Recently I shared the story of our One Hit Wonder on the baseball field. Please read the story if you haven't already. (I mean now. Spoiler ahead!)
Read it yet?
Last warning. I'm going to totally spoil it now, and assume you know what I'm talking about.
OK, so after those boys flooded onto the baseball field, the coach said that he didn't think he could have stemmed the tide if he wanted to! Their joyful reaction was sponataneous and sincere. They were simply thrilled for their teammate's success, regardless of the fact that it didn't advance the score one bit. I have to give a lot of credit for this to the coaches' focused efforts to build a loving atmosphere of respect on the team. With just a few weeks of practices and games, just look at what was wrought! It was not just my son who benefitted in that situation, either. Practice in compassion and getting along with different people always reaps benefit, don't you think?
Last month another adult made the news for the way she used her power to shape the minds and character of young people in her charge, only this time they were impressionable kindergarteners... and the power was not used well. Kindergarten teacher Wendy Portillo was frustrated with Alex Barton, a child in her class who was in the process of being diagnosed with autism*. This is what she thought would be helpful: She encouraged each student to tell 5-year-old Alex what they did not like about him, and then led them to "vote" Alex out of class. Not only am I heartbroken for what happened to Alex in this atmosphere, but also for the children in his class. What a horrible lesson has been foisted upon them.
You can read more about Alex at Mommy Life, where Barbara has followed his story. Just search his name in her archives for more. More importantly, though, would you consider taking part in the "Alex is Special" effort she has organized to send love to this child? People from all over the world have showered this boy with cards affirming him. I'm a bit late to the party in spreading the word, but still did not want to neglect the opportunity. Barbara is collecting mail for Alex and forwarding it to him. She has been posting pictures of Alex opening his cards with updates from his mom.
While we're on the topic, think about the environments your children spend time in. What lessons are they learning about how to perceive and treat people who are different from them in ability, appearance or behaviors?
UPDATED TO ADD: Barbara has already sent her last care package to Alex. There will probably be more news of this case, though, as they are taking it to federal court.
* It's not my intent to discuss classroom inclusion here and now, but please do note that this child was only in the process of diagnosis. It does not sound likely that appropriate supports were in place.
Showing posts with label autism / differently abled children. Show all posts
Showing posts with label autism / differently abled children. Show all posts
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Saturday, June 7, 2008
My Boy of Summer
Something special happened last week. It was both overwhelmingly joyous and overwhelmingly sad for this Mommy, so if you sense the splash of my tears on the keyboard, just know it’s one of those. Happy... or sad... or probably both together. This story actually has many facets, and there are larger, related issues that will surely propel me into other posts, so... so... in a burst of creative brilliance, I’ll just weave all of that introduction together and call this...
Part One
As I mentioned yesterday, my eldest son has some disabilities. This spring, seemingly out of nowhere, he had the desire to play baseball on a team. This sudden interest in baseball was an eyebrow-raiser, met internally with cautious skepticism and mixed emotions, but he was so enthusiastic and eager to try it that we just had to consent.
He’s on a team of 11 and 12 year old boys, one of the three teams fielded as an outreach of an urban ministry here. A majority of the kids in this ministry’s programs live in the inner city. Many come from some tough situations at home, and some can be a little rough around the edges. (My older boys have spent the past two summers at day camp through this ministry, giving them the invaluable experience of being daily in an environment where they are the extreme minority race, but that’s a post for another day.)
Now, you might not think that this particular group of competitive 11 to 12 year-old boys would be prime soil for inclusion of a kid with significant differences in physical ability. The primary goals in this baseball program are a little different than most, though. They aim to create a loving atmosphere, in which respect for teammates, coaches, other teams, umpires and equipment is placed far above winning games in importance. They accept and support my son, valuing him for the things he does bring to the team, without begrudging him the one or two outs he adds to the tally each game.
Every player is guaranteed to get at least one turn per game at bat and out in the field. As the team hasn’t been doing so well, he often gets two or more turns. Seeing his differences (a coach steps up with him, for one), most opposing coaches opt to signal their pitchers to slow down. The resulting high lobs can actually be harder to hit than straight pitches -- Imagine yourself swinging at a ball a good foot above your head... There. See what I mean? -- but he’s not likely to get out of the way of any errant fast pitches, so we’re not protesting to change this anytime soon! In any case, as of last week, he hadn’t gotten a hit all season. Not even close.
