Flying Through the Door
toward Acceptance
Have you ever been
in the middle of a chicken coop, while they are fluttering around and
pecking each other? Picture a small classroom of 24 kindergarten
students and the visions are quite similar. Kindergarteners, as you
know, move and squirm with excitement and, then there was me. I not
only moved and squirmed, but on occasion simply bolted from once
place to another. The lights were overpowering, such as lightning
flashing overhead, on top of a mountain. The children’s noises
were so loud, I felt like I was in a large tin can while a whole band
of drummers beat on the can in rhythm to the music of shuffling feet,
papers flapping, coughing, and sneezing from children in the room,
let alone the noises of the fluorescent lights and humming from the
heater or air conditioner.
I started kindergarten when I was six
years old. I had some school experience prior to kindergarten while
I attended Tiger Cubs, an early childhood special education class in
Macon. But, the kindergarten class was so much different. Even
though I had a full time aide, my cousin Amy Binder, I felt lost and
alone. Remember the chicken coop vision? Well, I was the chicken
that fluttered around wanting and craving acceptance, knowing it was
not going to come easily. You see, I was unable to communicate with
anyone which might as well meant I lived on a completely different
planet. Except, I very much was there, causing havoc in a group of
children that didn’t understand.
Not only did they not understand me,
most of the world at that time didn’t either. Autism had just
started to get public attention, but definitely not in our little
world. However, thank God for television. Because of this certain
form of media, my aide, Amy, was watching 20/20 and saw a form of
facilitation, where children were able to write with pressure being
put on their hand by an adult. She immediately thought of me and
came to school with great excitement. Thus, the first steps out of
the chicken coop were about to happen.
I went to school
like any other day, filled with desire to be there, however, sad,
knowing I was trapped in my own body. I heard Amy talking to Mrs.
Yount about her discovery and I was immediately overjoyed. I just
knew that this moment was going to be one I would never forget. And
I was right. As Amy picked up the pencil and placed it in my hand,
she put her hand on mine, as I am sure she had seen the night before.
Instantly the coop door was opened and I flew out into the world of
communication. I wrote not only a word but a complete sentence,
spelled correctly. That moment was indescribable. I felt free of
the chains that had been holding me back for six years. And believe
me when I say, I had waited for this moment for a long time. I knew
that life as I knew it had changed in that one sentence.
Suddenly, I was a real person, with
thoughts and feelings that can only be discovered through
communication. I was no longer the boy who cried or laughed for “no
apparent reason”, that my mother and I had been told was a sign of
autism. So, now I could tell others, if they cared to inquire, why I
was filled with grief or elated with joy.
Joy is a great
expression for that day, because for the first time I was able to ask
for things, express my anger or frustrations, or simply express my
love for my family. And love and gratitude is what I felt toward Amy
Binder that day and every day of my life. She allowed me to be
visible to the eye. Before communication I was invisible and stuck
in the deepest, darkest corner of that unbearable chicken coop.
I
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