to my son
April 20, 2016 § 4 Comments
I’ve been trying to decide if there’s room in this space for me to introduce your identity as a writer. It’s a gift I’ve kept close to my heart, a secret that I treasured as an exclusive audience to your developing skill.
In much the same way a parent might take pride in sharing an athletic ability or musical talent, it has been my greatest joy to share my love of writing with you.
Until now most of your writing has been forced and shaped by academic restrictions. It’s only in your private writings and personal letters that one can see the contradiction of your internal awareness for your experiences in contrast to your outward mannerisms; it is in these works that your voice and style, confidence and curiosity shape a prose that is enviable.
This brings us to an exciting development. You are writing a book. A witty science-fiction work with a strong storyline and endearing characters, cliff hangers and comical one liners.
I’ve been reading your thread since your first paragraph, but you’ve begun to broaden your efforts to accommodate the work of editing and constructive feedback from a trusted teacher. Something that you once played at has become a passion and your definition of self is becoming broader.
You so often categorize yourself by interest over talent without allowing for a depth of character that invites a life rich with multifaceted experiences. Scientist, inventor, gamer, writer.
None of us are one or the other, we are fragments of everything we know and cannot fathom.
Maybe you will work in a lab or write code, maybe you’ll stay at home and raise a family or craft a novel that inspires new dreamers. The future is still unwritten, but this story that you’ve started is worth finishing.
I wake up wanting to turn the page, to see this next chapter unfold.
Love, Mom
to my son
April 15, 2016 § 2 Comments
Last night we attended a lecture given by your childhood hero, Bill Nye. Walking through the unfamiliar space you began shrugging and snapping, staccato movements on a loop of increasingly rapid repetition; enthusiasm stemming through your limbs like joy tapped into a morse code of movement. In an auditorium crowded with thousands of science-minded fans, you sat at attention as if the room had shrunk to accommodate an audience of two.
Stowed away in my purse was a note you had written Mr. Nye when you were 5 years old. So many years ago I envied this man the fame that you might draft him a letter given your disinclination for writing, the physical demands of shaping letters against the tide of faster ideas often a burden of inconvenience. I reasoned that Mr. Nye must receive so many letters that surely your effort would be lost in his company and as such I should be allowed to keep this time capsule in your penmanship for myself.
Yesterday I confessed my crime of hoarding a letter intended for someone else and had hoped you might gain a signature on the envelope, but the night did not lend itself to a private audience and we left the lecture for a leisurely walk. With long easy strides you casually forgave me my trespass and offered effusive thanks for the evening’s events.
It was enough to be present.
I think sometimes we all forget the luxury of this truth. So often we strive for dramatic performances of appreciation in celebratory moments, losing the elegance of a simpler delight.
In your letter you had invited your hero to play. Yesterday it was enough to find yourself in the same room.
This gratitude for what is and the ability to see wealth in less, it is such a small part of why I am so proud of you and such a large part of why I am better for your gentle lessons.
On the eve of a special birthday, I’m wishing you a lifetime of joy in small moments of mindfulness that you may always find enough within.
Love, Mom
to my son
April 4, 2016 § 1 Comment
Unhidden in the chaos of your school papers, I found these playful term test strategies:
I love that you still hide funny messages where you know I’ll look; fragments of borrowed smiles and innocent mischief that hint at your sense of humor.
Thank you for laundry day laughs.
Love, Mom
to my son
February 24, 2016 § 4 Comments
On the days I worry about you, I marvel at the strength of character with which you navigate the complexities of your daily experience. The honest vulnerability of your words and the steadfast faith in self despite conflicting cultural messages of conformity that denounce diversity with lessons in mainstream manipulations.
Special education* is still a work in progress, measuring success too often by an ability to perform dominant expectations – “normal” behaviors. Inclusion is meant to create a space of acceptance, so why do we still discount the differences that inform a more genuine image of the world we live in?
There are books and speakers, all who commit themselves to crafting lessons on modeling neurotypical behavior, but what of the unexpected wisdom of your experiences? What are we to make of those uncomfortable reflections of “normal” that highlight an inequality in empathy and discrepancy in worth?