At last week’s game, the team was having their best game of the season by far. It was going to be a one-turn night for my boy. As he got up to bat, we were narrowly hanging onto a lead, there were two runners on base, and two outs already. “Oh, no, Lord. I wish he wasn’t in this particular position...” I thought. “Wouldn’t it be amazing for him to experience getting a hit, even just once this year?” my heart added.
To be continued...
Part One
As I mentioned yesterday, my eldest son has some disabilities. This spring, seemingly out of nowhere, he had the desire to play baseball on a team. This sudden interest in baseball was an eyebrow-raiser, met internally with cautious skepticism and mixed emotions, but he was so enthusiastic and eager to try it that we just had to consent.
He’s on a team of 11 and 12 year old boys, one of the three teams fielded as an outreach of an urban ministry here. A majority of the kids in this ministry’s programs live in the inner city. Many come from some tough situations at home, and some can be a little rough around the edges. (My older boys have spent the past two summers at day camp through this ministry, giving them the invaluable experience of being daily in an environment where they are the extreme minority race, but that’s a post for another day.)
Now, you might not think that this particular group of competitive 11 to 12 year-old boys would be prime soil for inclusion of a kid with significant differences in physical ability. The primary goals in this baseball program are a little different than most, though. They aim to create a loving atmosphere, in which respect for teammates, coaches, other teams, umpires and equipment is placed far above winning games in importance. They accept and support my son, valuing him for the things he does bring to the team, without begrudging him the one or two outs he adds to the tally each game.
Every player is guaranteed to get at least one turn per game at bat and out in the field. As the team hasn’t been doing so well, he often gets two or more turns. Seeing his differences (a coach steps up with him, for one), most opposing coaches opt to signal their pitchers to slow down. The resulting high lobs can actually be harder to hit than straight pitches -- Imagine yourself swinging at a ball a good foot above your head... There. See what I mean? -- but he’s not likely to get out of the way of any errant fast pitches, so we’re not protesting to change this anytime soon! In any case, as of last week, he hadn’t gotten a hit all season. Not even close.
At last week’s game, the team was having their best game of the season by far. It was going to be a one-turn night for my boy. As he got up to bat, we were narrowly hanging onto a lead, there were two runners on base, and two outs already. “Oh, no, Lord. I wish he wasn’t in this particular position...” I thought. “Wouldn’t it be amazing for him to experience getting a hit, even just once this year?” my heart added.
To be continued...
One Hit Wonder
**This is part two of a story I began yesterday, here. You'll need to read it first!**
One high lob, with a swing and a miss. Another pitch sailed over the plate. A third pitch... and a hit. A HIT! Not a hard one—the ball got about two thirds of the way to the pitcher--- but he hit that thing squarely!
It took him a while to figure out that he needed to run, and he was easily out at first base, bringing the team's inning to a close. By the time he even reached the base, though, he was mobbed. The bench had emptied as every single player on his team spontaneously flooded onto the field in excitement to congratulate him! At some point while his teammates were stampeding first base, I somehow managed to turn on my camera’s video switch, then continued to watch it unfold in disbelief, too stunned to let the tears roll. With the swarm of jubilant boys behind and around him, he just continued running, away from first base, around the sideline fence, and behind the bleacher where I sat.
People in our bleachers were clapping, cheering, and even crying as they saw that hit and watched that bench empty of every last player. If the kids had been larger, you might have almost expected them to lift him up on their shoulders! It seemed the kind of glorious moment that comes at the end of a sappy underdog-hero movie. And it was. And it wasn’t.
His face seemed to bear the grin of a kid in the midst of a fun spectacle as he rounded the corner. In an instant, though, he turned toward the parking lot, and took off for the car, sobbing.
One thing common in kids on the spectrum is some difficulty in interpreting social cues, those unspoken signals in interaction that most people gather and understand without a thought. Talk about a social cue! You hit the ball, get confused about running, get an out at your base, and then turn around to see a mob of teammates rushing at you. Yes, I guess that would be pretty confusing! Whether it was a positive response or a negative one, he had certainly never seen anyone else given this much attention. He also has sensitivities regarding body space and light touch, and profoundly prefers not to be where he perceives to be “in the middle,” which undoubtedly came into play in the scene as well.
