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I wanted to say: “Don’t you dare look at her like that, you little assholes”, but instead I ushered her away.

5/30/2018

I wanted to say: “Don’t you dare look at her like that, you little assholes”, but instead I ushered her away.

I suppose I should give you some background.

Kate had some birthday money to spend this past weekend. She wanted to go shopping, so off we went. She dressed herself, which, if you’re the parent of a child with autism, is a total fucking win, but her choices are not exactly typical.

Kate chose hot pink leotards and refused to add a skirt even when I explained to her that leotards technically are not pants. She added a ‘too small’ t-shirt and finished off the look with a flowered headband worthy of a royal wedding. She was ready to go, and choosing my battles wisely, I ushered her to the van and off we went.

She often wears costumes and dresses herself according to current interests, like her decision to wear a 'cowboy' get-up to her most recent birthday. Most of us, love this about her.

We entered the craft store, because she is obsessed with these little hard plastic animals they carry and she was interested in adding to her collection.

She browsed their selection and chatted happily to herself while I waited in the aisle for her to choose her prize.

I glanced up when two girls, maybe a year or two older than Miss Kate, though they would not know that because she is tall for her age, were standing at the end of the aisle, staring at my girl. Normally, I don’t spend time reading the micro-expressions of tweens but their disdain was clear. They snickered and stared.

Now, I’ve worked with children for my entire career and I knew these girls would never show disdain for a visibly disabled child. They would be the first to offer to push a wheelchair, or spend recess helping our most obviously vulnerable children. They, and their parents, would pride themselves on how selfless these little girls are to their classmate with down syndrome or how kindly they offer to play with the non-verbal kiddo in their class. When these things are not really selfless at all, but often an attempt to gain recognition for their efforts. These same children, when faced with a child that is not visibly different but exhibit minor characteristics or interests different than their own, will often recoil, because, to them, to be a little different is a very serious 'social sin' and acknowledging this allows them permanent membership to a very elite club.

I became fiercely protective of Kate, as any parent will do, and walked over to my girl, trying to block their view. They would bond over their mutual contempt for a peer that missed the mark on fashion, or age-level toys, or any of the strict social structure these girls have built for themselves.

Miss Kate, oblivious to her mean-girl counterparts, continued to try out each and every plastic animal on the shelf, complete with animal noises and grand gestures.

The girls giggled and walked away.

I actually wanted to scream in the faces of small children at the craft store for staring at my girl like she was, in some way, “wrong”. I wanted them to turn and run in fear of this crazy woman who might, at any time, unload her giant basket of overpriced art supplies, right on their smug little heads.

Wait, that didn’t feel right. Why, on earth, would a relatively even-tempered Kindergarten teacher, like myself, ever wish to scream in the faces of a couple of entitled little monst...okay, I’m clearly still angry. They were just little girls. They were just little girls who saw something that made them stare, and maybe they couldn’t help themselves, because maybe their world is so rigidly constructed by social media, and youtubers and whatever else pre-teens worship, that they couldn’t manage to hide their snide little expressions when they saw and eight year old that didn’t quite look or behave like the status-quo.

It didn’t make me feel better.

Kate was no worse for wear, as usual. The kid is bullet-proof, I swear. But on that day, I wasn’t.

This isn’t a cautionary tale. Most kids are great. Especially this latest generation of kids who are educated in an inclusive classroom. There are still a few, though; a few you’ll come across on the long way that will crush you with their repugnance, and they will remind us that we still have so much work to do.

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Autism, The Playground and The Missing Curriculum

5/9/2018

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It’s her birthday next week. She’ll be eight. A little older, a little taller and a little more obviously behind her peers.

It’s not that she isn’t smart, you know. Maybe she’s not at grade-level, but I’m one teacher that will tell you that matters none at all.

The fact is, she is smart in so many ways. And I couldn’t be more proud.

It’s the social stuff that gets her. It’s so damn confusing for her, and her peers are getting less and less patient.

Don’t get me wrong, there are a core few that have the patience of Saints. These little ones will gently explain some very obscure playground rules to a very frustrated little girl. She'll rarely go with the flow, because the 'rules' likely sound 'all wrong' to her, and she'll let you know.

There are others, though; others that don’t have the patience and nor should they. They are just children, after all, and they are trying their best to navigate the complicated web of playground decree and they may not have time to explain its intricacies to Kate.

I can see them getting tired of her rigid moral code. I can see them scrunching their noses and deciding it might be ‘too much work’ to play with her.

That’s far harder to witness than a poor spelling test or lowered reading level.

Now, I know, I have friends who wish this was their problem. Friends who are working on toileting and self-harm. I want you to know that I fully appreciate that our concerns are not theirs and I am hopeful for them and grateful, too. There are never words to explain this divide because no one's worries need be diminished but let's be real. If you're working on toileting, than the playground is going to be a lot further down your list. I get that.

The social stuff is everything to us. Absolutely everything. The curriculum has it all wrong. A new generation of kids, kids like mine, are growing up unable to intuitively pick up on what the collective has deemed appropriate social behavior. These poor souls are left to work on numbers and letters and other such nonsense when they have yet to make a friend, accept an injustice or read an emotion on another’s face. How sad, that we are failing a whole demographic at once. How short-sighted of us.

I suppose, I’ll hop off the soapbox, for now. I know I have little authority to talk about much more than my own daughter’s experience. (But if you read me at all, you’ll know I often take liberties I shouldn’t).

Kate has made herself popular, among her school mates to some extent. She walks around with a Prince of a dog, a dog she considers her very best friend, after all, and her self-confidence has drawn many to her side. But these are friends of a superficial kind and she is growing older and yearning for more.

She deserves a meaningful peer connection and she is struggling to find that, right now.

I want to help her. Her team wants to help.

So we try with social thinking therapy, and speech therapy and occupational therapy, among other things.

And she’s come so far. She really has.

There are just times I can see her wishing she could find a way to fit into these strange and exclusive groups, with their unwritten rules and their pricey social memberships.

I can see it in her slumped shoulders, a posture she wasn’t capable of this time last year. I can see it in the way she is beginning to hang back. There was a time she would rush toward any time of potential fun.

Now, don’t be too sad for MIss Kate. She is quite fond of herself, and most times, considers these exclusions the loss of the group members that reject her and not her own.

I’m thankful for that.

It’s just that someday; she might see it a little differently, and those cracks are starting to show, and that is one of my greatest fears.

Happy Birthday my girl.

As always, if you'd like to send Kate a birthday card, you can forward it to:

Kate Mouland
27 Wellington Row
Saint John, NB
E2L 3H4

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I talk about Autism, a lot

I wanted to say: “Don’t you dare look at her like that, you little assholes”, but instead I ushered her away.

Autism, The Playground and The Missing Curriculum

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