Blog from the Middle Spectrum # 4
“Days of Plenty”
When my mom found out I was autistic, her life changed forever. She was relieved that she finally had a name to give my behavior, but at the same time, scared. She didn't know if I would ever talk, or be able to live on my own. But she was going to raise me and love me, no matter what. She was going to not feel sorry for me, or for herself, and do what she could to help me.
Parents sometime get stuck in the 'oh my lord my child is disabled' thing. They think that since their child is autistic or of the Middle Spectrum, then they don't have to work as hard or don't have the ability to live normally in the first place. That’s not true. You can either set up your child for failure or success. It’s all in how you think and how you work with what you’re given. My mom was positive and patient with me. She thought of my autisim as a place to start, a place to begin my treatment. She was afraid, but she didn’t show it.
Parents, you cannot give up on your child if they have autisim or are of the Middle Spectrum. You can’t say, “Well since they have this so and so disability, they won’t be able to succeed.” This is my wake up call to all you parents who are doing this. Get out of your own self-pity and work with your child, their teachers, their doctors. You can get through this, and your child will live up to the best of his or her abilities. I promise. If you try your child will try.
A few days ago I was in musical auditions for “Little Women” at my high school, and we were learning an excerpt from the song “Days of Plenty”. We began singing it, and tears came to my eyes. In the show Jo, one of the sisters, is asking her mother why she doesn’t seem to be grieving over their sister, Beth’s death. The mother turns to her, and the song is her reply.
But reading the lyrics, I figured out the song was not sad. It was a song of hope, a song of meaning. The words made me think of my mother, who is a pillar of strength for my family and me. This song finally made me realize and think about how she must’ve felt when she found out I was autistic. The first lyrics are, “But I refuse to feel tragic. I am aching for more than pain and grief. There has got to be meaning, most of all when a life has been so brief. I have got to learn something, how can I give her any less?” This describes how my mother is to a T. She never, ever felt tragic for my plight and never felt sorry for her or myself. She just wanted to love me, and give me the best of everything. The lyrics I learned continues, “I want life, to go on. I want days of plenty. You have to believe, there is reason for hope.”
That’s all of the song I learned, but it was enough to make me understand how my mother felt. I got up in front for auditions, and I sang with all my power and emotion. I stepped into my mother’s shoes, and I tried to tap into how she felt.
Below are the lyrics I sang, and a link to the song. If you want to listen, please do, and leave a comment. My lesson to all of you parents is to NOT give up on your child, ever. You never know what they can accomplish, as long as you believe in them. Please, believe in your child.
My mother believed in me, and look where I am now.
My excerpt of Days of Plenty
But I refused to feel tragic,
I am aching for more than pain and grief.
There has got to be meaning,
Most of all when a life has been so brief.
I have got to learn something,
How can I give her any less?
I want life to go on.
I want Days of Plenty
You have to Believe,
There is reason for Hope.
Link to Song:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kLRSW4QqMJA
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Blog from the Middle Spectrum #3
Blog from the Middle Spectrum #3:
“Abnormal” in the Spotlight
I sit up in bed, the tingle of excitement spreading throughout my body. I almost drop the book in my hand, but I refrain. My heart beats faster, and the smile grows wider on my face. The book that was in danger of falling has given me one of the greatest answers I have ever discovered in my life. I turn my eyes back to what I was reading:
“Van Gogh’s art became bright and brilliant after he was admitted to an asylum. The onset of epilepsy may explain his switch from dull to extremely bright colors. Seizures changed his perception. The swirls in the sky in his painting “Starry Night” are similar to the sensory distortions that some people with autism have. Autistics with severe sensory processing problems see the edge of objects vibrate and get jumbled sensory input. These are not hallucinations but perceptual distortion…” (Grandin 214)
Two years ago I started writing a play called “Beautiful Insanity”. One of my main characters is named Vincent, and he is a painter in an insane asylum. I loosely based him off of Vincent Van Gogh. During the time when I was writing the show I was doing all sorts of research on Van Gogh. I became an expert on his life. I read biographies on him, looked at his pictures online, and recorded any History Channel programs on him. In every single resource I had looked into I had found different reasons for why he was ‘crazy’. One said it was because of his lead based paint. Another said it was because of the medicine they gave him at the asylum. And yet another mentioned him having syphilis, and that making him go mad. None of those reasons settled right with me. Van Gogh had been an ‘odd’ child when he was younger. His mother mentioned him going off in the fields by himself for hours. He was a loner and not of average intelligence, while his brother Leo, was brilliant and made a living off of being an art dealer. Also Van Gogh was not good socially, though he did have one true love in his life. None of the reasons mentioned in these sources made sense. After I finished writing my show I stopped doing research, but if I found something interesting on Van Gogh just out of the blue, I always looked into it.
Now, out of nowhere, I had found an answer. I felt like I had discovered a great scientific fact. But that was not the case, though it is a curious find. I thought of it again, and I laughed to myself.
Van Gogh was autistic.
I leapt out of bed and bolted upstairs to tell my mother. I had finally figured out why I felt like I knew Van Gogh so well. I understood, at last, why I was interested in and could connect with Vincent. He was autistic, my friend, my brother in mind.
There are more out there, not just Van Gogh, who are autistic and we didn’t figure it out. Einstein was probably autistic. TS Eliot was said to be autistic. Even Earnest Hemmingway had odd qualities that would be classified as autistic. All of these men are brilliant, and all were said to be strange. No one could figure out why, but researchers have now. These gifted, brilliant people were on the autism spectrum. It is a blessing in a way, that back then, no one knew what autism was. If that were the case, these people would’ve been known for their autism, not for the beautiful things they created or found. No, instead, they are considered eccentric geniuses.
It is said that genius is an abnormality, but a great one. And that makes perfect sense. Most gifted people, though not autistic, have a hard time socializing and thinking outside their own world. They have the same gifts as an autistic savant, like having amazing memory or being really good at calculations. These things are not normal, but “abnormal”. It is sad, how some see that as a negative. Is being abnormal, being a little bit odd, a bad thing?
I remember a girl in my fourth grade class. She was one of the more popular kids, a queen bee. She was pretty, and surprisingly smart, for a fourth grader. Everyone thought she was special. She hated me though, and she made sure it wasn’t a secret. She would walk by me, and stick her nose up, like I was a disease and she didn’t want to catch it. She would tell me she was smart, making sure I knew it, and that she was perfectly appropriate in her actions. She was cool, not ‘weird’ and ‘off’ like I was.
Like I said, genius is an abnormality that is related to autism. Who knew that me, that smart girl, Einstein, and Van Gogh had so much in common? I guess we all caught the disease, no matter how much she tried not to catch it.
“Abnormal” in the Spotlight
I sit up in bed, the tingle of excitement spreading throughout my body. I almost drop the book in my hand, but I refrain. My heart beats faster, and the smile grows wider on my face. The book that was in danger of falling has given me one of the greatest answers I have ever discovered in my life. I turn my eyes back to what I was reading:
“Van Gogh’s art became bright and brilliant after he was admitted to an asylum. The onset of epilepsy may explain his switch from dull to extremely bright colors. Seizures changed his perception. The swirls in the sky in his painting “Starry Night” are similar to the sensory distortions that some people with autism have. Autistics with severe sensory processing problems see the edge of objects vibrate and get jumbled sensory input. These are not hallucinations but perceptual distortion…” (Grandin 214)
Two years ago I started writing a play called “Beautiful Insanity”. One of my main characters is named Vincent, and he is a painter in an insane asylum. I loosely based him off of Vincent Van Gogh. During the time when I was writing the show I was doing all sorts of research on Van Gogh. I became an expert on his life. I read biographies on him, looked at his pictures online, and recorded any History Channel programs on him. In every single resource I had looked into I had found different reasons for why he was ‘crazy’. One said it was because of his lead based paint. Another said it was because of the medicine they gave him at the asylum. And yet another mentioned him having syphilis, and that making him go mad. None of those reasons settled right with me. Van Gogh had been an ‘odd’ child when he was younger. His mother mentioned him going off in the fields by himself for hours. He was a loner and not of average intelligence, while his brother Leo, was brilliant and made a living off of being an art dealer. Also Van Gogh was not good socially, though he did have one true love in his life. None of the reasons mentioned in these sources made sense. After I finished writing my show I stopped doing research, but if I found something interesting on Van Gogh just out of the blue, I always looked into it.
Now, out of nowhere, I had found an answer. I felt like I had discovered a great scientific fact. But that was not the case, though it is a curious find. I thought of it again, and I laughed to myself.
Van Gogh was autistic.
I leapt out of bed and bolted upstairs to tell my mother. I had finally figured out why I felt like I knew Van Gogh so well. I understood, at last, why I was interested in and could connect with Vincent. He was autistic, my friend, my brother in mind.
There are more out there, not just Van Gogh, who are autistic and we didn’t figure it out. Einstein was probably autistic. TS Eliot was said to be autistic. Even Earnest Hemmingway had odd qualities that would be classified as autistic. All of these men are brilliant, and all were said to be strange. No one could figure out why, but researchers have now. These gifted, brilliant people were on the autism spectrum. It is a blessing in a way, that back then, no one knew what autism was. If that were the case, these people would’ve been known for their autism, not for the beautiful things they created or found. No, instead, they are considered eccentric geniuses.
It is said that genius is an abnormality, but a great one. And that makes perfect sense. Most gifted people, though not autistic, have a hard time socializing and thinking outside their own world. They have the same gifts as an autistic savant, like having amazing memory or being really good at calculations. These things are not normal, but “abnormal”. It is sad, how some see that as a negative. Is being abnormal, being a little bit odd, a bad thing?
I remember a girl in my fourth grade class. She was one of the more popular kids, a queen bee. She was pretty, and surprisingly smart, for a fourth grader. Everyone thought she was special. She hated me though, and she made sure it wasn’t a secret. She would walk by me, and stick her nose up, like I was a disease and she didn’t want to catch it. She would tell me she was smart, making sure I knew it, and that she was perfectly appropriate in her actions. She was cool, not ‘weird’ and ‘off’ like I was.
