session:
He has given his younger sister a model of masculinity I think is both rare and exceptional; his emotions and vulnerability, the brave and authentic way he navigates mixed messages underscores a deficit in social norms.
Maybe one day there will be a parenting class to discuss the significance of belonging over fitting in as we look to inclusive classrooms to model empathy and diversity.
Privately, in my personal notes, I mused:
I’ve also been thinking about how we categorize children, offering preferential treatment that harks back to an unhealthy selection mentality; students who are deemed gifted are granted an exclusivity of privileged resources that in turn limit the potential of a larger population with an assumption of inequality.
This last wondering was specific to my daughter’s experience, but inclusive of so many misunderstood, stereotyped children. Those students ranked by generic test scores that exclude intelligence we cannot gauge in standard testing, but whose grit and resilience have made them stronger learners for their personal challenges. What might these children become if offered courses that encourage and inspire new passions?
I want to pause here to acknowledge the obvious deficit of editing. I debated tidying these thoughts into something beautiful, but there is an uncomfortable truth in the mess that I want to preserve for the integrity of my own experience. I am publishing them today to move them from the stagnancy of my drafts to better own them as an essential part of my story.
I considered offering a shorthand of harmful past experiences in the interest of identifying a pattern of exclusion that illuminate the essence of fitting in over belonging, but I want to speak instead to the rare moments of extraordinary kindness – of invitations to belonging.
For my son it was one teacher offering a safe place where others could not push, mock, tease or taunt for one period each day of his middle school career. During those three years she provided him his first experience of belonging, in which he was allowed to invite friends and breathe a sense of safety and acceptance not available outside her walls.
For my daughter, the experience came last year as a result of an administrative oversight after our move when she was allowed to perform academically by assumption of ability over predetermined restrictions. Her school saved her seat when paperwork dictated they shuffle her into another space. It was only after our daughter was offered an opportunity to thrive outside the limits of labels that we watched her excel along a trajectory of her own determination that exceeded expectations.
This is the truer gift of parenting children with special needs, the way in which we reframe understanding by potential; looking past the unspoken rules of fitting into social scripts for success to a more wholehearted place of belonging just as we are. It demands championing learning over testing, character over accomplishment; teaching children to save a space for one another with acceptance and appreciation.
I think we are on the verge of something remarkable and I’m saving a space for all of us to consider the difference between fitting in and belonging.
listening clearly
September 28, 2016 § 5 Comments
Years ago our daughter told her elementary school nurse that she was home sick. The nurse and secretary called me so that I might offer encouragement, but our daughter patiently explained to me that she was the kind of sick that needs to go home.
It was a time when our daughter’s language was jumbled in order, when we had to listen intentionally to the entire thought and then double-check her meaning.
Less patient teachers, family and friends would finish her thoughts, rush the pattern; leap to false conclusions in their best efforts to demonstrate understanding. Most times our daughter gave up, burdened by the frustration of being misunderstood, and waited in silence to unpack her feelings at home.
Our daughter is no longer flagged for needs, her diagnosis no longer invites intervention or special care like her older brother. There are still long pauses and endearingly obscure turn of phrases, but she’s become better about speaking out and standing up for her thoughts.
It’s made her a more generous listener, more conscientious speaker; it’s made me a better listener, too. Sometimes.
I was thinking of this during our son’s school conferences. Specifically, the manner in which we are constantly assigning and infusing meaning with little clarification or confirmation.
In two classes our son had fallen behind, but both teachers spoke generously of his ability and gently of his anxiety. The language of his grades was an incomplete picture of his relationship with his teachers and classroom experience.
I had attended the evening’s conferences with a list of worries and questions, but I found myself listening, rather than speaking, to an unexpected pattern of meaning. Our son was repeatedly identified as a perfectionist with extreme anxiety over performance. He was noted as a respectful student and a thoughtful peer. A young man with artistic ability and unique math skills struggling with an internalized set of doubts and fears.
In the space of an hour I stopped worrying about performance and became immeasurably curious about our son’s emotions and the gaps between our conversations.
What I wanted to see was secondary to what my son might need his father and I to know.
The past couple of days I’ve been speaking less, listening more; changing my expectations and asking new questions. I’m assigning a different value to those worries I used to dwell on and double checking red flags for meaning.
Listening clearly.
to my daughter
February 23, 2016 § 8 Comments
This weekend you confessed to me that you felt singled out for help in a class setting, an experience that reinforced old insecurities.
It makes me feel stupid, Mom. I can do it, it just takes me so much longer than the other kids. I’m a slow reader, but I can do it.
I was tempted to underplay the emotions, to tell you that it was no big deal – that your teacher was only helping, but I realize how fortunate I am in your confidence. The truth is our experiences are as real as our perceptions.
