英语小故事—A Friendly Reminder

A Friendly Reminder

In life you have a choice: Bitter or Better? Choose better, forget bitter.

I’ve become accustomed to stares. Strange looks because of the strange sounds my son makes.

Jerky movements and high-pitched squeals draw looks of curiosity, sometimes censure, and

worst of all, pity. Yes, autism tutored me well in the ways of self-consciousness, and then taught

me to ignore it all.

Public places have been difficult minefields for my family to negotiate ever since Myles was

diagnosed with autism at the age of two. He had quickly deteriorated from a bright, vibrant,

ever-learning toddler, to a vacant-stared, silent child who seemed frozen in some alternative

universe completely inaccessible to us. The strange behaviors were challenging but created some

situations that make me laugh . . . in hindsight. Way hind.

Like the time at the park fountains when Myles ran naked through the water. Kids do the

darndest things, right? Did I mention he was nine years old at the time?

Or the time he came downstairs to greet the friends we’d invited over for dinner . . . without any

clothes on. Did I mention he was ten years old? Ah, the naked years.

Some incidents, though, even in the rearview mirror, will never make me laugh. One time, I had

gotten up the courage to take Myles out to Golden Corral without my husband. Restaurants mean

a lot of people and a lot of noise — two things that often spell sensory overload for my son. First

came the screeching. Then the banging on his chest, which devolved into banging on the table.

With my nerves stretched paper thin, I noticed a sweet old lady ambling my way. I prepared my

“thanks, but no thanks” to the offer of assistance I was sure she was about to make.

“Can you keep him quiet?” she snapped. “I’m trying to eat! Is he on medication or anything? He

should be!”

I held my tongue out of respect for my elders. I apologized if Myles had disturbed her meal, and

with as much dignity as I could, hightailed it out of there. I didn’t bother to look around for

compassion or concern or more of what the old lady had given me. I had to escape the weight of

the eyes around us. It was humiliating and disheartening.

After that incident, and others like it, I built a wall around my heart, a shell to protect my most

vulnerable, tender parts from other people’s opinions about my family. About my son. It hurt too

much when they didn’t understand, so I told myself it didn’t matter. And really, in the larger

scheme of things, it didn’t. I still had the great privilege of raising this very special child. I still saw

things in him only a mother would discern. I still felt compelled every morning to create a better

reality for him, to imagine the best future I possibly could for him.

It didn’t matter what anyone thought, but I had lost something. I no longer gave people the

benefit of the doubt. I stopped giving them the chance to be compassionate, stopped looking for

the opportunity to help them understand. I assumed the worst about them, and in many ways

that was as bad as what that old lady had done to me that day.

So when I found myself back at Golden Corral with my son, who started screeching and banging

the table again, I looked up with wary eyes at the middle-aged woman approaching. Her face was

perfectly serene as she assessed the situation at the table with my son, my husband, and me. I

readied my comeback. This was no little old lady, and if she had a complaint about my son’s

behavior, I was prepared to pull the trigger and give her the piece of my mind I had held onto

before.

“Hi, how are you doing?” she asked, her tone kind, her eyes steady.

“I’m fine,” I said curtly, furrowing my brow as a clear warning to her that she did not want to

mess with me.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking,” she continued. “But does your son have autism?”

If I had a dollar for every time some perfect stranger had used that as their opening line to advise

me on how to raise my kid, I’d be a rich woman and probably wouldn’t be eating at Golden

Corral.

I flicked a glance at my husband as he soothed my son, who was now less agitated, but still

humming and rocking a little. I raised my brow at him, using my highly-developed nonverbals to

say, “Here goes another one.”

“Yeah, he has autism,” I replied to the lady, who was waiting patiently.

“Well, I raised a child with autism,” she began.

Great. Now she really felt like she could tell me how to raise my kid. The only thing worse than a

clueless person telling you how to raise your special needs child, is someone who does know the

deal telling you you’re doing it all wrong.

“I know you don’t know me, but my name is Pam,” she said, reaching to touch Myles’ shoulder.

“Like I said, I raised a child with autism, my stepson, and if you ever need any help, please call

me.”

I looked at the hand she extended, holding a slip of paper with her name and number scribbled

on it.

“I can offer references,” she said into the silence. “My pastor. I also drive a bus for the public

school system. There are several people who could vouch for me, if you ever want me to watch

him for you. Give you guys a break.”

My husband offered her a friendly, grateful smile. I couldn’t speak for the lump clogging my

throat. The smile she directed at me barreled through the walls I had erected. The pure

compassion of her offer bulldozed my defenses. I blinked stubbornly at the tears threatening to

spill over.

“I-I-don’t-” I stammered, swiping at the renegade tear that had escaped and streaked its way

down my cheek.

“It’s hard,” she cut in, saving me from blubbering. “I know how hard it is sometimes, and if you

ever need help, please call me.”

“Thank you,” I managed to whisper.

“Call me,” she reiterated, smiling at my husband and me, and saving a special, knowing grin for

Myles before walking away.

I did call her, and she became as close as family. She often babysits for free. She had a lot to teach

not only Myles, but to teach me. Lessons I couldn’t have unearthed in any book, or at any

seminar or conference. My experience with her became a master class on the depth and breadth

of kindness. Humanity at its best, unfettered by selfish motives, unhampered by agenda.

Kindness of the simplest and purest variety.

Somewhere along the way, under the weight of curious stares in restaurants, impatient looks in

grocery stores, and horrified silences in too many places to name, I had forgotten what kindness

looked like. How it felt brushing up against my cynicism. How it softened my world-weary edges.

Pam helped me remember that it was worth taking the time to teach people about autism,

because people enlightened about the challenges and rewards of autism are kinder. They are part

of a better future for my son. These are the people who will have the chance to accept, to

understand and appreciate a generation of kids like Myles.

I can huddle behind my old hurts, burrow into my self-pity, or I can engage. I can teach. I can

learn. She reminded me that day, and a dozen times in a dozen ways thereafter. And for that, I am

forever grateful.