matching tracksuits

Recently, at an interview for a teaching position, I had the most curious feeling that I was missing the completely obvious. The principal asked, as the interview was winding down, if I had any questions.

I didn’t have any questions, and said as much. !/images/39.jpg (Waiting)!

I was asked again, a few moments later, if I was _sure_ I didn’t have any questions.

At this point, I started thinking, “Should I be asking something? What could I possibly ask about? Is this a way of seeing how interested I am in the job?”

It’s a teaching position: the salary, working hours, curriculum — already set. I’d already asked about enrollment, student demographics, various policy issues, etc.

“What can I ask about?” I think. Finally I answered, “No — I’m sure once I leave here, as always happens, I’ll think of some question about minutiae, but for now…”

And it came again…

The interviewer had that expression that says, “I _know_ you know how to respond!” I’ve used the expression countless times in the classroom.

What was going on? What didn’t I ask about?

Homosexuality used to be considered a mental illness. The placing of heated glass bulbs on a bare back and the resulting bruises were once considered treatment for all kinds of ills. Medical science has shown both these medical assumptions to be false. Despite that, many still claim that homosexuality is an illness of some sort, and cupping is still performed in many places in the world.

Such interpretations of autism are possible as well.

“Autism is not a disease but social construct.” Such is one position on the causes of autism. Wikipedia explains it thusly:

bq. This is the belief that autism is not really a disorder, but instead is a social construct. That is, supporters of this theory do not believe autism exists at all; they believe (partly supported by recent reference to the rising cases of diagnosed autism) that autism is just the way some people are—that is, a part of the person’s personality, which might explain the apparent difficulty in finding a model and a cure. This is further supported by the fact that autistic people have normal lifespans and their condition often comes with advantages, not just disadvantages.

I can imagine another, even more radical explanation for the tantrums and screaming of autism: “overly-permissive parenting.” When working with autistic children, I see from time to time a glint in their eyes that make such a thought pass through my mind. “They’re faking it, just throwing a tantrum to get their way, and taking it to a higher level than most children.” That’s the easy answer, and I realize that that “glint” I think I see is simply my interpretation plastered over the incident.

The most radical explanation would probably come from the church I grew up in: they’re demon possessed. What person in their right mind would suggest such a thing is beyond me, but I can think of groups whose members would probably easily jump to that conclusion.

But all three explanations (though quote-unquote is probably needed there) deal with our perception of the condition and our notion of what is acceptable in society. Our society considers, in most cases, kicking and screaming as an inadequate adult response to disappointment or coercion. Yet if that _were_ the appropriate reaction, autism would not suddenly disappear. Linguistic difficulties, lagging social skills, an inability to see things from another’s perspective, repetitive behavior, and exaggerated or depressed sensory systems would all remain.

If you’ve never heard the scream of an autistic child, count your blessings. It’s inconceivable how a single, shrill sound could convey so much pain, confusion, and anger. The scream comes from so deep inside them it sounds more animal than human. And yet, it’s so shrill and hollow that it’s ethereal.

Often words are woven into the scream — “I hate you!” or “Get away from me!” — to produce a genderless voice. Add the repetitive nature of what they’re screaming and it’s not difficult to see how this could have once been labeled “demon possession.”

Autism, in the time of a rage, wipes away all differences between afflicted children — gender, intelligence, everything — and replaces it with a screech. The rage contorts the face, flails the limbs, and lashes out at anything in the vicinity. The scream fills whatever space you’re in, seeming at times almost like another entity, hovering around the child as you try to isolate her so that so can calm herself.

If it happens around children who are not accustomed to it, the bewilderment and pity in their eyes is striking. And it’s impossible to deny the spark of fear as well.

Often the screaming subsides as quickly as it comes on. A raging child might notice there’s an echo in the room where he is, and that will be enough to derail the rage and pacify the child.

Working with these kids takes so much out of you. It’s a constant struggle — physical but espcially mental — to keep the kids on-task, to keep them calm, to maintain a semblance of order and progress in the room. One day they can be going off like popcorn. The slightest thing can set them off.

This one runs around the room, evading all efforts to stop her, gradually getting more and more angry until the rage hits, and the screaming, kicking, biting. That one sits at his seat, sarcastically chanting his mantra of defiance. Leave him alone and he’ll continue ad infinitum; try verbally or even physically to get him back on task and he’ll be running around the room too. Another sits, watching, cheering the eruption on. “Kick him! Kick him!” is the cry. I’m trying to calm one and the other’s cat-calling us both.

Sometimes you feel as if you’ve been thrown into a lake with bound hands and wearing jeans–it’s a struggle just to survive.

Take nothing personally. That’s critical in all teaching, but especially when working with children cursed with autism. The biter might be a hugger in fifteen minutes. No, scratch that. In fifteen seconds. “I hate you! Get away from me, stupid teacher,” from the mouth of a nine-year-old who later says, “I really love you. You’re awesome.”

All your angry adult reactions sometimes build up, though, and in a flash, you see yourself screaming back at the child yelling at you, giving them exactly, word for word, what they give you. But not only does the cruel unreasonableness of this idea force the image out of your mind, but you also really don’t have time to indulge in such perverse pressure-releasing fantasies, for you see that as soon as you get this situation under control, there’s bound to be another explosion. You see it coming. He’s reaching for her pencil. She’s forcing an apology on an irritated student. They’re arguing over the finer details of an episode of _Star Wars_. And even if all’s calm except for the child you’re struggling with, you know that in a flash it can all disappear.

And yet. And yet there’s the hope that you can make the cliché difference. “If I’m just this much more patient, this much more ingenious, this much more educated about the condition,” you think.

The trick is to see the child and not the condition. The autism perverts the child’s real personality, adding hatred where there is none, confusion where clarity is simple, and fear where there should be none. When you see the real child, not the child whose face is smeared into a scream by a condition he has no control over, all the frustration and anger disappear and your heart is both soothed and broken.

It’s a full moon, and I’m starting to wonder just what effects that can have on a person’s

psyche.

For the past week, I’ve been working elementary school children, the majority of whom have

various degrees of “high-functioning autism”:http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/High-Functioning_Autism. Today was an

especially difficult day, with rages set off every few minutes. Almost to a child they had a breakdown of some

sort or another.

“It’s a full moon,” one of the assistants said.

There was a time I would have

been skeptical of such a claim. However, with a week of experience under my built, I know how these children

usually behave. I saw today that there were quantifiably more eruptions than usual.

While I’m more than

a little skeptical about the effects of stars on humans, moon and wind can certainly have demonstrable effects

on people. In southern Poland, there’s a warm wind that blows during autumn and spring that brings with it

sleeplessness (Once, during one of these periods, I couldn’t sleep for four nights) and an increase in

irritability with everyone from students to office workers. Could I have been seeing the effects of the moon

today?

It seems so medieval. “Beware the full moon!” Our issues today are attributable to most

everything _but_ phases of the moon, but perhaps the ancients got it right.

Yet, it’s not the cause.

“This article”:http://www.shirleys-wellness-cafe.com/autism-margo.pdf discusses the impact of environmental

issues on autistic children.