Like I said, genius is an abnormality that is related to autism. Who knew that me, that smart girl, Einstein, and Van Gogh had so much in common? I guess we all caught the disease, no matter how much she tried not to catch it.
Friday, August 6, 2010
True Story from the Middle Spectrum #2
True Story from the Middle Spectrum #2:
It’s a God Thing
As you all know, a month and a half ago, I went to see Michael Buble. What no one knows, is that to see Michael, I had to make a decision between going to see him, and going to see Scott MacIntyre. Well, obviously, we all know the choice I made: to see Michael.
I won’t lie, I really, really wanted to go see Scott, and it broke my heart that I couldn’t go. So after I saw Michael on June 25th, and then Adam Lambert on July 16th, I thought, “Well, my summer concerts are done.” And I assumed that was that.
First off, let’s do some back up on Scott. I have loved Scott MacIntyre since I first heard him on American Idol a year ago. I remember watching him at his audition, wearing a “Never Mind the Gap” t-shirt, and thinking he was great. And he was. You don’t get to the top ten in that show because you suck. Well, sadly, he came in, in 8th place and I cried that evening, hearing that Simon refused to save him in the competition. I remember going out into the garage where Mom was talking on her cell, tears rolling down my face, and her saying, “Ah honey, he didn’t make it in?”
That was the part where I nodded, went on a tirade about how Simon and America’s voters were stupid, and proceeded to go onto Facebook to rant. Pretty much was a bad a night for me. So, now you can tell, I’ve loved his guy for a long time and it hurt me that I wouldn’t get to go to his concert.
Of course, that was before Monday came around. It was around six forty in the evening, David was just coming home, and we were about to go to life group. Minutes later he came in, and while saying hi to Mom, calmly handed me tickets. I looked down to see the words: Scott MacIntyre. That was all I needed to burst out into screams, and collide into David for a hug. I could tell, this was going to be an awesome week.
I spent the next three days with my grandparents (and had a blast). At last, Thursday came along, and I spent two hours getting ready for the show. I actually had to leave early though, because Temple Grandin was giving a talk at the Barnes and Noble on the East Side, and that was at four. So it was actually one o’clock when I was getting ready. I put on a black, white, and red patterned dress I got from a friend of Grandma Jackie’s, a necklace and earring set of vintage jewelry, and a black purse with matching flip flops. I had done my makeup, and Grandma Reed curled my hair and pulled it back. All in all, I looked pretty good.
Well when I met my Mom at Barnes and Noble, we quickly found out that Temple Grandin wasn’t doing a talk… she was doing a book signing. So we bought her new book, had her sign it, and then left the store with—oh—three hours to now kill.
We hung around at Towne East for a while, and I actually found two prom dresses (both of them over 100 dollars originally) and bought them both for 32 dollars since there was a sale going on. Before that we had grabbed Subway, and after checking out a few stores, we left to go to Old Towne were the Orpheum was. We then shopped around at Lucinda’s, and after waiting a bit longer, it was time to go to the Orpheum. The hour: 7:00.
We meet Grandma and Grandpa up there, and I latch onto Grandma while Grandpa and Mom hang around Old Town. Gram and I walk into the Orpheum and decide it’s time to get our first order of business done: getting less crappy seats.
Now, first off, you have to understand that David didn’t pay for these tickets. A friend of his won them on the radio, asked around if someone wanted to go, and David snatched them up for me. The seats we had, all though free, were in the back of the balcony. And does anyone want to sit there? NO.
So I found a nice looking usher, about Gram’s age, and said, “Excuse me, sir!”
He looked at us with a smile and said, “What can I do for you?”
And I replied, “Well, you see, my dad got these tickets off a friend who won them in a contest on the radio. Now, these seats are all the way up in the balcony, and I don’t want my Grandma having to walk up there with her heart issues.” (And by the way, I’m not completely making these up… she did have a heart attack last year.)
So the usher looked at me, and then looked back at her, and said, “Here, we’ll get this figured out for you.” Thus he turned to another co-worker and called, “Rhonda!”
Soon this nice woman comes out, and says, “What can I do for you?”
And he answers, “Well, this young lady and her granny are trying to get better seats. She doesn’t want her walking up all these stairs.”
So Rhonda (the woman) says, “OH! Well we have empty floor seats. I’ll get you guys there.”
Soon we’re in row Q, and on cloud nine. We both think, well, it can’t get any better than this! I go up later, get my Gram some popcorn and water, and then come up. Things are good, when all of a sudden; a woman from the audience walks up to us.
“Hey, do you guys want to get closer?” She asked.
“Sure.” I said.
“Well here you go, here’s third row tickets!”
I look at her, my mouth hanging open. Exsqueeze me? Was she messing with me?
“Are you kidding?” I asked, utterly shocked.
“No! Honestly, here you go.” And she hands me the tickets and walks away. Can you say, SCORE!
So now, we’re in row C and I’m feeling like the luckiest gal alive. I remember how something like this happened during the Michael concert, and I was moved down to row three directly stage left. Three must be my lucky number because lightning struck twice for me.
Finally the opening act, The Acrocsticks, began their set. They were pretty good to my surprise. I don’t like country, but their harmonies and musicality really impressed me, so I definitely had to give them props. They sung “Hallelujah”, a song one of the band members wrote, and “American Honey”. It was a great way to kick off the evening.
At last, Tracy (a host of B98 FM) announced Scott’s performance… and I about passed out. Everyone clapped for him, and I gave a slight squeal. He was lead on by a woman towards a piano in the middle of the stage. He was so, so handsome. He was wearing jeans, a purple shirt, and this HOT leather jacket. What a rockstar…
During the whole performance he played his piano, and he sang beautifully. Seeing him on TV gave him no justice. The songs (most of them he wrote) were well done and he was pitch perfect. And remember guys, Scott’s blind. Imagine sitting in the audience, watching a blind guy play the piano perfectly. It utterly astounded me how wonderful he was.
There was an intermission after he played about eight songs, and I waited excitedly for the second act. Before he would begin to sing his second set, we were allowed to ask him questions. It was like an audience Q and A thing. We would have a microphone to ask the question in, and he would answer it on stage. I all ready had my question in mind, and I was rearing to get it out in the open.
Finally the woman led Scott back on stage, and we all cheered. He stood a little ways from the piano, and then the Q and A began. I walked over to one of the microphone people (her name was Erica) and stood next to her.
“I’m so nervous.” I confessed to her, “I’m shaking all over.”
She smiled at me and soothed, “He’s really nice, you don’t have to worry about anything. He’s done this before, and the last time he did it, he answered all the questions.”
At last the woman up front called on us, “There’s a young lady next to Erica who has a questions, Scott.”
I gripped the microphone tightly and spoke into it, only one thought running through my head, “HOLY COW! I’m talking to one of my HEROES!!!”
“Well um,” I began, “first off hi!”
He was so sweet. He said back, “Well, hello! How you doing tonight?”
“Very good, thank you.” I answered. “Well, I have to ask this since I’m sure some of us here are curious… are you single?”
Everyone burst out laughing and a guy behind me whistled. I felt myself blush, but I smiled and no one could really tell I was nervous. He laughed too, and my heart flipped.
“Well,” He said, “you’ll have to follow me on twitter and Facebook to figure that out. I’m going to keep that a mystery for now.”
“That’s just mean,” I pouted teasingly. Everyone laughed again, I said thank you, and sat back down.
After everyone asked their questions (including some jerk that tried to steal the spotlight from him) he began playing once more. Everything was so surreal, I still feel like it was a dream, but there was one thing he talked about that really hit home for me.
He told us a story, and hearing this from him will stay with me for the rest of my life. When he was nineteen he was diagnosed with kidney failure, and he had to go through dialysis. There were times when he was only strong enough to lay on the floor. He couldn’t even sing he was so drained. The doctors didn’t know what caused this problem to happen, and he had to put his life and music on hold.
“You know how musical the MacIntyre family is?” He asked to the audience, “Well, it was silent in the house.”
But then, a miracle happened. His piano teacher’s wife donated a kidney to him, basically saving his life. He was able to have his life back, and he quickly went back to writing music. That was when he opened for another song.
“You know, I wrote this piece around the time I was being hooked up to those machines.” He said, “It’s called A View from Above. It’s about how sometimes we keep climbing and climbing that mountain, and we don’t see how far we’ve come until we turn around and watch the ground… fall away.”
So he sang that song with as much heart as I’ve ever seen any musician play with. During the whole thing, I was crying. I understood what he had gone through, since with my autism I’ve had to overcome the same things.
At last he finished his last song, and of course he gained a standing ovation. But now, it was time to go meet him at the Merchandise table. My Gram and I happened to get a good spot in line, and we stood there anxiously waiting. It was about ten minutes before he came out, but once I saw him, I let out a cry of delight.
“Oh my gosh!” I said, “I see him, I see him! HOLY CRAP! He’s sooo tall!”
He sat down at the table, and I began snapping photos like a crazed woman. Finally it was time for me to go up there and meet him. At last, another wish on my bucket list was being fulfilled.
I walked up there nervously, and he held out his hand. “Hello,” He said, “how’re you doing tonight?”
I took his hand in both of mine, and shook it graciously. “I’m doing awesomely, thank you.” I said. And here, I began my emotional monologue as he was signing my things, “Sir,” I said, “You are such a big inspiration to me. I’ve been following you since your audition last year, and you are so talented. It’s been a dream of mine to see you, and I’m in tears right now because it’s actually happening.”
He smiled at me and said, “Thank you. Now, who am I signing this for?”
I answered. “My name’s Erin.”
“How do you spell that?”
“E-R-I-N.”
He nodded, and wrote on my CD: “To: Erin, Love Scott”
As he signed two other posters of mine I mentioned, “You know, I just want to tell you, you’re really inspirational. I’m autistic, and I understand what you wrote about in A View from Above. It’s like we’re climbing and climbing, and we don’t see how far we’ve come until we get to the top and look at the view below us.”
He said, “Yes! That’s exactly what I mean. How old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
“Wow, you’re seventeen and you get that. You should be very proud of that.”