He was overwhelmed, embarrassed, and not even quite sure how to interpret it all, yet the truth of what the boys were communicating was clear to everyone else watching: pure, overwhelming, enthusiastic joy for their teammate's success! (At the next game, one of the boys even brought him a bakery cupcake in honor of his hit. The coach gave him the game ball.)
Out in the parking lot, the coaches tried for a few moments to help him calm down, and then I came over to do my part. I hugged him and congratulated him on his awesome hit, affirming that he had done well and done the right things out there, and I spoke the truth about the boys' motives and reaction. There would be need and time later for much more processing and delicate framing of reality. Crucial celebration and talk of the "Amazing! Awesome!" hit, for the wide-eyed little boy searching so desperately for genuine success, belonging, distinction and admiration. And simultaneously, for the pre-adolescent who is very intelligent beneath the layers, is aware, and must live in reality, talk of how, no, people weren't necessarily cheering because the hit was objectively "amazing", but because they recognize that he is different and that it's hard for him, and that people respect those who accomplish what is hard for them.
But all of that work would continue later. For right then, I helped him verbalize his feelings ("Yes, that WAS too much! Next time you get a great hit, they'll have to control themselves better, huh?" Wink.) and get himself together so that he could play it cool in front of his peers.
"Get back to your bench, Bud! You always encourage your teammates and keep them cheerful on the bench, " I said. "They need you."
One high lob, with a swing and a miss. Another pitch sailed over the plate. A third pitch... and a hit. A HIT! Not a hard one—the ball got about two thirds of the way to the pitcher--- but he hit that thing squarely!
It took him a while to figure out that he needed to run, and he was easily out at first base, bringing the team's inning to a close. By the time he even reached the base, though, he was mobbed. The bench had emptied as every single player on his team spontaneously flooded onto the field in excitement to congratulate him! At some point while his teammates were stampeding first base, I somehow managed to turn on my camera’s video switch, then continued to watch it unfold in disbelief, too stunned to let the tears roll. With the swarm of jubilant boys behind and around him, he just continued running, away from first base, around the sideline fence, and behind the bleacher where I sat.
People in our bleachers were clapping, cheering, and even crying as they saw that hit and watched that bench empty of every last player. If the kids had been larger, you might have almost expected them to lift him up on their shoulders! It seemed the kind of glorious moment that comes at the end of a sappy underdog-hero movie. And it was. And it wasn’t.
His face seemed to bear the grin of a kid in the midst of a fun spectacle as he rounded the corner. In an instant, though, he turned toward the parking lot, and took off for the car, sobbing.
One thing common in kids on the spectrum is some difficulty in interpreting social cues, those unspoken signals in interaction that most people gather and understand without a thought. Talk about a social cue! You hit the ball, get confused about running, get an out at your base, and then turn around to see a mob of teammates rushing at you. Yes, I guess that would be pretty confusing! Whether it was a positive response or a negative one, he had certainly never seen anyone else given this much attention. He also has sensitivities regarding body space and light touch, and profoundly prefers not to be where he perceives to be “in the middle,” which undoubtedly came into play in the scene as well.
He was overwhelmed, embarrassed, and not even quite sure how to interpret it all, yet the truth of what the boys were communicating was clear to everyone else watching: pure, overwhelming, enthusiastic joy for their teammate's success! (At the next game, one of the boys even brought him a bakery cupcake in honor of his hit. The coach gave him the game ball.)
Out in the parking lot, the coaches tried for a few moments to help him calm down, and then I came over to do my part. I hugged him and congratulated him on his awesome hit, affirming that he had done well and done the right things out there, and I spoke the truth about the boys' motives and reaction. There would be need and time later for much more processing and delicate framing of reality. Crucial celebration and talk of the "Amazing! Awesome!" hit, for the wide-eyed little boy searching so desperately for genuine success, belonging, distinction and admiration. And simultaneously, for the pre-adolescent who is very intelligent beneath the layers, is aware, and must live in reality, talk of how, no, people weren't necessarily cheering because the hit was objectively "amazing", but because they recognize that he is different and that it's hard for him, and that people respect those who accomplish what is hard for them.
But all of that work would continue later. For right then, I helped him verbalize his feelings ("Yes, that WAS too much! Next time you get a great hit, they'll have to control themselves better, huh?" Wink.) and get himself together so that he could play it cool in front of his peers.
"Get back to your bench, Bud! You always encourage your teammates and keep them cheerful on the bench, " I said. "They need you."
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