These are the days that must happen to you. – Walt Whitman
It would be nice if they didn’t. It would seem to me they needn’t. But, alas, they do and we are changed, often for the better, because of them. Messy miscommunications create a dialogue, however imperfect. Just as you are learning about others expectations of you, you are teaching others about your expectations of them; one conversation at a time.
I love that you stand up for your beliefs with a passion equal to the sincerity with which you listen to other’s perspectives. No matter how many times you are asked to concede to a majority expectation, you advocate for your unique experience of an alternative sense of normal.
Sometimes even I get distracted by my expectations without considering yours. After all, you don’t ask me to change, you simply fill in the gaps of my understanding with your truth – patiently and with acceptance for my ignorance.
I’m sorry.
I remember the first time you drafted a letter of apology. A school aide implied by her word choice that you had behaved in a way that was difficult or disrespectful. I asked you to own your behavior with a note of apology. In your elementary penmanship you did as I asked, but then you spoke to your behavior and intentions. The aide acknowledged to me the truth of your perspective and complimented your character.
Yesterday you were asked to write another letter explaining a classroom conflict with a new aide. Thoughtful penmanship and specific quotes spoke to the same honesty in your experiences; a willingness to own your thoughts and feelings, responsibly and without excuse, while holding others to their behavior as well.
I’m thinking of framing the write-up, not because you were right or wrong, but because your integrity and confidence are admirable qualities more valuable than mainstream social niceties. In a handful of sentences you apologized, valuing another’s expectations and emotions, while gently affirming your worth.
You were teaching even as you learn.
Love, Mom
*I want to take a moment to acknowledge and celebrate the individuals who have been remarkable companions in my Special Education journey. We’ve a way to go, still, but I’m a better advocate for my children for your knowledge and kindness. Thank you.
raising sheldon
January 26, 2016 § 8 Comments
If you have a child on the Autism Spectrum you are probably pretty comfortable with unexpected statements – some call them blurts.
I don’t love the word blurt, it sounds more like a bodily function and implies an absence of control that interrupts the peace leaving a foul impression.
Around our home unexpected statements are what keeps us on our toes, they create interesting tangents and spontaneous laughter. I’ve come to appreciate the honesty of my son’s speech and the innocence of his errors.
When he was little, my son would spout extravagant facts he’d memorized from the mountains of books that littered his days. I spent a decent amount of time verifying information with my own research so that I could participate in his interests.
This same natural ability created an entire vocabulary of funny one-liners from favorite books and movies. My son and husband could hold an entire conversation with direct quotes taken out of context.
Most days my son’s comedic timing and memory for details is a gift. Some days it’s a burden.
This week a store manager who my son’s school partnered with for practical exercises in social skill building determined it was too much work after my son commented on a customer’s groceries.
If you’re wondering what he said, I’m not telling. I don’t want to shame my son, the customer, or the store manager.
What he said, specifically, isn’t the issue. Some of his statements would make you laugh and others would make you scratch your head. There was one statement that I could conceive was mildly offensive, but most of them were simply misplaced.
I wish I could explain to the manager that my son’s blurts are more exaggerated when he’s nervous; that he will work over-time, verbally, to impress a stranger or make them laugh. Another week and the anxiety might have eased, reducing the instance of unfortunate efforts at humor.
I understand, I do. Unexpected statements present challenges, but they are also opportunities.
What might have happened if the manager stood up for the teenage boy with special needs and communicated to his customer and community that “we’re working on it.” What an awesome message one business might have made to a population of children, parents, and strangers of tolerance and empathy.
The last business did.
We’re going to be ok. Actually, we already are, but I’m sad for the store and it’s customers that they didn’t model the commitment their partnership with special needs families implies. Relationships require an investment in one another, work.
My son isn’t Sheldon Cooper, there is no laugh track to his impressive library of memorized facts or social fumbles. In the real world his embarrassments are not so easily written off and the laughter isn’t always kind.
I spend a lot of time talking to my son about others’ expectations, he’s spent years navigating social norms with the forced attention of a second language; to understand and connect in a world that does not always conform to his expectations.