Tears swelled in my eyes all over again, and as I leaned forward to hug him, I whispered, “Thank you, thank you so much!”
I waited a little while later so Gram and I could get our picture with him, and then we left. But still, what occurred last night at the concert is still with me, and I’m so thankful I got to go. As I waited to get a photo with him, I took out my Bucket List, and walked over to one of his crewmembers, a woman whose name I never go.
“May I borrow a pen?” I asked her.
She smiled and said, “Sure!”
She handed me a black one, and I unfolded my list in front of her and crossed out “meet Scott MacIntyre.” She watched me as I did so, and said, “You know, you’re something special, aren’t you?”
I replied, “Madam, I’d like to think so.”
She continued, “Well, I can tell from that list, you’re a very brave girl to dream these dreams.”
And I laughed and said, “Again, I’d like to think so.”
To me, being able to go to this concert meant the world to me. I got to meet Scott MacIntyre, and fulfill a dream of mine. And honestly, the likely hood of me going to see him was little to nothing on Monday… but I guess some things are meant to be, and a higher power could be willing to step in to make the possible, well, possible.
Is it a God thing?
Well, I’d like to think so.
“Nothing is impossible. Even the word itself says, I’m Possible.” ~ Audrey Hepburn
It’s a God Thing
As you all know, a month and a half ago, I went to see Michael Buble. What no one knows, is that to see Michael, I had to make a decision between going to see him, and going to see Scott MacIntyre. Well, obviously, we all know the choice I made: to see Michael.
I won’t lie, I really, really wanted to go see Scott, and it broke my heart that I couldn’t go. So after I saw Michael on June 25th, and then Adam Lambert on July 16th, I thought, “Well, my summer concerts are done.” And I assumed that was that.
First off, let’s do some back up on Scott. I have loved Scott MacIntyre since I first heard him on American Idol a year ago. I remember watching him at his audition, wearing a “Never Mind the Gap” t-shirt, and thinking he was great. And he was. You don’t get to the top ten in that show because you suck. Well, sadly, he came in, in 8th place and I cried that evening, hearing that Simon refused to save him in the competition. I remember going out into the garage where Mom was talking on her cell, tears rolling down my face, and her saying, “Ah honey, he didn’t make it in?”
That was the part where I nodded, went on a tirade about how Simon and America’s voters were stupid, and proceeded to go onto Facebook to rant. Pretty much was a bad a night for me. So, now you can tell, I’ve loved his guy for a long time and it hurt me that I wouldn’t get to go to his concert.
Of course, that was before Monday came around. It was around six forty in the evening, David was just coming home, and we were about to go to life group. Minutes later he came in, and while saying hi to Mom, calmly handed me tickets. I looked down to see the words: Scott MacIntyre. That was all I needed to burst out into screams, and collide into David for a hug. I could tell, this was going to be an awesome week.
I spent the next three days with my grandparents (and had a blast). At last, Thursday came along, and I spent two hours getting ready for the show. I actually had to leave early though, because Temple Grandin was giving a talk at the Barnes and Noble on the East Side, and that was at four. So it was actually one o’clock when I was getting ready. I put on a black, white, and red patterned dress I got from a friend of Grandma Jackie’s, a necklace and earring set of vintage jewelry, and a black purse with matching flip flops. I had done my makeup, and Grandma Reed curled my hair and pulled it back. All in all, I looked pretty good.
Well when I met my Mom at Barnes and Noble, we quickly found out that Temple Grandin wasn’t doing a talk… she was doing a book signing. So we bought her new book, had her sign it, and then left the store with—oh—three hours to now kill.
We hung around at Towne East for a while, and I actually found two prom dresses (both of them over 100 dollars originally) and bought them both for 32 dollars since there was a sale going on. Before that we had grabbed Subway, and after checking out a few stores, we left to go to Old Towne were the Orpheum was. We then shopped around at Lucinda’s, and after waiting a bit longer, it was time to go to the Orpheum. The hour: 7:00.
We meet Grandma and Grandpa up there, and I latch onto Grandma while Grandpa and Mom hang around Old Town. Gram and I walk into the Orpheum and decide it’s time to get our first order of business done: getting less crappy seats.
Now, first off, you have to understand that David didn’t pay for these tickets. A friend of his won them on the radio, asked around if someone wanted to go, and David snatched them up for me. The seats we had, all though free, were in the back of the balcony. And does anyone want to sit there? NO.
So I found a nice looking usher, about Gram’s age, and said, “Excuse me, sir!”
He looked at us with a smile and said, “What can I do for you?”
And I replied, “Well, you see, my dad got these tickets off a friend who won them in a contest on the radio. Now, these seats are all the way up in the balcony, and I don’t want my Grandma having to walk up there with her heart issues.” (And by the way, I’m not completely making these up… she did have a heart attack last year.)
So the usher looked at me, and then looked back at her, and said, “Here, we’ll get this figured out for you.” Thus he turned to another co-worker and called, “Rhonda!”
Soon this nice woman comes out, and says, “What can I do for you?”
And he answers, “Well, this young lady and her granny are trying to get better seats. She doesn’t want her walking up all these stairs.”
So Rhonda (the woman) says, “OH! Well we have empty floor seats. I’ll get you guys there.”
Soon we’re in row Q, and on cloud nine. We both think, well, it can’t get any better than this! I go up later, get my Gram some popcorn and water, and then come up. Things are good, when all of a sudden; a woman from the audience walks up to us.
“Hey, do you guys want to get closer?” She asked.
“Sure.” I said.
“Well here you go, here’s third row tickets!”
I look at her, my mouth hanging open. Exsqueeze me? Was she messing with me?
“Are you kidding?” I asked, utterly shocked.
“No! Honestly, here you go.” And she hands me the tickets and walks away. Can you say, SCORE!
So now, we’re in row C and I’m feeling like the luckiest gal alive. I remember how something like this happened during the Michael concert, and I was moved down to row three directly stage left. Three must be my lucky number because lightning struck twice for me.
Finally the opening act, The Acrocsticks, began their set. They were pretty good to my surprise. I don’t like country, but their harmonies and musicality really impressed me, so I definitely had to give them props. They sung “Hallelujah”, a song one of the band members wrote, and “American Honey”. It was a great way to kick off the evening.
At last, Tracy (a host of B98 FM) announced Scott’s performance… and I about passed out. Everyone clapped for him, and I gave a slight squeal. He was lead on by a woman towards a piano in the middle of the stage. He was so, so handsome. He was wearing jeans, a purple shirt, and this HOT leather jacket. What a rockstar…
During the whole performance he played his piano, and he sang beautifully. Seeing him on TV gave him no justice. The songs (most of them he wrote) were well done and he was pitch perfect. And remember guys, Scott’s blind. Imagine sitting in the audience, watching a blind guy play the piano perfectly. It utterly astounded me how wonderful he was.
There was an intermission after he played about eight songs, and I waited excitedly for the second act. Before he would begin to sing his second set, we were allowed to ask him questions. It was like an audience Q and A thing. We would have a microphone to ask the question in, and he would answer it on stage. I all ready had my question in mind, and I was rearing to get it out in the open.
Finally the woman led Scott back on stage, and we all cheered. He stood a little ways from the piano, and then the Q and A began. I walked over to one of the microphone people (her name was Erica) and stood next to her.
“I’m so nervous.” I confessed to her, “I’m shaking all over.”
She smiled at me and soothed, “He’s really nice, you don’t have to worry about anything. He’s done this before, and the last time he did it, he answered all the questions.”
At last the woman up front called on us, “There’s a young lady next to Erica who has a questions, Scott.”
I gripped the microphone tightly and spoke into it, only one thought running through my head, “HOLY COW! I’m talking to one of my HEROES!!!”
“Well um,” I began, “first off hi!”
He was so sweet. He said back, “Well, hello! How you doing tonight?”
“Very good, thank you.” I answered. “Well, I have to ask this since I’m sure some of us here are curious… are you single?”
Everyone burst out laughing and a guy behind me whistled. I felt myself blush, but I smiled and no one could really tell I was nervous. He laughed too, and my heart flipped.
“Well,” He said, “you’ll have to follow me on twitter and Facebook to figure that out. I’m going to keep that a mystery for now.”
“That’s just mean,” I pouted teasingly. Everyone laughed again, I said thank you, and sat back down.
After everyone asked their questions (including some jerk that tried to steal the spotlight from him) he began playing once more. Everything was so surreal, I still feel like it was a dream, but there was one thing he talked about that really hit home for me.
He told us a story, and hearing this from him will stay with me for the rest of my life. When he was nineteen he was diagnosed with kidney failure, and he had to go through dialysis. There were times when he was only strong enough to lay on the floor. He couldn’t even sing he was so drained. The doctors didn’t know what caused this problem to happen, and he had to put his life and music on hold.
“You know how musical the MacIntyre family is?” He asked to the audience, “Well, it was silent in the house.”
But then, a miracle happened. His piano teacher’s wife donated a kidney to him, basically saving his life. He was able to have his life back, and he quickly went back to writing music. That was when he opened for another song.
“You know, I wrote this piece around the time I was being hooked up to those machines.” He said, “It’s called A View from Above. It’s about how sometimes we keep climbing and climbing that mountain, and we don’t see how far we’ve come until we turn around and watch the ground… fall away.”
So he sang that song with as much heart as I’ve ever seen any musician play with. During the whole thing, I was crying. I understood what he had gone through, since with my autism I’ve had to overcome the same things.
At last he finished his last song, and of course he gained a standing ovation. But now, it was time to go meet him at the Merchandise table. My Gram and I happened to get a good spot in line, and we stood there anxiously waiting. It was about ten minutes before he came out, but once I saw him, I let out a cry of delight.
“Oh my gosh!” I said, “I see him, I see him! HOLY CRAP! He’s sooo tall!”
He sat down at the table, and I began snapping photos like a crazed woman. Finally it was time for me to go up there and meet him. At last, another wish on my bucket list was being fulfilled.
I walked up there nervously, and he held out his hand. “Hello,” He said, “how’re you doing tonight?”
