Remembered

Four years ago I worked for a family shadowing their autistic son in a private kindergarten, otherwise known as EHP an integrative school at the Pingree Center for Autism where I now work. Thankfully all those kids have graduated and moved on to higher grades, but occasionally I peek into my old classroom and wish to catch a glimpse of Miss Amy or Phillip or Olivia or Ryann or even my year’s sentence—Josh.

This morning while working in the preschool class that is composed only of children with autism I caught a break in the form of music group. We guided the kids to the library and at once a young girl brightly greeted us announcing, “I’m safe.”

I gave a curious toss of my head before returning my attention to the wild group I was in charge of. The young girl continued to bubble over with how cute a mom was dressed. It was a very literal assessment of the outfit, blunt and terrific.

“You have the cutest dangling earrings. And I just love that sweater, and your striped shirt and your shoes. You’re just the cutest with the cutest outfit. The only thing I don’t think is cute is your jeans, they look a little old [the faded jeans had some strategic rips],” exclaimed the girl.

As the mom looked at me and laughed with embarrassment I had a flash of memory. I knew this girl. She was the little girl in my kindergarten class with Josh. She had autism and having successfully graduated from the Pingree Center program advanced to a typical classroom. I remembered her quiet and withdrawn, wanting space, cringing at physical touch, insistent on doing things her own way. Not quite the young girl randomly striking up a frivolous conversation punctuated with hugs.

If that weren’t surprise enough I saw her with her mom later that day while shopping. Her mother prompted the young girl to say hi asking her if she remembered me.

“I was in Miss Amy’s class,” I offer, “with Josh.”

She looked at me again. A glimmer of recognition flashed across her face and in a knowing voice she said, “Was Josh’s autism this?” and turned a thumbs down sign to me.

“Yes,” I replied.

Josh had instinctively decided to hate me. It was before he knew who I was, his shadow there to push and prompt and guide him in social, academic and behavioral situations. During the first week I’d been instructed to act as a teacher’s aide and help all the children, not Josh specifically. He walked in the door and looked at me with spite. To him I was the age and size of the various tutors forcing him to go against his impulsive behaviors.

And so as his arch-nemesis he threw everything he had my way. In a three hours time period I pulled him from class four or five times. We’d hole up in the principal’s room or an empty four walled prison as he kicked, screamed, pulled his hair, threw objects, rammed his head into the chair, the wall and eventually my chest as I held him in restraint.

As his behaviors escalated so did our program. The façade dropped and I was clearly there to help Josh adjust. Some days it felt like a step in the right direction, and the next day we’d regress five. His mother would watch from a mirrored window. With tears running down her face she expressed her sorrow for putting me in such a position and her horror and his obvious regression.

One day it all became too much and Josh lashed out on me specifically. We’d built a violently vulnerable relationship where he knew I’d protect him no matter what, no matter how hard or far he pushed. And when the computer’s circuit fizzled and popped causing an outage so did Josh’s wiring. He swung hard and wild with complete accuracy, his small fist colliding with my jaw. My head snapped to the right. Just as quickly tears sprang to my eyes and flowed down my cheeks. As I grabbed his arm to take him to his “time-out” a mixture of fear, remorse and uncertainty clouded his face.

Sickened by his loss of understanding we sat in a window seat. We sat until my face no longer stung. We sat until he sobbed, then stopped, then sobbed again. We sat until I found the patience to explain what had happened to the computer and why he couldn’t hit people. We sat until we couldn’t sit anymore.

I knew that our time was limited after that. He no longer progressed as he should and I couldn’t help but feel that I was a significant part of the equation. He’d put me in the role of Mother, a caregiver who takes abuse. Within a month or two his own mother along with his consultant decided to pull him from school, releasing me of my duties.

“Yes, Alyssa,” I replied, “his autism was this.” I mimicked her gesture.

She smiled brightly and said, “My autism is this now.” Flipping her hand she gave me a thumbs up sign.

I smiled in agreement, content with the silent knowledge that Josh's autism is this now too.