"So he is one of those kids..." they ponder. I had no problem with their stares, and Benjamin is immune to self consciousness. I would rather they see a real kid than just a poster. 

 

He is clearly not cool, an attribute most other fourteen year olds covet fiercely. He may forget the rules and prance across the store with his characteristic AAAAHHHHHH sound, which for him translates to "We are at Trader Joe's! I am happy!". He carries himself like a vulture, or a zombie, or an angry bird depending on what he is thinking about. If he speaks, I get a peek into his world.

 

"What does clobber mean?" he grins. Sometimes he asks words he already knows, while other times he uses me as a human dictionary. 

 

"Clobber means to whack. Maybe even on the head!" I answer.

 

"Clobbering is against the ten commandments!" He laughs.

 

As I sit here I can hear his marvelous therapist talking to him about when to be rigid and when to be flexible. He loves his time with her. Even when we were away at camp he remembered that it was 4:30 on Thursday and Margie would be coming if he was at home. 

 

Things were not always this way for people with autism. Twenty five years ago teachers had no words for the spinning and stimming, much less strategies for redirecting them. But now our culture holds a place for special kids, as if they too deserve to belong and feel joy. For fourteen opulent years we have benefited from funding that pays a parade of women to come to our home every week to keep one boy from drowning in a world that expects him to comply to unspoken rules.

 

It makes sense to invest in him. He is learning to breath through a tantrum, to scribble away his anger, to talk about his needs in ways that we who love him can respond to. Instead of sinking, he is swimming too. I am grateful.

 

This shift happened in my brief lifetime.

 

 

 

Photo by Joy Feerrar

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