I took his hand in both of mine, and shook it graciously. “I’m doing awesomely, thank you.” I said. And here, I began my emotional monologue as he was signing my things, “Sir,” I said, “You are such a big inspiration to me. I’ve been following you since your audition last year, and you are so talented. It’s been a dream of mine to see you, and I’m in tears right now because it’s actually happening.”
He smiled at me and said, “Thank you. Now, who am I signing this for?”
I answered. “My name’s Erin.”
“How do you spell that?”
“E-R-I-N.”
He nodded, and wrote on my CD: “To: Erin, Love Scott”
As he signed two other posters of mine I mentioned, “You know, I just want to tell you, you’re really inspirational. I’m autistic, and I understand what you wrote about in A View from Above. It’s like we’re climbing and climbing, and we don’t see how far we’ve come until we get to the top and look at the view below us.”
He said, “Yes! That’s exactly what I mean. How old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
“Wow, you’re seventeen and you get that. You should be very proud of that.”
Tears swelled in my eyes all over again, and as I leaned forward to hug him, I whispered, “Thank you, thank you so much!”
I waited a little while later so Gram and I could get our picture with him, and then we left. But still, what occurred last night at the concert is still with me, and I’m so thankful I got to go. As I waited to get a photo with him, I took out my Bucket List, and walked over to one of his crewmembers, a woman whose name I never go.
“May I borrow a pen?” I asked her.
She smiled and said, “Sure!”
She handed me a black one, and I unfolded my list in front of her and crossed out “meet Scott MacIntyre.” She watched me as I did so, and said, “You know, you’re something special, aren’t you?”
I replied, “Madam, I’d like to think so.”
She continued, “Well, I can tell from that list, you’re a very brave girl to dream these dreams.”
And I laughed and said, “Again, I’d like to think so.”
To me, being able to go to this concert meant the world to me. I got to meet Scott MacIntyre, and fulfill a dream of mine. And honestly, the likely hood of me going to see him was little to nothing on Monday… but I guess some things are meant to be, and a higher power could be willing to step in to make the possible, well, possible.
Is it a God thing?
Well, I’d like to think so.
“Nothing is impossible. Even the word itself says, I’m Possible.” ~ Audrey Hepburn
True Story from the Middle Spectrum #1
True Story from the Middle Spectrum #1:
Perchance to Dream
It’s 12:34 AM, June 24th and I’m in my room typing out this tale. I just got back from what possibly was the best night of my life. Hours ago it was June 23rd, and marvelous things occurred on this date.
I found out three weeks ago I was going to see Michael Buble on this day. He is a modern day Frank Sinatra, and right now is most famous for his song “Haven’t Met You Yet” that became a radio hit this year. I was doubtful that I would be able to go to his concert, because no one in my family was interested in going. But a good friend of ours, Aunt Carie, stepped up and offered to take me. Without hesitating, my step dad (David) bought the tickets and VOLA! I was going to see Michael Buble.
I had listened to all his songs over and over again, preparing myself for this event. I had picked out a black dress (that Mom made me change out of anyway) and a cross necklace with matching earrings to go with it. I even figured out what I wanted my hair to look like (Veronica Lake under curled ends).
Finally the big day arrived. I spent the day listening to Buble, and around three thirty got my bath. I did my makeup, put on my new glasses, and red ballet flats. At the last minute I changed out of the outfit and quickly into a black, red, and white patterned dress (thank you Mom for telling me to change!). After that, I grabbed my shiny dark purse and we hopped into the car.
Of course, Murphy’s Law occurred: what can go wrong will go wrong. David came home to find the tickets on the kitchen table (they had spilled out of my purse) and he had to meet us at Dillons to so we could fetch them. We ended up being only fifteen minutes late to Carie’s house, and the evening went off without a hitch.
Carie and I went to a place in Old Town called “The Pump House”. I ordered a Philly Cheese steak sandwich, and fries. Carie got a Rueben with potato chips. We ate an appetizer before that (spinach and artichoke Rangoon, YUM) and we made conversation. To our surprise, we could hear Michael Buble coming out of every store and public place in Old Town. We passed people who were going to the concert, and even at our restaurant, Buble music was playing. We would sometimes spot mid conversation and sing along. After we had swapped half of our sandwiches with each other, I told her my dream.
“Carie, its on my bucket list to meet Michael.” I said, “Do you think we could stay after and wait on him?”
“Sure!” She chimed, “I don’t see why not.”
So we continued out chat. We talked of love, music, God, happiness… all things that women often talk of. After we waited for the trolley, and as it came, we saw it was packed with other Buble fans! We struck up conversation in the back with other concertgoers, and finally made it to the Intrust Arena minutes later.
We didn’t wait too long in line, and we found a bathroom before the concert began. I noticed a few people from my school there, and I ran into a good friend of mine, Angie Locke! We said hi, and I commented on her outfit. She was wearing a crap vest, tie, and fedora. Of course her wonderful son and one of my best friends, Jacob, dressed her. One had never made male clothes look so chic on a woman. And Angie could pull it off too.
Anywho, after saying bye to Angie, Carie and I found out seats in the middle section high above the stadium. We had a marvelous time listening to the first group, Naturally 7. MAN! Those guys could wail! It was an accepella group, and get this, their voices were the instruments! I had no idea they didn’t have a band until they showed us using their voices. Each would take turn impersonating an instrument, from guitar, to the sound of a record being scratched. I would’ve gone to a concert with just them. And, their harmonies, FLAWLESS!
After that, there was a short ten minutes break. A man, working for the arena, walked toward us and sat down next to us.
“Are you guys okay up here?” He asked.
“Oh, yeah, we’re fine.” Carie and I said.
“Are you sure it’s not too hot?”
“Nope.” We answered, “We’re good.”
Thus, he left. But later, we realized, he was moving people down closer to the floor area and giving them better seats. Looking at Carie, we figured out we needed to tell that guy we were ROASTING up in that section. (Okay, we didn’t tell him that, but we got the better seats).
So after going down two flights of stairs, we made out way to our new seats… at the side and only TWENTY FEET away form the stage. We moved down, to the third row after we realized no one was there, and by then the concert had started. When I saw Michael on stage, I screamed and tears gathered in my eyes. After his first number, everyone was cheering for him.
While he was talking, I cheekily called out, “Michael, I love you!”
He turned toward my direction and said, “Yes, I like you a lot too!”
I squee’d in delight, and clapped my hands. At that moment I realized I looked like a retarded seal, so I stopped. Honestly, there was no other way to describe my reaction to his short attention towards me. I guess pure unadulterated joy does that to you.
He talked more, and said, “You know, I’m not here to throw a concert. If you want a concert, go to the opera. I’m here to throw a party. So if you want to sing, sing. If you want to dance, dance. Just give it your all. And if someone behind you says stop it, tell them to shut up and…” at this moment, he flipped the bird. I laughed so hard, I was near tears.
During the second song, I noticed people were dancing on the floor. I looked at my side peeps, and realized, they weren’t dancing. The party was down there, but not up here. So I got up and danced!
People slowly started to move in their seats, and a group of women applauded me as I danced. I pointed to a brown haired lady and said, “Come dance with me!” I motioned for her to get up, so, she said, “All right!” And did. After that, the party was ON in my side of the audience. People were finally up and dancing.
The woman asked how old I was, and I said seventeen. She confessed she was fifty-three, but she looked younger to me. That’s what music does, it makes one dance and feel young. God says to celebrate life, death, birth, anniversaries, by dancing. So everyone danced. Everyone sang. We were one beat, grooving to the song.
Some of Michael’s songs made me cry, some made me joyful. But they got a reaction out of me. He was a performer, and a wonderful one of that. He sang songs from Sinatra to Michael Jackson. He was a showstopper.
Halfway during the show, my necklace fell apart. As I was scrambling to pick it up, I first reached for the metal cross. I held it tightly in my hands, and peace overcame me. Looking at the necklace, I realized what got me there, and I said a quick prayer of gratitude. When I showed Carie the necklace she exclaimed, “Oh dear, I’m sorry!”
I only smiled and said, “You know what, worse thing could happen tonight.” And nothing else did happen.
Finally, after an encore, the concert was over. It was time to see if I could meet Michael, to dream my dream. So, I started the second part of my quest. I began to investigate!
I first got in line to meet Naturally 7, a group that had earned my respect in the past three hours as musicians. Nearby I asked a security guard a question.
“Sir!” I called out, “Sir, I don’t know if you work with the arena or Michael’s crew, but I want to know, will he come out?”
The guard told me he worked with the arena and said, “No, sorry, Michael won’t be out.”
I thought immediately, what does he know? He doesn’t work for Michael. So I refused to give up my search, and the quest continued.
I met Greg, one of Carie’s friends who worked at the arena, and repeated my inquiry. This was his reply:
“I actually met him! He was on a segway, riding by me with someone else… I don’t think he’ll be out, but look at it this way. Michael Bolton was as big as Michael twenty years ago. He’s now at the Cotillion. Both of them are here the same week. So, just you watch, in fifteen to twenty years you’ll be able to buy a ticket to see Michael perform at the Cotillion, front row seats. You watch, I guarantee it.”
God bless that man, I knew he meant well. But his answer was not comforting; in fact, it made me a little mad. Again I thought, I don’t want to wait another twenty years! So, I continued my quest.
To my delight, Ms. Zubke was there, a substitute teacher I knew very well. She worked at the arena part time, and once more, I asked my question.
“Oh! I saw him earlier!” She cried, “But you won’t see him. He has a thing with seeing people during a performance.”
We said out goodbyes after that, and I remained in line for Naturally 7. Something inside me burned to meet Michael, and I wasn’t going to give up yet. I looked down the line, and I could see the group signing autographs. At the end of the line, the leader, Roger was talking to a group of girls and getting photos. He had a bright smile, and I could sense a good heart.
“I’m going to ask Naturally 7 if they could help me Carie.” I stated.
“Hey do it!” She urged, “I don’t see why not.”
“I have to try. I can’t give up now. Maybe they can help me meet him. I can’t stop trying. I feel like this is my only chance, since I don’t know if he’ll come back, and I’m unsure that I’ll be able to see him again if he does.”
