Summoning a Rainbow

Reaching Steven would turn out to be more difficult than I initially thought.  Re-creating the conditions that connected our minds and allowed the transmission of vital information required my unlimited attention.  My mind had to be constantly probing, searching for the frequency that Steven was attuned to.  Sometimes, it was just too much for him, and he would retreat into his world of shifting sensations.  Novel and challenging tasks assaulted Steven with input that he could not automatically filter.  During these times, his rate of self-stimulatory behavior increased, and it was difficult to redirect him.  As though it was a puppet-master, Steven's autism controlled his body and attention, compelling him to flap his hands in front of his face, to crawl face first into the television cabinet, to line up his Thomas trains in the same order each time he was given access to them.  

It was a struggle each time we had to interrupt these behaviors to implement instruction, which suggested that he was aware he was engaging in them, and that to him these behaviors were purposeful.  Steven needed to engage in these behaviors, just as I needed to chew my fingernails.  The problem was that these behaviors impeded Steven's ability to learn, and they made him stand out for all the wrong reasons.  For example, when I began taking Steven to a nearby park on his gross motor breaks, people would approach to inform me that Steven attempted to lick the slide on his way down, or that he had managed to sneak in a taste of the sand in the sandbox.  "Is he....special?"  They would inquire.  Or worse, 'Is he retarded?"  My standard response became: "I'm just the babysitter."  I would take Steven by the hand and we would leave with as much integrity as we could muster.  

What if Steven understood the disdain or the pity that ran in the undercurrents of their voices as they questioned his behavior?  What if it hurt his feelings?  To this day, I cannot stand the word, "retarded".  It grates on my brain like peroxide on an open wound.  Moreover, what business was it of theirs, those who lived in their little cookie cutter worlds?  Steven was a child, and that was all that mattered to me.  

I mulled over the mysterious world I was to be forever enmeshed in as we drove home from the park one crisp November afternoon.  Steven was nearly asleep in my back seat, a circumstance that occurred rarely.  Usually, his body worked overtime until he nodded off in front of his favorite Thomas video.  I peeked at him in the rearview mirror and for the first time I realized that I had a talent, a gift.  My insight whispered to me as I worked with him each day.  It told me secrets.  These soft suggestions fluttered up into my consciousness and allowed me to find Steven and engage his brain in active learning more and more consistently.  I knew "why" Steven did things.  I also knew "why" he did not do other things.  

At first I thought this talent was not exclusive to me.  I had learned something, surely others could too.  But while the others studied behavior and analyzed data, I only had to listen to that soft voice that whispered to me about Steven.  Their efforts often resulted in tantrums or non-responding.  My efforts, driven by that whisper, more often resulted in active engagement, and learning.  Steven often responded to my instruction, my voice, my prosody, more consistently that his own mother's.  Of course there were a variety of behavioral explanations for why this was so.  

A thought went through me, one that changed my life forever.  Was this "my calling?"  Was I meant to work with children like Steven?  As a young college graduate seeking direction, I desperately sought enlightenment.  As these thoughts circulated in my restless mind, we rounded the last corner before reaching Steven's house.  Rising up beyond the marine mist that surrounded the coastal homes in Steven's neighborhood, confirmation of my thoughts glittered proudly in the sky.  As I gazed at the rainbow, my head accepted what my heart already knew:  I was The Autism Whisperer.