(no subject)
A curious effect of H's autism is the moment in which he will pay absolute attention to you. Contentedly spacing out and stimming all throughout Mr. Truant's talk on ones, tens, and hundreds, he tuned back in immediately when Mr. Truant mentioned that their gym teacher Ms. C would not be in all week due to an injury. Apparently she fell off a razor scooter and onto her face, knocking out teeth and slicing up skin. H said, "There was an accident?" in his unique immature drawl for which I have found no true modifiers. Turning directly to me, his eyes magnified by his glasses, "Is she dead?" His voice much less a question, recognizing the assumed gravity of such a question, a question no other 2nd grader would ask outright.
Sometimes when he's not focusing, I worry. We've got to get something done. This is school. This is primary school. Something must get done this hour. But then I relax. My job is to shadow H, a job description that I only rarely enact. I sit back and watch H ignore a short lecture on techniques to draw landscapes. I sit back and watch H ignore a short lesson on writing letters to friends. During these times, I think of what a waste this time is, how H should be in a place that has no wasteful time like this: where the teacher is teaching to everyone but him. I can pull him out of the classroom and teach to him one on one, but in effect I would be doing so all day. Am I his teacher? No, and yes.
At lunch, even though it's not raining we sit inside and H leafs through picture books. He has a thing with puddles. He can't stay away from them. I don't mind because looking at books, even if he doesn't read the words, is still a more conventional way to imbibe the world than ripping up grass and bouncing it on a leg. Secretly, this is my favorite time. The mental massage that results from watching others concentrate is intense when I sit with H reading. My brain, literally tingling, can tell he's really tuning in to the pictures and every once and awhile some words to name his enthusiasm, like, Tow Truck, or Dragonfly.
The 3rd grade teacher, who has been recently making a noticeable effort to be more fashionable and youthful-looking, still hates children, especially those with psychological disorders. "You must have the patience of a saint," she said to me on the way to lunch, right in front of her line of 3rd graders. "No." And no I don't. H himself requires no patience. He is sweet and curious, and not interested in writing or doing math. The only patience I need is when I pile my expectations upon him. H, stop humming in the middle of a lesson. H, look at the paper, look at your paper, look at your words, right here. When I am truly patient it's because I have no expectations, and we end up being more productive sometimes as a result. A relaxed mind can find alternatives to getting H's attention. Some aspect of the lesson that appeals to him. Some quirky and tempered manner in gaining his attendance.
And the strangest part is that since I am not a teacher, as I sit there with H and the other kids, eating a snack of my own at snack recess, 2nd and 3rd graders flopping past us talking as if I weren't there, I think, I am in the 2nd grade. And I look at H ignoring me and here is my friend.
Sometimes when he's not focusing, I worry. We've got to get something done. This is school. This is primary school. Something must get done this hour. But then I relax. My job is to shadow H, a job description that I only rarely enact. I sit back and watch H ignore a short lecture on techniques to draw landscapes. I sit back and watch H ignore a short lesson on writing letters to friends. During these times, I think of what a waste this time is, how H should be in a place that has no wasteful time like this: where the teacher is teaching to everyone but him. I can pull him out of the classroom and teach to him one on one, but in effect I would be doing so all day. Am I his teacher? No, and yes.
At lunch, even though it's not raining we sit inside and H leafs through picture books. He has a thing with puddles. He can't stay away from them. I don't mind because looking at books, even if he doesn't read the words, is still a more conventional way to imbibe the world than ripping up grass and bouncing it on a leg. Secretly, this is my favorite time. The mental massage that results from watching others concentrate is intense when I sit with H reading. My brain, literally tingling, can tell he's really tuning in to the pictures and every once and awhile some words to name his enthusiasm, like, Tow Truck, or Dragonfly.
The 3rd grade teacher, who has been recently making a noticeable effort to be more fashionable and youthful-looking, still hates children, especially those with psychological disorders. "You must have the patience of a saint," she said to me on the way to lunch, right in front of her line of 3rd graders. "No." And no I don't. H himself requires no patience. He is sweet and curious, and not interested in writing or doing math. The only patience I need is when I pile my expectations upon him. H, stop humming in the middle of a lesson. H, look at the paper, look at your paper, look at your words, right here. When I am truly patient it's because I have no expectations, and we end up being more productive sometimes as a result. A relaxed mind can find alternatives to getting H's attention. Some aspect of the lesson that appeals to him. Some quirky and tempered manner in gaining his attendance.
And the strangest part is that since I am not a teacher, as I sit there with H and the other kids, eating a snack of my own at snack recess, 2nd and 3rd graders flopping past us talking as if I weren't there, I think, I am in the 2nd grade. And I look at H ignoring me and here is my friend.