I couldn’t imagine sending you back to a setting that undermined your sense of self. How lonely to feel perceived as unable without confidence enough to voice ability.
I drafted a brief letter to your teacher, asking questions and offering understanding. Her response was almost immediate; she outlined the areas where your performance suggested need and volunteered to let you initiate support.
We talked after about how this new awareness created space for you to experiment with greater independence, speaking up in a setting where the boundaries have been safely established. I suggested you begin with a word of thanks, to transform a dialogue of defensiveness into a conversation with mutual respect.
Help comes in many forms, it’s really how we choose to see others’ actions or words of concern relative to how we see ourselves.
Take, for example, your theater teacher. At the same time that one teacher responded to your frustration, another sent a message of acknowledgment.
In a different setting, with a different personality, a teacher saw struggle and used creativity to inspire confidence. When you couldn’t demonstrate mastery of a specific goal, your teacher offered you a new expression of knowledge and your effort was not only accurate, but beautiful.
In both settings there was a need and a mindset of help. In one setting you felt empowered, in another helpless. The only consistent variable between both classrooms was you.
Take note: knowing your challenges and understanding your strengths informs a perception of possibility. You can do hard things.
There’s nothing wrong with needing help.
It’s ok to struggle, to not know, take longer than your peers. It’s also ok to ask for help, try again, rework a problem or request a little more time. We are all more than our mistakes, we’re the sum of our efforts.
Love, Mom
to my daughter
October 29, 2015 § Leave a comment
Last night was pretty exceptional; anger and tears that transformed homework into a moment of tender self-awareness. You’re struggling a bit with two classroom projects. On the surface it would appear you’re a little behind, maybe disregarding your work, or ignoring responsibilities.
In some ways it’s the easier way to interpret unfinished material. To hide behind other people’s’ assumptions and carry the burden of their ignorance with silence or casual disinterest. It’s easier to assume something is wrong with you, to see your differences as failings rather than gifts when they clutter your effort with failure; less hurtful to pretend you don’t care when you do.
Asking for help is tricky when you aren’t sure why you can’t simply perform tasks the children around you appear to complete without struggle.
How do you explain to a teacher that you understood the directions when your inference is different from their intent? What happens when you listen closely, but can’t remember later what you understood previously? Who would expect the smiling child that is eager to help another or quick with a smile, someone who appears confident, may actually be masking insecurities over perceived inadequacies?
Imperfect work doesn’t speak to the years of growth behind confusing mistakes any more than unfinished work illuminates effort. Similarly, the determined set of your chin doesn’t inform the emotions that threaten tears of embarrassment. Compounding these challenges is the unfamiliarity of your surroundings; gone are the friends who might have previously prompted you gently or rallied beside you with gentle encouragements.
Here’s the good news, at any given moment we can learn to ask for help; change the language of our needs.
Last night you started to identify your struggles in a way that was exceptionally intuitive to your needs, but you strained against how to seek help. Ferociously independent, you worried that asking for assistance might make you appear to beg preferential treatment, you didn’t want others to call you “teacher’s pet” or to look at you with sympathy.
Sometimes strength requires we walk against the grain of our fears. Asking for help isn’t a weakness any more than struggling alone isn’t a demonstration of strength. So we came up with a plan would acknowledge need and facilitate independence; numbered steps in a specific list that might guide you over the hurdles of your projects.
Last night you helped me compose a letter to your teachers so that we could honor your sense of independence and need for privacy while seeking a specific partnership for success. You let your teacher’s see the struggle behind the gaps in your work that they might understand your effort. More importantly you outlined a willingness to accept help.
I’m not saying the work will be easier or the struggle less frustrating. Recognizing need and asking for help are imperfect, ongoing practices. It’s a beginning.
Love, Mom
to my son
October 16, 2015 § 6 Comments
I gave up. I’m not sure I’ve ever named my cowardice, it’s far simpler to languish in a prose of possibility, but it’s true. I stopped believing school could be a safe haven for your differences and so I hid behind empty promises and hollow confidence.
Things will get better.
Except, they didn’t.
Each school year I would hold my breath for the first kindness that offered sanctuary for my doubts and then balance my fears on the fragility of a single offering. A kind teacher, a patient administrator, a passionate aide. One person. Every year.
Inevitably something would go wrong; an intolerant teacher, a disconnected policy, an ill-prepared aide. We learned to pretend our way through difficult days with a detachment to our community. Surviving is a poor substitute for thriving.
I built invisible walls to ward off disappointment, but rather than guard my joy they invited bitterness and complacency for an unacceptable status quo. I could no longer open my heart to trust in something better; my faith was frayed with the tension of hope weighted against fear. Until today.
Over the years we’ve worked with remarkable educators, therapists, support staff, and administrators, but we’ve never before partnered with a team of educators so cohesive as a community. One person can make a difference, but I’m learning it takes a village to honor true change.