I know what all of you are thinking, “YOU’RE CRAZY AND RUDE!” But look at it from my point of view. This isn’t just a thing I want to do on a whim. I look up to him as a musician, and I’ve wanted to see him for two years. I realize that I am selfish and stubborn. But I believe stubbornness and selfishness mix together and create: determination. Everyone has to be both things to achieve their dreams, to become successful. You have to want to fight for YOUR cause to change the world. You have to want to sing for YOU first, before you can sing for others. This is a hidden truth not many people realize.
So I came up to this amazing group, and had them sign all three of my ticket thingies. Everyone in the group was very sweet, and I shook all their hands. Their smiles brightened my soul, and eased the nervousness in my stomach. But approaching Roger, to ask for his help, made it come back again. I said hi to him first thing, and told him I loved his group. Finally, when he signed my tickets, I said:
“I must talk to you sir. I need your help. I have a dream,” I looked to see the small line of people behind me, and continued faster, “Look, I know there are people waiting, so I will speak quickly. I am autistic, and I have a bucket list. One of the things on my list is to meet Michael.” By now, tears were in my eyes and I choked on a sob, “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to cry. It’s just; he’s a hero to me. I love his music, and I feel like this is my only shot to make this dream happen. Will you help me?”
He looked at me, his eyes shining. “Well, I think he is gone now.” He said, softly and sincerely, “But give me your contact information, and I will help you meet him. Even if you can’t talk to him face to face, I will get him to call you or something.”
“Thank you.” I said, now shaking, “Oh, thank you so much!”
I turned to Carie, “Do you have a pen?”
“No,” She said, “I don’t think so…”
What we ended up doing was tearing off a piece of an envelope I had, and he wrote his email address in sharpie on it.
“Message me with your information, all right?” He said, “And I will help you.”
“Oh my God, thank you.” I whispered, hugging him, “Thank you so much!”
I posed for a photo with Roger, a testament to faith, belief, and good hearts. I left, softly crying, and thanking God every step of the way.
I am closer now to my dream than ever before. I will message Roger this morning, and I know something is going to happen. He was truthful and honest in his wanting to help me, and I was assured by Carie’s words and our talk of this experience. Tonight, tonight was wonderful. It is things like tonight that prove to me God is real.
I want to thank my family that bought me the tickets, Aunt Carie who took me to see him, and to my Mom that listened to me at midnight when I first told this story. So, I tell you all now, if you perchance to dream go for it. All you have to do is try and ask. I was told no three (actually four) times tonight that he would not come out and I had no chance. But if you are of good heart, and honest in your dreams, you can make things happen if you try all your options.
Shakespeare said once, “This is the stuff that dreams are made out of.”
What I say is, “No. WE are the stuff that dreams are made out of.”
Perchance to Dream
It’s 12:34 AM, June 24th and I’m in my room typing out this tale. I just got back from what possibly was the best night of my life. Hours ago it was June 23rd, and marvelous things occurred on this date.
I found out three weeks ago I was going to see Michael Buble on this day. He is a modern day Frank Sinatra, and right now is most famous for his song “Haven’t Met You Yet” that became a radio hit this year. I was doubtful that I would be able to go to his concert, because no one in my family was interested in going. But a good friend of ours, Aunt Carie, stepped up and offered to take me. Without hesitating, my step dad (David) bought the tickets and VOLA! I was going to see Michael Buble.
I had listened to all his songs over and over again, preparing myself for this event. I had picked out a black dress (that Mom made me change out of anyway) and a cross necklace with matching earrings to go with it. I even figured out what I wanted my hair to look like (Veronica Lake under curled ends).
Finally the big day arrived. I spent the day listening to Buble, and around three thirty got my bath. I did my makeup, put on my new glasses, and red ballet flats. At the last minute I changed out of the outfit and quickly into a black, red, and white patterned dress (thank you Mom for telling me to change!). After that, I grabbed my shiny dark purse and we hopped into the car.
Of course, Murphy’s Law occurred: what can go wrong will go wrong. David came home to find the tickets on the kitchen table (they had spilled out of my purse) and he had to meet us at Dillons to so we could fetch them. We ended up being only fifteen minutes late to Carie’s house, and the evening went off without a hitch.
Carie and I went to a place in Old Town called “The Pump House”. I ordered a Philly Cheese steak sandwich, and fries. Carie got a Rueben with potato chips. We ate an appetizer before that (spinach and artichoke Rangoon, YUM) and we made conversation. To our surprise, we could hear Michael Buble coming out of every store and public place in Old Town. We passed people who were going to the concert, and even at our restaurant, Buble music was playing. We would sometimes spot mid conversation and sing along. After we had swapped half of our sandwiches with each other, I told her my dream.
“Carie, its on my bucket list to meet Michael.” I said, “Do you think we could stay after and wait on him?”
“Sure!” She chimed, “I don’t see why not.”
So we continued out chat. We talked of love, music, God, happiness… all things that women often talk of. After we waited for the trolley, and as it came, we saw it was packed with other Buble fans! We struck up conversation in the back with other concertgoers, and finally made it to the Intrust Arena minutes later.
We didn’t wait too long in line, and we found a bathroom before the concert began. I noticed a few people from my school there, and I ran into a good friend of mine, Angie Locke! We said hi, and I commented on her outfit. She was wearing a crap vest, tie, and fedora. Of course her wonderful son and one of my best friends, Jacob, dressed her. One had never made male clothes look so chic on a woman. And Angie could pull it off too.
Anywho, after saying bye to Angie, Carie and I found out seats in the middle section high above the stadium. We had a marvelous time listening to the first group, Naturally 7. MAN! Those guys could wail! It was an accepella group, and get this, their voices were the instruments! I had no idea they didn’t have a band until they showed us using their voices. Each would take turn impersonating an instrument, from guitar, to the sound of a record being scratched. I would’ve gone to a concert with just them. And, their harmonies, FLAWLESS!
After that, there was a short ten minutes break. A man, working for the arena, walked toward us and sat down next to us.
“Are you guys okay up here?” He asked.
“Oh, yeah, we’re fine.” Carie and I said.
“Are you sure it’s not too hot?”
“Nope.” We answered, “We’re good.”
Thus, he left. But later, we realized, he was moving people down closer to the floor area and giving them better seats. Looking at Carie, we figured out we needed to tell that guy we were ROASTING up in that section. (Okay, we didn’t tell him that, but we got the better seats).
So after going down two flights of stairs, we made out way to our new seats… at the side and only TWENTY FEET away form the stage. We moved down, to the third row after we realized no one was there, and by then the concert had started. When I saw Michael on stage, I screamed and tears gathered in my eyes. After his first number, everyone was cheering for him.
While he was talking, I cheekily called out, “Michael, I love you!”
He turned toward my direction and said, “Yes, I like you a lot too!”
I squee’d in delight, and clapped my hands. At that moment I realized I looked like a retarded seal, so I stopped. Honestly, there was no other way to describe my reaction to his short attention towards me. I guess pure unadulterated joy does that to you.
He talked more, and said, “You know, I’m not here to throw a concert. If you want a concert, go to the opera. I’m here to throw a party. So if you want to sing, sing. If you want to dance, dance. Just give it your all. And if someone behind you says stop it, tell them to shut up and…” at this moment, he flipped the bird. I laughed so hard, I was near tears.
During the second song, I noticed people were dancing on the floor. I looked at my side peeps, and realized, they weren’t dancing. The party was down there, but not up here. So I got up and danced!
People slowly started to move in their seats, and a group of women applauded me as I danced. I pointed to a brown haired lady and said, “Come dance with me!” I motioned for her to get up, so, she said, “All right!” And did. After that, the party was ON in my side of the audience. People were finally up and dancing.
The woman asked how old I was, and I said seventeen. She confessed she was fifty-three, but she looked younger to me. That’s what music does, it makes one dance and feel young. God says to celebrate life, death, birth, anniversaries, by dancing. So everyone danced. Everyone sang. We were one beat, grooving to the song.
Some of Michael’s songs made me cry, some made me joyful. But they got a reaction out of me. He was a performer, and a wonderful one of that. He sang songs from Sinatra to Michael Jackson. He was a showstopper.
Halfway during the show, my necklace fell apart. As I was scrambling to pick it up, I first reached for the metal cross. I held it tightly in my hands, and peace overcame me. Looking at the necklace, I realized what got me there, and I said a quick prayer of gratitude. When I showed Carie the necklace she exclaimed, “Oh dear, I’m sorry!”
I only smiled and said, “You know what, worse thing could happen tonight.” And nothing else did happen.
Finally, after an encore, the concert was over. It was time to see if I could meet Michael, to dream my dream. So, I started the second part of my quest. I began to investigate!
I first got in line to meet Naturally 7, a group that had earned my respect in the past three hours as musicians. Nearby I asked a security guard a question.
“Sir!” I called out, “Sir, I don’t know if you work with the arena or Michael’s crew, but I want to know, will he come out?”
The guard told me he worked with the arena and said, “No, sorry, Michael won’t be out.”
I thought immediately, what does he know? He doesn’t work for Michael. So I refused to give up my search, and the quest continued.
I met Greg, one of Carie’s friends who worked at the arena, and repeated my inquiry. This was his reply:
“I actually met him! He was on a segway, riding by me with someone else… I don’t think he’ll be out, but look at it this way. Michael Bolton was as big as Michael twenty years ago. He’s now at the Cotillion. Both of them are here the same week. So, just you watch, in fifteen to twenty years you’ll be able to buy a ticket to see Michael perform at the Cotillion, front row seats. You watch, I guarantee it.”
God bless that man, I knew he meant well. But his answer was not comforting; in fact, it made me a little mad. Again I thought, I don’t want to wait another twenty years! So, I continued my quest.
To my delight, Ms. Zubke was there, a substitute teacher I knew very well. She worked at the arena part time, and once more, I asked my question.
“Oh! I saw him earlier!” She cried, “But you won’t see him. He has a thing with seeing people during a performance.”
We said out goodbyes after that, and I remained in line for Naturally 7. Something inside me burned to meet Michael, and I wasn’t going to give up yet. I looked down the line, and I could see the group signing autographs. At the end of the line, the leader, Roger was talking to a group of girls and getting photos. He had a bright smile, and I could sense a good heart.