This morning I wanted to speak on behalf of my son, hoping that maybe someone else might consider an unexpected statement an opportunity to exercise a different perspective and, maybe, a little patience.
artistic
January 15, 2016 § 2 Comments
In fleeting minutes of busy days, I have taken to indulging in borrowed time among old photographs; giving thanks for those images preserved in a cardboard box of jumbled memories.
Among these paper gems was a particular photograph that has captured my heart, a forgotten play day from long before our son’s Autism Spectrum diagnosis. There is joy in this discovery for a later memory, one not captured in print; a discussion with our elementary aged son and a cautious question of his understanding of Autism as so many adults introduced a new language to his vocabulary.
I wasn’t sure, then, what he understood and it was important to me that our son’s identity expand to encompass this new knowledge in a way that honored a heart, mind, and spirit greater than clinical terms and educational assessments. So, I asked our son if he understood what his diagnosis meant.
I know I’m artistic.
And so he is as he always was, a mystery of ability with not so unusual needs.
In ten years we have learned much, but it is the magic of the inexplainable that still best speaks to our son’s truth.
“The most beautiful experience we can have is the mysterious. It is the fundamental emotion that stands at the cradle of true art and true science.” ―Albert Einstein
role reversal
January 8, 2016 § 2 Comments
It started in a moment of mothering, an emotional unraveling that derailed my intentions. I was reacting to fear, rambling over my worries with too many words, when I recognized my son modeling the very behavior I was forgetting.
He listened patiently, without interruption, as my voice rose; accepted his responsibility without excuse; offered genuine remorse. He also proposed, independently, to rectify the wrong. He had received the difficult message and respectfully assumed the weight of his error.
When there was no anger left in my posture, my son cried and I saw the little boy who always smiled from the truest, most joyful, part of his soul. The toddler who had to climb and explore, to push boundaries and move fearlessly in creativity. The boy with ideas bigger than his years.
The teenager who is not quite ready to grow-up and desperate to be taken seriously.
Then I considered the problem at hand. Something so much smaller than the scale of my reaction and the scope of my son’s day. An incomplete assignment became a lesson in presence.
I was so busy teaching that I almost missed the demonstration of mastery. I forgot the spirit of the little boy whose shoulders are now taller than my own and the character he has not outgrown. We aspire to shape our children for the world we anticipate, but they create a world bigger than our experiences with uncomplicated wisdom.
We are each greater than our mistakes.
to my son
November 5, 2015 § Leave a comment
You were so casual as you left, playful and confident. It’s a big day, your first job interview; a lucky opportunity to use your experiences as a special needs child as a service to other children with diverse needs. Ironically, this experience places you in a position of support in an athletic setting, a space where, both academically and extracurricularly, coaches and peers were consistently missing the resources to provide an inclusive experience for you.
That’s not to say there weren’t a few exceptional individuals along the way; a student teacher who invited a personal connection during gym and a climbing instructor who challenged your natural abilities. There was the gym teacher and aide who muscled through the misery of running with an appreciation for your resilience and the Tae Kwon Do teacher who recognized inner strength in form.
Unfortunately these individuals came long after uninvested little league coaches and unkind elementary games. Choruses of negative directives from uneducated coaches and unsportsmanly misbehavior from peers signaled an exclusivity from the joy of sports. Lessons in team work and community were really politically correct statements of inclusivity; words without the substance of actions.
These early disappointments and the encouragement of those rare individuals who would later challenge previous experiences created a unique spectrum of understanding; an empathetic awareness for the value of each individual no matter their natural talents or need. This new opportunity allows you the work of modeling a truer practice of teamwork. It is a rare and remarkable invitation to use personal experience to foster positive change for yourself and others.
Sometimes people get lost in disappointment, but you have been determinedly enthusiastic about improving the space you consume. Your confidence in self and others has created a legacy of self-respect and love that informs an expectation of kindness in the game of life and the spirit of play.
I’m proud of you, but also excited for you. I hope you learn as much as you teach.
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
scribblechic 