Things are getting better.
I expect there will be new challenges, life is an imperfect performance of hope, but I’m ready to trust in your newfound sense of belonging and the generousness of our new community; it’s time.
Love, Mom
to my son
October 9, 2015 § Leave a comment
I keep hesitating to write you. These days feel a little like a dream and I am cautious with my words, frightened I may scatter your good fortune if I name my joy.
You are in a better place, academically. At rest you radiate contentment and engaged you offer a familiar attentiveness. You smile more often and there is an easy confidence to your posture; you are the spirit of your younger self.
I have missed the gentle, unguarded nature of your early years. Your eagerness to learn and faith in others. These past years I wondered at each unhappiness if you had lost these treasures with small violations of trust; disappointments that might have chipped away at the wholeness of your spirit.
I’m not sure I would have endured your experiences with such grace of character. We all struggle against the burden of other’s expectations and perceived limitations with gifts of ability too often overshadowed by intimidation; a false acquiescence of another’s ideal. Some of us cease to dream out loud, not you.
You still dance without music and smile hello; you still draft impossible goals despite doubt or rejection. The difference is you are no longer expected to pretend another form of self.
At an age when so much of your days revolve around school and dreams are aligned by education, you are newly positioned among educators and administrators who honor your individuality. There is no talk of reshaping you into a different image of success. No longer are we mapping accomplishment by a language that silently assumes a generic performance of ability.
You have the benefit of teachers who are endeared to your humor and value your ability. You are suddenly visible again in your day, no longer lost in the margins of a hollow performance. Your work has become more meaningful, your performance more invested.
This is my joy, to see you racing once more toward knowledge and community; learning and dreaming in tandem.
Love, Mom
sight & seen
June 18, 2015 § Leave a comment
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.
growing against the grain
June 13, 2015 § 2 Comments
Tomorrow our son will attend his first high school class without support. This is an exaggeration of course, he is not walking abandoned toward change. His teacher is as aware of his needs as he is of this newfound independence. We are, rather, moving against the familiar with a new experience of change. It is the way we accommodate opportunity.
For years our son has had the company of a personal aide in the context of his academic days. He has not yet matured into self sustained independence; still he is fiercely, passionately, willfully independent in his sense of self. Our experience is ever changing, consistently inconsistent; needs and ability contorting themselves into footholds of growth.
We do not succeed independent of difficult challenges. Neither are we alone in our accomplishments.
These past nine years we have evolved into an assumption of compromise and expectation of progress as we partner with professionals who meet us with anxious questions and eager uncertainty. There have been moments of crisis and conflict born of lessons in the disparity between professional training and necessary accommodations in anticipation of the spectrum of needs that inform the many experiences of special needs in mainstream classrooms.
There have also been humbling lessons in grace as we partner with rare souls who share our responsibility to our son’s education; learning alongside one another as we go.
I have come to understand that IEPs do little to guarantee resources and that kindness is a greater predictor of success. The labels that inform need also bind us to assumptions that are sometimes limiting in their generic untruths. We modify expectations without compromising our dreams.
This new moment is an anticipated uncertainty, one that finds me holding my breath, heart on my sleeve. Hope bound a little too tightly around so many variables I cannot control. In this experience I am exceptionally average, a mother with universal worries in an intimate experience of vulnerability.
So I try to gather words and a tender posture of faith, something that looks like confidence and feels like false bravado.
reading & retirement
March 14, 2015 § 3 Comments
Five years ago our daughter couldn’t read. Despite our best efforts and expensive programs she was slipping further behind her peers academically and her self-esteem was drowning in the shame of self-awareness. In a procedural pairing with a Reading to Intervention school program our daughter began to navigate her struggle to literacy with a hope that became the cornerstone of every set back.
One woman, a quiet spoken, kindhearted soul created a safe space for our daughter to succeed among her errors. The work of reading became an adventure and along the way we fell in love with the educator whose lessons tethered our lives with stories long after our daughter graduated from her company.
This is our daughter’s last year of elementary school and our friend’s last year guiding struggling readers through the emotions and mechanics of reading challenges. It is an impossible and inevitable truth of change and yet, I cannot imagine our lives without this woman. We are better versions of ourselves for the smile that makes us all sit up a little straighter in our efforts.
When I shared with our daughter her former teacher would soon retire, there was an immediate shock that quickly spiraled into grief, wide eyes with tears that threatened to spill unchecked. That’s impossible! Who would they ever get to replace her? What about all the other kids that won’t ever get to work with her? Then, a stubborn nod of her head. She must be moving to another school to help other kids.
This is my wish for so many of the irreplaceable educators who have shared our path, that you know the boundless love of the children whose lives are better for the lessons that extend beyond the school day. Thank you.
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