“I’m going to ask Naturally 7 if they could help me Carie.” I stated.
“Hey do it!” She urged, “I don’t see why not.”
“I have to try. I can’t give up now. Maybe they can help me meet him. I can’t stop trying. I feel like this is my only chance, since I don’t know if he’ll come back, and I’m unsure that I’ll be able to see him again if he does.”
I know what all of you are thinking, “YOU’RE CRAZY AND RUDE!” But look at it from my point of view. This isn’t just a thing I want to do on a whim. I look up to him as a musician, and I’ve wanted to see him for two years. I realize that I am selfish and stubborn. But I believe stubbornness and selfishness mix together and create: determination. Everyone has to be both things to achieve their dreams, to become successful. You have to want to fight for YOUR cause to change the world. You have to want to sing for YOU first, before you can sing for others. This is a hidden truth not many people realize.
So I came up to this amazing group, and had them sign all three of my ticket thingies. Everyone in the group was very sweet, and I shook all their hands. Their smiles brightened my soul, and eased the nervousness in my stomach. But approaching Roger, to ask for his help, made it come back again. I said hi to him first thing, and told him I loved his group. Finally, when he signed my tickets, I said:
“I must talk to you sir. I need your help. I have a dream,” I looked to see the small line of people behind me, and continued faster, “Look, I know there are people waiting, so I will speak quickly. I am autistic, and I have a bucket list. One of the things on my list is to meet Michael.” By now, tears were in my eyes and I choked on a sob, “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to cry. It’s just; he’s a hero to me. I love his music, and I feel like this is my only shot to make this dream happen. Will you help me?”
He looked at me, his eyes shining. “Well, I think he is gone now.” He said, softly and sincerely, “But give me your contact information, and I will help you meet him. Even if you can’t talk to him face to face, I will get him to call you or something.”
“Thank you.” I said, now shaking, “Oh, thank you so much!”
I turned to Carie, “Do you have a pen?”
“No,” She said, “I don’t think so…”
What we ended up doing was tearing off a piece of an envelope I had, and he wrote his email address in sharpie on it.
“Message me with your information, all right?” He said, “And I will help you.”
“Oh my God, thank you.” I whispered, hugging him, “Thank you so much!”
I posed for a photo with Roger, a testament to faith, belief, and good hearts. I left, softly crying, and thanking God every step of the way.
I am closer now to my dream than ever before. I will message Roger this morning, and I know something is going to happen. He was truthful and honest in his wanting to help me, and I was assured by Carie’s words and our talk of this experience. Tonight, tonight was wonderful. It is things like tonight that prove to me God is real.
I want to thank my family that bought me the tickets, Aunt Carie who took me to see him, and to my Mom that listened to me at midnight when I first told this story. So, I tell you all now, if you perchance to dream go for it. All you have to do is try and ask. I was told no three (actually four) times tonight that he would not come out and I had no chance. But if you are of good heart, and honest in your dreams, you can make things happen if you try all your options.
Shakespeare said once, “This is the stuff that dreams are made out of.”
What I say is, “No. WE are the stuff that dreams are made out of.”
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Blog from the Middle Spectrum #2
Blog from the Middle Spectrum #2
This blog is going to be a bit different than the last. You all know me well now. So I think it’s time to take a step forward with this blogging relationship we have. I am speaking to the people out there who either knows someone who has a ‘handicap’, autism, or on the Middle Spectrum. So listen close, today I plan on teaching you something.
Below is a list of grievances from all the Middle Specters out there like me. These are things people do that I HATE when it comes to being diagnosed as autistic or having Asperger’s. I mean, if you really want to tick me off, do anything on the list below and you will have an angry crazy chick on your hands. So, let’s start the list:
*
1. Don’t call us “special”
This always drives me insane. Does no one get that calling someone ‘special’ in a certain way is a put down now? If you’re a teenager then you know about this put down. It goes like this:
Person 1- “I know, I’m special!”
Person 2- “Yeah, special ED!”
That is an insult. Whenever I’m called special I think of this. And calling someone special is like you’re trying to cover up for something wrong. Saying that someone is ‘special’ after saying they have a mental problem is like you’re trying to makeup for them having the problem in the first place. It just sounds wrong and rude. Don’t do it.
But if you feel like you absolutely have to compliment someone about his or her mental problem, then say something like “She’s just wonderfully different!” Or, “He’s a very uniquely awesome boy.” Be creative if you have to, just don’t use the S word!
2. Don’t lump all of us autistic people in the same category (this goes for ANY ‘disability’)
No, I am not like Raymond from Rain Man, and can do math well. In fact, I SUCK at math. Just because we’re autistic, doesn’t mean we have super powers or have an extremely high intelligence. Those people are called autistic savants, and even they too should be treated like an individual and with respect. Just because you’re a boy, that doesn’t mean you like baseball. Don’t think like that when it comes to people with different types of mental abilities. We all have different cases. Not one person is like the other; so don’t automatically assume that I have the ability to do something just because I’m autistic. That’s just dumb.
3. Don’t talk about us like we’re robots
How would you like it if someone said you were ‘high functioning’ or ‘low functioning’? That term ‘function’ is too broad of a word to use when it comes to talking about how a person lives or thinks. Autistic people maybe able to do well with one task, but maybe not so well with another. In my opinion you have to sit down and talk about, in detail, what your child can or cannot do when it comes to speaking with teachers or people they will be around. If not, how is this person going to be able to know where they need to start when it comes to the treatment of this child? But look, the point is, don’t say that we’re ‘functioning’ in a certain way. I am not a machine, and I do not work all the time at a certain level. I do my own thing to the best of my capabilities, whatever they are.
4. Never say never
You have no right to tell a person with mental abilities that they can’t achieve their dreams. If they have a special talent and the drive to perfect it, then by God, support them. When I was in fourth grade I could barely spell, at all. Period. Now I am writing poems, stories, lyrics, and this blog. You never know what can happen in a person’s life, so don’t limit them. Believe in them, because they look to you and believe in you.
5. Don’t group Middle Spectrum kids in Emotional and Logical thinking categories
I make decisions based on emotion… with logic behind them. If I want to fulfill myself and my dreams I have to make good choices to achieve that emotional gratification. I have to do things the right way and be a good person, so in return, goodness and kindness comes back to me. It took SIXTEEN YEARS for anyone I knew to understand this. Everyone always though I was a logical thinker, because of how I made my decisions and what I did. No one understood that emotion was involved. They thought I saw everything in black and white, not in color. No one got that I saw the color picture first, and then focused on the black and whiteness. Just weeks ago a close friend of mine said, “Erin, I don’t care what people say about you being a logical thinker. From what I’ve seen, I think you’re an emotional thinker.” I was so thankful when he said that. Because I was lumped into a ‘logical category’ some people around me didn’t understand that I could feel too. My friend finally got that. Yes, I make logical decisions, but the reasons (and sometimes reasoning) are based off of emotion. Do not tell a Middle Spectrum Kid how they think. Only they know, and you have no way of getting into their heads and figuring them out. They think in their own way, so stop trying to figure out a name for it, and start enjoying the person who they are.
6. Don’t force any of us to read a self-help book or go into a counseling group
When I say the above statement I’m speaking mostly to the people who know or have kids of the Middle Spectrum. All cases are different, as I have said before. Forcing us to go into a counseling group to try to ‘relate to one another’ doesn’t help. Everyone deals with things in different ways. If you’re child wants to go into the group, by all means, let them. But some kids like me, who don’t feel that it would benefit them, simply don’t want to be a part of all that hype. So don’t make us go! Also don’t force us to read about other autistic people if we don’t want to. If we show an interest, yes, get that biography we want. But sometimes we get burned out on the topic of autism. We have to LIVE with the diagnosis everyday, so trust me; we get sick of hearing or talking about it. Parents don’t throw your child a book or toss them into a group unwillingly. I know you mean well, but wait till they approach you.
7. To Parents of the Middle Spectrum: DON’T SAY WE’RE AUTISTIC RIGHT AWAY TO PEOPLE WHO FIRST MEET US
I understand it's sometimes necessary, I get that. But when it's not, don't tell complete strangers we're autistic! Most people cannot tell I’m autistic. I hide my ‘symptoms’ pretty well, and the people who I first meet usually find me a ‘delightfully fun’ person because of my quirks. I’m a fresh of breath air to elderly because I actually know who older singers and actors are, like Frank Sinatra and Cary Grant. They think I’m just a young girl who appreciates the oldies, not some crazy person who has an obsession with old things. And in truth, I am just a young girl who appreciates the older, finer things. That’s why I hate it when a friend or family member says that I’m autistic, after I’ve been talking to a stranger for only a few minutes. Why do you do that?! If we seem normal to a person, let us seem normal! It’s embarrassing for kids like me to have someone tell a stranger a most secret part of us. If we want to tell someone we’re autistic, we will do it in our own sweet time. I have friends that didn’t know for two years. I didn't tell them because I wanted them to know me for me, not the diagnosis I have. So please, unless your child wants you to, don’t tell a complete stranger we’re autistic! Once more it's embarrassing, and even though you mean well, kind of rude.
This blog is going to be a bit different than the last. You all know me well now. So I think it’s time to take a step forward with this blogging relationship we have. I am speaking to the people out there who either knows someone who has a ‘handicap’, autism, or on the Middle Spectrum. So listen close, today I plan on teaching you something.
Below is a list of grievances from all the Middle Specters out there like me. These are things people do that I HATE when it comes to being diagnosed as autistic or having Asperger’s. I mean, if you really want to tick me off, do anything on the list below and you will have an angry crazy chick on your hands. So, let’s start the list:
*
1. Don’t call us “special”
This always drives me insane. Does no one get that calling someone ‘special’ in a certain way is a put down now? If you’re a teenager then you know about this put down. It goes like this:
Person 1- “I know, I’m special!”
Person 2- “Yeah, special ED!”
