Week 10

 (names have been changed)



"I'd like my little sister to come here someday," The little brown-eyed boy said to me as he fidgeted in his spot. We were walking out to the small play ground that was behind Catch A Falling Star. 

"That would be nice." I replied, even though I knew that this place was only for children with some kind of behavioral diagnosis. 

"Even though I'm pretty sure this program is only for autistic kids." He replied without missing a beat. I quickly looked at him, his brown eyes large, the one that turns in a little unfocused. 

I didn't reply. I simply opened the gate to the playground and let him in. I don't tell him that he is exactly right; I just smile and say nothing. Because even though this little boy is aware that he is different, it doesn't mean they all have to be. 

At the park you see all different kinds of children. The ones who like to swing very high; there are ones who hang upside down of the monkey bars; and many kids like to run around and play tag.
As I stand a ways off of the playground, I keep my eyes on the little boy I'm here with. He is running and playing, and laughing too, but I will always know his struggles. He wrings his hands when he gets close to other people; he is clumsy due to birth defects he's never truly been cured of; he tends to say odd things when attempting to fit in.
Over on the tire swing is a little boy who can't complete a sentence without a prompt from his own worker. Sitting on the ground picking the peeling paint off the side of the playground. He was born without eyeballs and only sees the world through his hands.
All three of these children represent different kinds of the children I work with. The one I'm with has Asperger's; someday he will live on his own and will probably function in society without anyone knowing he had his diagnosis. The boy on the tire swing has mild Autism, and will probably never leave his very tired-looking mother's side. Someday he will be able to ask for what he wants without prompts, but a conversation or a written essay from him will never happen. The boy born without eyeballs is a very unique case. Although very intelligent, his physical ailments makes life very difficult for him.
But as I watch the three of them play, for a moment or two I can forget that they're lives, in some ways, are already decided for them. Chances have been taken from them.
When it's time to go back to the center for the rest of the afternoon, I fear telling the little boy I work with that it's almost time to go. Transitions are hard on him; and chances are he'd throw a tantrum when it was time to go.
It was hard for me to relate to him at times; when I was a kid, if you cried as often as these children did, you would get into trouble. For these kids, they don't cry to get their way or for attention.
They cry because they simply don't know what else to do.
The other kids in the park watch the little boy with mild Autism as he only mumbles parts of words. They look at him funny as he jumps back and forth and flails his arms in the air. Many other people in the park wonder why he doesn't talk on his own.
They don't know what I know.
Someday I'd like these children to have more chances.

I don't want anyone to feel sorry for any of the children I work with. I don't want anyone to pity them. In fact, the opposite; I think you'd be surprised just how much you can learn from them.

He took a toy and threw it across the room. It was already a long day, and I had very little patience left. 
I knelt down to Timmy and reprimanded him. 
"Timmy! That is not okay! That's very unsafe!" 
I knew I was being mean. He had been bad all day. He kicked me, called me a 'stupid sucker' and was very unsafe all day. 
He was biting his thumbnail, a side effect of his ADHD medicine, and he looked at me with large blue eyes behind his glasses. 
He hesitated before saying, "You don't look like Holliann no more." 
I stopped and furrowed my eyebrows, "What are you talking about, Timmy?" 
He continued biting his nail and mumbled, "You look like some mean girl now." 
 

Timmy could tell when I was in a bad mood and when I wasn't. He knew that I wasn't always like that; he could tell his behavior had something to do with it. I couldn't help but smile when he said that to me; his unafraid honesty warmed my heart. Even though I get stressed and overwhelmed, that doesn't mean it's who I am. Timmy, even though he's 5, can tell that. He knows that 'Holliann' isn't a mean girl who yells at him for throwing a toy.

I was watching Jarrod, the little boy with Asperger's, as he played along the play ground. He was smiling and laughing, and I then noticed that every one of the children from the center who we brought to the park that day were also smiling and laughing. Even if they are a little different, they were able to enjoy themselves on that beautiful day.


Someday I want the world to have an answer for these children. They don't need to be fixed, who says that they're broken? But I'd like them to feel accepted. I want them to feel like they fit in. Because in the almost-two-years I've worked by their side, I've looked passed the diagnosis they have. Yes, they're technically 'disabled'. But I've watched them grow, and they all play a special role in everyone's lives that they're in, even if they're not 'normal'. But they're still just as unique and beautiful as every other child; even if their struggles are a bit more frustrating.

The next time you see a donation box for Autism research, if you can, drop in some loose pocket change. Educate yourself on what the Autism Spectrum disorders are. Learn more about these children. With the numbers growing, more and more children are diagnosed with Autism a day. Chances are good that I may have a child who has one, or maybe even one of my classmates or friends. And I'd like people to be more educated.
Two years ago, I had no idea what Autism really was. I assumed it was a form of mental retardation. Now, I spend a huge chunk of my life devoting time, energy and passion to helping those who have Autism. I'd like the general population to be more educated, so that maybe someday these children get less strange looks while they play at the park.

I looked down at my watch and realized it was time to go. Surprisingly, Jerrod didn't throw a fit when I called his name and told him we had to leave. He approached me, hugged me, thanked me for taking him to the park, and walked very safely with me to the car, taking and holding my hand. As we drive back to drive back to Catch A Falling Star, he tells me all about the new friends he's made.
The whole ride home, as he looks at me through the rear-view mirror and tells me stories and jokes. He has pure trust in his big brown eyes.
It reminds me of why I go to work in the morning.
And it's a feeling I'll never forget.