Susan Senator

I remember visiting the classroom they intended for Nat, when he was 3.  This was the first classroom, general special ed or some such oxymoron.  It was not autism-specific.  But what did I know about autism, anyway?  All I knew was that by sending Nat to this place it would mean that he was, indeed, special ed.  It would be more than a label:  it would be an entire cloak.

When I saw that classroom I felt choked with despair.  It wasn’t the room, brightly colored and filled with art that it was; it wasn’t the energetic, smiley teachers.  It was the other kids.  I looked at the other children and I did not see Nat there.  No kid reminded me of Nat.  They mostly seemed spacey and weird.  Yet Nat was also totally spacey and weird, but that fact made me hate that classroom even more.  Nat did not belong there!  That’s what my heart said; that’s what I said, but in the end we sent him.  And not only did he belong there; he needed even more than they could offer.

I thought about that day after visiting a DayHab, the first on a list we were given to visit.  The DayHab is where the significantly disabled often spend their weekdays.  The hours are 9-3, like school hours.  A van brings them there.  They have a list of personal goals to work on.  There are therapists that come in and out.  There are shelves of brightly colored toys and games, a computer or two, and staff walking around assisting.  Not all that different from many special ed classrooms.  But with adults.  I was prepared to be depressed.

But where once there were children that made me sad, there were now adults that did not, which is odd because kids are definitely cuter.  Yet is no longer hard for me to go and hang out with highly disabled people — because I’m used to it.  My way of dealing with hard events is to plunge in, my belief being that familiarity breeds enjoyment.  This is also the way Nat comes to enjoy things, too.  Exposure, repetition, familiarity — these build a repertoire to draw upon.  So I have always visited Nat’s classrooms — all my sons’ classrooms — and gotten to know the teachers and other kids; I force myself to get comfortable.

Nat’s classmates and roommates have, by and large, always responded well to me.  It’s the same principle as I follow with Nat.  You go in thinking the best.  You fill yourself up with hope and a sense of lightness, you surround yourself with a bubble of confidence that suspends you above harm.  And the other person feels that, and wants to grab on. The moment that circuit is complete, strangeness starts to fade, you lose your inhibition, and you can connect. Simple human nature.  Learning this has given me immense comfort and strength to walk into a room full of rocking, hooting people and say hi and feel interested in getting to know them.  Now, I have to say, it’s fun to do that, because for the most part, Nat’s housemates and the disabled adults I’ve met are eager for interaction even if they’re clumsy at it.  They are really glad to see new faces, even if they can’t talk to them.  And if you treat them with interest and openness, they will warm to you very quickly.  But this is true with any person. anywhere.

Back when I visited Nat’s preschool classroom, I didn’t realize that these classmates were other people’s children.  On some level, I didn’t even realize they were people.

The world, especially this corner of it, is full of people who really have very exacting requirements of what a person has to be like.  But you don’t have to.

I think that Nat says it best:  “It’s a different that’s okay.”