That is an insult. Whenever I’m called special I think of this. And calling someone special is like you’re trying to cover up for something wrong. Saying that someone is ‘special’ after saying they have a mental problem is like you’re trying to makeup for them having the problem in the first place. It just sounds wrong and rude. Don’t do it.
But if you feel like you absolutely have to compliment someone about his or her mental problem, then say something like “She’s just wonderfully different!” Or, “He’s a very uniquely awesome boy.” Be creative if you have to, just don’t use the S word!
2. Don’t lump all of us autistic people in the same category (this goes for ANY ‘disability’)
No, I am not like Raymond from Rain Man, and can do math well. In fact, I SUCK at math. Just because we’re autistic, doesn’t mean we have super powers or have an extremely high intelligence. Those people are called autistic savants, and even they too should be treated like an individual and with respect. Just because you’re a boy, that doesn’t mean you like baseball. Don’t think like that when it comes to people with different types of mental abilities. We all have different cases. Not one person is like the other; so don’t automatically assume that I have the ability to do something just because I’m autistic. That’s just dumb.
3. Don’t talk about us like we’re robots
How would you like it if someone said you were ‘high functioning’ or ‘low functioning’? That term ‘function’ is too broad of a word to use when it comes to talking about how a person lives or thinks. Autistic people maybe able to do well with one task, but maybe not so well with another. In my opinion you have to sit down and talk about, in detail, what your child can or cannot do when it comes to speaking with teachers or people they will be around. If not, how is this person going to be able to know where they need to start when it comes to the treatment of this child? But look, the point is, don’t say that we’re ‘functioning’ in a certain way. I am not a machine, and I do not work all the time at a certain level. I do my own thing to the best of my capabilities, whatever they are.
4. Never say never
You have no right to tell a person with mental abilities that they can’t achieve their dreams. If they have a special talent and the drive to perfect it, then by God, support them. When I was in fourth grade I could barely spell, at all. Period. Now I am writing poems, stories, lyrics, and this blog. You never know what can happen in a person’s life, so don’t limit them. Believe in them, because they look to you and believe in you.
5. Don’t group Middle Spectrum kids in Emotional and Logical thinking categories
I make decisions based on emotion… with logic behind them. If I want to fulfill myself and my dreams I have to make good choices to achieve that emotional gratification. I have to do things the right way and be a good person, so in return, goodness and kindness comes back to me. It took SIXTEEN YEARS for anyone I knew to understand this. Everyone always though I was a logical thinker, because of how I made my decisions and what I did. No one understood that emotion was involved. They thought I saw everything in black and white, not in color. No one got that I saw the color picture first, and then focused on the black and whiteness. Just weeks ago a close friend of mine said, “Erin, I don’t care what people say about you being a logical thinker. From what I’ve seen, I think you’re an emotional thinker.” I was so thankful when he said that. Because I was lumped into a ‘logical category’ some people around me didn’t understand that I could feel too. My friend finally got that. Yes, I make logical decisions, but the reasons (and sometimes reasoning) are based off of emotion. Do not tell a Middle Spectrum Kid how they think. Only they know, and you have no way of getting into their heads and figuring them out. They think in their own way, so stop trying to figure out a name for it, and start enjoying the person who they are.
6. Don’t force any of us to read a self-help book or go into a counseling group
When I say the above statement I’m speaking mostly to the people who know or have kids of the Middle Spectrum. All cases are different, as I have said before. Forcing us to go into a counseling group to try to ‘relate to one another’ doesn’t help. Everyone deals with things in different ways. If you’re child wants to go into the group, by all means, let them. But some kids like me, who don’t feel that it would benefit them, simply don’t want to be a part of all that hype. So don’t make us go! Also don’t force us to read about other autistic people if we don’t want to. If we show an interest, yes, get that biography we want. But sometimes we get burned out on the topic of autism. We have to LIVE with the diagnosis everyday, so trust me; we get sick of hearing or talking about it. Parents don’t throw your child a book or toss them into a group unwillingly. I know you mean well, but wait till they approach you.
7. To Parents of the Middle Spectrum: DON’T SAY WE’RE AUTISTIC RIGHT AWAY TO PEOPLE WHO FIRST MEET US
I understand it's sometimes necessary, I get that. But when it's not, don't tell complete strangers we're autistic! Most people cannot tell I’m autistic. I hide my ‘symptoms’ pretty well, and the people who I first meet usually find me a ‘delightfully fun’ person because of my quirks. I’m a fresh of breath air to elderly because I actually know who older singers and actors are, like Frank Sinatra and Cary Grant. They think I’m just a young girl who appreciates the oldies, not some crazy person who has an obsession with old things. And in truth, I am just a young girl who appreciates the older, finer things. That’s why I hate it when a friend or family member says that I’m autistic, after I’ve been talking to a stranger for only a few minutes. Why do you do that?! If we seem normal to a person, let us seem normal! It’s embarrassing for kids like me to have someone tell a stranger a most secret part of us. If we want to tell someone we’re autistic, we will do it in our own sweet time. I have friends that didn’t know for two years. I didn't tell them because I wanted them to know me for me, not the diagnosis I have. So please, unless your child wants you to, don’t tell a complete stranger we’re autistic! Once more it's embarrassing, and even though you mean well, kind of rude.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Blog from the Middle Spectrum #1
Blog from the Middle Spectrum #1
All right, so I'm going to confess something to you. You may think what I say is weird, but that's okay. Maybe it’ll compel you a little bit more to read this. Ready for this?
I’m autistic.
All right, so, to those who know me, none of you are shocked. Most of you knew something was wrong with me in the first place. I was too weird, odd, freakish, whatever label you want to put me under, to be normal. Congratulations, you figured out I was different. Very astute observation, dear Watson!
But now we get to the serious topic/topics here. Why am I now making this publicized? Why am basically putting a target on my back so I now may get even more criticism? Do I want the Rain Man jokes? No, absolutely not. First off, Raymond (the autistic savant Dustin Hoffman played) and I are on two totally different ends of the autism spectrum. The doctors can easily diagnose Raymond. However, they cannot easily diagnose me. I am a hybrid of Asperger’s, autism, and a raw drive to be normal. I left the people at Heart Springs (an autism research center) scratching their heads. They had no clue what I was, only that I was some type of autistic. So thus trying Rain Man jokes on me is like trying to make fun of a mouse for not being a hamster. It just doesn’t work and makes you look like an idiot.
But back to the point. Why am I doing this? The answer was actually the first thing you saw when you first started reading this blog. It’s because I am, what I call, the Middle Spectrum. I am the halfway point between being autistic and being a normal, completely functioning human being. They don’t talk about kids like me because there are only a handful of them in the world. There are so few kids out there, who can comprehend situations at my level, that we are ignored. My mom tired hard to find a role model for me, and she bought me a book on Temple Grandin. She is a woman who has autism, and she designs equipment for animals. First off, God bless her. She has done a lot to get where she is. She is a very successful woman and inspires many people. But I cannot identify with her. There are few times in her book where she’s mentioned social situations, but it is in a way so logical and scientific, that it almost seems cold. For people like me in the Middle Spectrum, that is our main problem: the social aspect. We can handle ourselves academically very well; in fact, we sometimes do better than most of the ‘normal’ kids. Yet we are so awkward when it comes to social settings, we come off as being a freak. And we know we do. That’s what makes it difficult. We know that we are different and we want to achieve normality. We long to be one of the normal kids.
When I was in fourth grade I realized I was different. I looked at my mother one day and asked her, “Mom, why am I different?” She gazed at me lovingly and said, “Oh honey, you’re not different, you’re just special.” I looked at her, tears stinging my eyes, and said, “But Mom, I don’t want to be special.” The scary thing was, I meant it. Understand this, in fourth grade I moved to Goddard and away from a small town called Sedgwick. In Sedgwick everyone knew everyone, so thus, you had to be nice to them. I was not picked on in Sedgwick because of this fact. But when I came to Goddard, the floodgates of hatred opened. None of the students had ever seen a hybrid child like me, so no one knew how to react. People fear what they don’t understand, and the kids didn’t understand me. So they reacted off their fear, and that fear turned into a secondary emotion called anger. At the time the conversation between my mom and I happened, I was being picked on by these students. I had no friends, no one to stand up for me, I had no one. I remembered telling my teacher that a fellow schoolmate had written a mean note to me, and after class I showed her the note. The teacher called the student in, but ten minutes later, the same girl walked up to me and said, “She didn’t do anything to me you know.” I can still hear her voice in my head. So, because teachers and counselors didn’t do anything, I stopped fighting and I began resenting myself. If being ‘special’ made me treated this way, I wanted no part of it.
I strove to be normal after that. Being normal meant getting out of a special ED room for certain classes, it meant getting out of social working and speech therapy, it meant getting away from my paraprofessional, para for short. (NOTE: a para/paraprofessional is a teacher who is basically a private tutor and helper to a child with special needs.) I knew I had to get away from all these things to be normal and have my own life. I was going to try my hardest, do what the teachers told me, and not give up. I had to be normal. I had to be.
In sixth grade I went to see “The Phantom of the Opera” in the Warren downtown… and I first heard the music. It wasn’t just music, it was THE music. I saw The Phantom in the show, saw Christine, saw Raoul, and fell in love. I understood the storyline and the characters. I got the music, knew the notes, when no one else in my age group could. It made sense to me, for some odd reason. It was then I started singing, and my mom told me, I was actually pretty good at it. I always sang songs and hummed to myself, before actually learning to speak to other people. The music had always been there, I realized later, I just hadn’t heard it. But now I had, and it saved me.
I was drawn to theater soon after, where music was combined with real life, and soon I began reading Shakespeare. I remember walking into my sixth grade classroom with “Romeo and Juliet” in my hands, and my teacher’s eyes nearly bugged out of her face. I began writing stories the same year, and soon it became apparent that I had a good novelist imagination. All the while I still tried to be normal, tried to act normal. But still, I wasn’t getting there.
