In his book The Painted Bird, Jerzy Kosinski tells the story of a man who took a bird and painted it several colors. Then he released the bird to fly with of a flock of its kin. Later the man comes upon the bird laying dead in the field, ripped to shreds. Instead of recognizing it as one of their own, the other birds tore at the painted bird until it fell from the sky.My youngest son was born a painted bird, but you wouldn't know by looking at him. He's beautiful--a cloud of dark curly hair, big blue eyes and smile that could take over for the Hoover Dam if the energy demands of Southern California are ever too much and it gives out. He's smart--he can fix just about anything, knows more about computers than just anyone I've met, he reads constantly and rarely a day goes by that I don't learn something from him.
We called him "Blythe Angel" when he was little because he was so other worldly. Way out there. We knew he was different, but that was cool because all our boys are individuals. It wasn't until he got into school that we realized there was more to his disconnectedness than just a quirk of personality. From the start, he stood apart. Kids are quick to recognize their own and he wasn't one. He was always alone, although it didn't seem to bother him. Teachers started complaining about him, started expressing their alarm, and finally expressing their aversion to him. I dreaded seeing the school phone pop up on my caller ID or an e-mail from a teacher. It was never good news.
He was in second grade before we figured out what paint Nature had used to make him so different. It was called Aspergers. Chazz and I took him to therapy, put him in scouts, enrolled him in sports--hoping that something would click and he'd be One of Them. That he'd have friends who would call him.Girls that would crush on him. Instead, kids either treated him like he was invisible or were cruel. One little bitch at swimming lessons eyed him warily before dismissing him loudly: "Weirdo!"
My painted bird never seemed to notice. The private school did and they basicallly kicked him out in 5th grade, telling us "We've never had a student with Aspergers before." (Bullshit. I had gone to that school myself and know now there were at least 2 Aspergers students when I was there. We just thought they were weird. Come to think of it, neither one lasted beyond 6th grade.)
The public grade school was an godsend. He had one blessed year with a teacher who saw all of her students, paint and all, as kin. It was a good year. He had friends. He rode his bike every day. He was happy. He won all kinds of awards at the end of that year.
Then came middle school. His friends either went to other schools or moved away. He was alone again and the e-mails and complaints started up from teachers. He was frustrated and unhappy and it began to come out in class. One teacher, unable to figure out how to deal with him, put him in a closet. His awareness of wanting to belong was starting to kick in. He played football and joined the band, playing the clarinet. Football went OK for him, although he had no aptitude for it. Band was a different story. While he was a fairly proficient musician, the band director took an almost instant dislike to him. He played out of turn, or played someone else's part. I got call after call after call complaining about him. The band director did everything she could to dissuade me letting him sign up for band that next year. But he liked band and he wound up winning two first place medals in the solo competition that year. So he stayed and played and went on to marching band his first year of high school. I remembered what nerds the band kids were when I was in school and figured he'd find a home, a community with kids as different as he was.
I couldn't have been more wrong. Marching Band has become serious business in high schools these days and the competitions among area schools are fierce. It became clear at band camp before the start of his freshman year, that he wasn't going to be able to master the complexities of on-field marching and playing at the same time. They didn't kick him out, but they didn't let him play either. The band director put him down on the sidelines and gave him this stupid leather pad and some drum sticks and had him bang on those. I went to every game, and the indignity of having my son treated like some pathetic token retard was almost too much to bear. But Ash didn't see it that way. If that's what it took for him to feel like he was a part of things, then he wanted to do it. So while the other band kids were having a ball in the stands, playing the fight songs, doing the dances, laughing it up, jostling each other, my painted bird was down on sideline, by himself, sometimes beating on that faux drum but mostly staring into space. Even though he was in the same uniform as the rest of the band, he wasn't one of them.
At the beginning of this year, the school district stopped putting "Aspergers" as the diagnosis on Ash's education plan. Now every kid in the whole autism spectrum, from the nonverbal headbangers to the kids who are smart but just socially clueless like Ash, were just dumped in to one big pot called Austism. I can only imagine the fear and loathing his teachers felt when they saw they were getting an autistic student. Aspergers was at least a quirky name--characters on TV--Abed on Community, Sheldon on Big Bang Theory, all are Aspergers and they're pretty great. Austistic conjures up the unreachable, the uncontrollable person. Someone who shits their pants and screams.
I went to open house this year, as I always do, to meet the teachers. While I don't cry anymore like I used to on the way home from such meetings, I always feel weary and disheartened that I have another year of new teachers who just don't want my son in their class. I think they'd rather have a smart-mouthed, disruptive asshole than a kid who makes mewing noises sometimes and who blanks when you talk to him. To be fair, not all of them are like this. He's had the good fortune to have some teachers who see through the quirks, who let him be who he is, who let him shine. But the others... his Computer Science teacher this year from the first day had no patience with him, loathed and feared him. She complained incessantly to Chazz (who unfortunately teaches not only on the same floor,but right next door to this person). Even Ash said "I think she's trying to push me out of the classroom. I don't think she likes me." After 3 terrible weeks, we took him out and installed him in the only class available at that timeslot: Theater. The teacher sent me a note, told me how glad she was to have him and that she "would love him with all of [her] heart."
One teacher though, disturbed me more than any of the other. She's the reason I'm writing this. She is the Business Information Systems teacher--computers, which is Ash's strong suit. I thought he'd do well in this class and so I didn't dread meeting his teacher.
She was warm and pretty. About my age. Spoke sweetly enough about Ash but then I got a sense that this was one of those do-gooder types, who recognize a painted bird and pity it and want you to know just how wonderful she is because she does that. I could feel my smile fade as she described what she doing to "help" him. On the first day of class, she sent Ash out of the classroom on some bogus errand so she could talk to the class about him. She told them that he was autistic and no one was to make fun of him. She said the class understood and a couple of kids had volunteered to sit next to him to explain things when he got confused. I know she was well-meaning, but that one broad stroke, she painted Ash as surely as that farmer in Kosinkski's book.
She seemed a little confused when I didn't gush about how wonderful I thought this was, or wipe away a tear of gratitude for her magnanimous gesture. She went on to say in a knowing confidential tone, "I have a disabled child myself, so I know what you're going through." I bit my tongue but what I wanted to say was, You stupid bitch. He's not disabled. He's smart. He could probably teach you a thing or two. All I want is for him to be known as himself. But you set him up as the class retard, a creature to tolerated and pitied. Not accepted. And certainly not befriended.
The Painted Bird was one of the roughest books I ever read. It still haunts me--even moreso now that I can apply it to someone I love so much. The book had a happy ending. I hope I live long enough to Ash to have the same.