I was never interested in ‘girly’ things as a child. I didn’t want to do my hair or makeup, and I detested it when I got older. I was not a pretty child, I did not think of myself as a pretty child. I wore makeup a few times, but no one ever said I was beautiful. So I thought, “Why bother?” Me and being beautiful did not go together. I was only beautiful when I wrote, sang, or was on stage. That is when I had true beauty. In seventh grade I remember a boy in my age group was standing next to me at my locker. I was singing, “You’re beautiful, you’re beautiful, it’s true…” The boy smiled cheekily and said, “Thank you, I know I am.” I replied, “I was singing that to myself.” He burst out laughing and said, “No, you’re not beautiful, you’re ugly!” I didn’t reply to him after that. I was correct, I was not pretty. I had always known I wasn’t pretty. But if I had always known, why was I about to cry? Why did I hide my face in my locker to keep the burning of my cheeks from showing? Why did I care?
Later on, because of an incident in my seventh grade summer, I grew to hate men and the world. The only men I did not hate were in my musicals I watched or Josh Groban. I loved his voice, and still do to this day. I loved how he sang and gave emotion to every song. When he sang a sad song I used to think, “He’s singing my pain”. And I had read somewhere that he hadn’t fit in, in school himself because of his music and talent. Was he a bit autistic himself? Were we both part of the Middle Spectrum?
Then in my freshman year, my life changed. To make a long story short I found these people called theater people. They were the ones who dared to be different, and to accept the others who were different. I found my most wonderful friends here. Backstage we laughed and joked. On stage we sang freely. In the theater room, under the watchful eye of a man named Bryan Grosbach, we learned. He became my mentor, and sometimes, the one person in my life who always believed in me.
At last, I gave up my quest for normality, and started a quest to being ME. If there is anyone you know who has autism or some type of handicap, pass this blog onto them. I am telling these kids now, I get it! I know what it’s like to watch the world, knowing that you are different, and that you can’t change it. I know what it’s like to be aware of your oddities and how it affects others. I know what it’s like to not be able to control it. It sucks, I get it. But find the joy. I’m telling you, try to find the joy. When I was young the doctors said I would never learn past the Elementary school level. I am now writing my own plays and reading books that college students can’t make heads or tails out of. I am in the National Honor Society and in mostly AP classes. Do not let anyone say what your limits are! Don’t let anyone tell you how to act or how to live your life. I know that if you’re still in school and with all these peers around judging you, it’s scary. But don’t be afraid. You will come out of it. Keep your true friends close, and what you love to do, closer. I have found I always have a friend in music and the arts. If you have found a friend in something constructive, hold fast to it. This ride of life only becomes crazier, and when you hit a few bumps, sometimes that’s the only thing you can turn to. But enjoy the view around you. It’s not the destination that matters… it’s the road you take.
“Two roads diverged and I
Took the one last traveled by
And that has made the difference”
~ The Road Less Traveled By
All right, so I'm going to confess something to you. You may think what I say is weird, but that's okay. Maybe it’ll compel you a little bit more to read this. Ready for this?
I’m autistic.
All right, so, to those who know me, none of you are shocked. Most of you knew something was wrong with me in the first place. I was too weird, odd, freakish, whatever label you want to put me under, to be normal. Congratulations, you figured out I was different. Very astute observation, dear Watson!
But now we get to the serious topic/topics here. Why am I now making this publicized? Why am basically putting a target on my back so I now may get even more criticism? Do I want the Rain Man jokes? No, absolutely not. First off, Raymond (the autistic savant Dustin Hoffman played) and I are on two totally different ends of the autism spectrum. The doctors can easily diagnose Raymond. However, they cannot easily diagnose me. I am a hybrid of Asperger’s, autism, and a raw drive to be normal. I left the people at Heart Springs (an autism research center) scratching their heads. They had no clue what I was, only that I was some type of autistic. So thus trying Rain Man jokes on me is like trying to make fun of a mouse for not being a hamster. It just doesn’t work and makes you look like an idiot.
But back to the point. Why am I doing this? The answer was actually the first thing you saw when you first started reading this blog. It’s because I am, what I call, the Middle Spectrum. I am the halfway point between being autistic and being a normal, completely functioning human being. They don’t talk about kids like me because there are only a handful of them in the world. There are so few kids out there, who can comprehend situations at my level, that we are ignored. My mom tired hard to find a role model for me, and she bought me a book on Temple Grandin. She is a woman who has autism, and she designs equipment for animals. First off, God bless her. She has done a lot to get where she is. She is a very successful woman and inspires many people. But I cannot identify with her. There are few times in her book where she’s mentioned social situations, but it is in a way so logical and scientific, that it almost seems cold. For people like me in the Middle Spectrum, that is our main problem: the social aspect. We can handle ourselves academically very well; in fact, we sometimes do better than most of the ‘normal’ kids. Yet we are so awkward when it comes to social settings, we come off as being a freak. And we know we do. That’s what makes it difficult. We know that we are different and we want to achieve normality. We long to be one of the normal kids.
When I was in fourth grade I realized I was different. I looked at my mother one day and asked her, “Mom, why am I different?” She gazed at me lovingly and said, “Oh honey, you’re not different, you’re just special.” I looked at her, tears stinging my eyes, and said, “But Mom, I don’t want to be special.” The scary thing was, I meant it. Understand this, in fourth grade I moved to Goddard and away from a small town called Sedgwick. In Sedgwick everyone knew everyone, so thus, you had to be nice to them. I was not picked on in Sedgwick because of this fact. But when I came to Goddard, the floodgates of hatred opened. None of the students had ever seen a hybrid child like me, so no one knew how to react. People fear what they don’t understand, and the kids didn’t understand me. So they reacted off their fear, and that fear turned into a secondary emotion called anger. At the time the conversation between my mom and I happened, I was being picked on by these students. I had no friends, no one to stand up for me, I had no one. I remembered telling my teacher that a fellow schoolmate had written a mean note to me, and after class I showed her the note. The teacher called the student in, but ten minutes later, the same girl walked up to me and said, “She didn’t do anything to me you know.” I can still hear her voice in my head. So, because teachers and counselors didn’t do anything, I stopped fighting and I began resenting myself. If being ‘special’ made me treated this way, I wanted no part of it.
I strove to be normal after that. Being normal meant getting out of a special ED room for certain classes, it meant getting out of social working and speech therapy, it meant getting away from my paraprofessional, para for short. (NOTE: a para/paraprofessional is a teacher who is basically a private tutor and helper to a child with special needs.) I knew I had to get away from all these things to be normal and have my own life. I was going to try my hardest, do what the teachers told me, and not give up. I had to be normal. I had to be.
In sixth grade I went to see “The Phantom of the Opera” in the Warren downtown… and I first heard the music. It wasn’t just music, it was THE music. I saw The Phantom in the show, saw Christine, saw Raoul, and fell in love. I understood the storyline and the characters. I got the music, knew the notes, when no one else in my age group could. It made sense to me, for some odd reason. It was then I started singing, and my mom told me, I was actually pretty good at it. I always sang songs and hummed to myself, before actually learning to speak to other people. The music had always been there, I realized later, I just hadn’t heard it. But now I had, and it saved me.
I was drawn to theater soon after, where music was combined with real life, and soon I began reading Shakespeare. I remember walking into my sixth grade classroom with “Romeo and Juliet” in my hands, and my teacher’s eyes nearly bugged out of her face. I began writing stories the same year, and soon it became apparent that I had a good novelist imagination. All the while I still tried to be normal, tried to act normal. But still, I wasn’t getting there.
I was never interested in ‘girly’ things as a child. I didn’t want to do my hair or makeup, and I detested it when I got older. I was not a pretty child, I did not think of myself as a pretty child. I wore makeup a few times, but no one ever said I was beautiful. So I thought, “Why bother?” Me and being beautiful did not go together. I was only beautiful when I wrote, sang, or was on stage. That is when I had true beauty. In seventh grade I remember a boy in my age group was standing next to me at my locker. I was singing, “You’re beautiful, you’re beautiful, it’s true…” The boy smiled cheekily and said, “Thank you, I know I am.” I replied, “I was singing that to myself.” He burst out laughing and said, “No, you’re not beautiful, you’re ugly!” I didn’t reply to him after that. I was correct, I was not pretty. I had always known I wasn’t pretty. But if I had always known, why was I about to cry? Why did I hide my face in my locker to keep the burning of my cheeks from showing? Why did I care?
Later on, because of an incident in my seventh grade summer, I grew to hate men and the world. The only men I did not hate were in my musicals I watched or Josh Groban. I loved his voice, and still do to this day. I loved how he sang and gave emotion to every song. When he sang a sad song I used to think, “He’s singing my pain”. And I had read somewhere that he hadn’t fit in, in school himself because of his music and talent. Was he a bit autistic himself? Were we both part of the Middle Spectrum?
Then in my freshman year, my life changed. To make a long story short I found these people called theater people. They were the ones who dared to be different, and to accept the others who were different. I found my most wonderful friends here. Backstage we laughed and joked. On stage we sang freely. In the theater room, under the watchful eye of a man named Bryan Grosbach, we learned. He became my mentor, and sometimes, the one person in my life who always believed in me.
At last, I gave up my quest for normality, and started a quest to being ME. If there is anyone you know who has autism or some type of handicap, pass this blog onto them. I am telling these kids now, I get it! I know what it’s like to watch the world, knowing that you are different, and that you can’t change it. I know what it’s like to be aware of your oddities and how it affects others. I know what it’s like to not be able to control it. It sucks, I get it. But find the joy. I’m telling you, try to find the joy. When I was young the doctors said I would never learn past the Elementary school level. I am now writing my own plays and reading books that college students can’t make heads or tails out of. I am in the National Honor Society and in mostly AP classes. Do not let anyone say what your limits are! Don’t let anyone tell you how to act or how to live your life. I know that if you’re still in school and with all these peers around judging you, it’s scary. But don’t be afraid. You will come out of it. Keep your true friends close, and what you love to do, closer. I have found I always have a friend in music and the arts. If you have found a friend in something constructive, hold fast to it. This ride of life only becomes crazier, and when you hit a few bumps, sometimes that’s the only thing you can turn to. But enjoy the view around you. It’s not the destination that matters… it’s the road you take.
“Two roads diverged and I
Took the one last traveled by
And that has made the difference”
~ The Road Less Traveled By
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)