I never understood group dynamics, particularly casual friendship dynamics that work on giving and taking, role playing and modeling, rule following and turn taking. Somewhere along the way, I had learned to cope with the intricacies of young friendships well enough to manage one friend. Any more spelled disaster sometimes in very real forms. One day, I suppose I had had enough of Maureen’s having other friends. She and a little girl from next door were playing outside in the yard when I marched myself up to the little girl and asked her just why she was at Maureen’s house. I can’t remember what she told me, but I do remember I punched her right in the belly the moment she finished her explanation. I guess she said something I didn’t like!
My mother enrolled me in a ballet class when I was six years old to help me with my inability to enjoy my peers. While this seemed a good plan, it was very short lived. To begin with, I disliked ballet in general. I could not for the life of me master the intricateness of it all; the coordination of bilateral movement it requires. My mind was simply unable to prepare a way for my body to understand first position or second position or any position that meant one leg had to go one way and the other another while my arms went still a different direction. Ballet frustrated and confused me. What did it mean to move like a swan? Would a swan wear leotards that strangled or slippers that made your toes go to sleep? Ballet and my teacher made no sense. At least none I could fathom. The children made no sense either. They refused to follow the rules. Sooner than later, ballet had worn out its welcome with me, and I with it. I often wonder if my teacher was delighted or dismayed to make the call that led to my never returning to class.
«Mrs. Holliday, we think it would be in everyone’s best interest if Liane no longer attended our school», the teacher began.
«Why would you suggest that?» my mother responded.
«To begin with, she is quite uncoordinated. But her worst offence is her attitude. Not only is she uncooperative, she also refuses to get along with others. In fact, she hits the poor children whose only failing is standing near her».
When my mother asked me why I hit the poor children in my class, I gave an answer that to me, was self-explanatory.
«Because they touched me».
«What do you mean „because they touched you“?» Mom asked. «We’re supposed to stay an arm away from each other. We are not supposed to touch».
«But Liane, they don’t mean to touch you. They probably just lose their balance and accidentally run into you».
«They aren’t supposed to touch me», was the only reply I would give. Made sense to me. And so ended my ballet career.
Words were beginning to mean far more to me than actions were. I remember following directions, literally and to the letter. As was her habit, Mom insisted I be able to see the roof of my house from wherever I was. This was her way of insuring I never wandered off too far. One afternoon, I remember making my way to my elementary school playground, never fearing that four blocks was too far away. After all, I told my mother when I returned home and found her terribly upset, I had been able to see the roof of my home. So what if I had had to climb to the roof of my school to do so. That’s how I understood language. Words had yet to develop into metaphors or similes or analogies or main ideas. It was all about details and pedantic rules and one-way semantics. I never considered a statement had more than one meaning. I always assumed the meaning I inferred was the intent of the speaker. Today, we know we need to help children with AS learn that other people have other points of views. Back when I was young, we simply assumed children were innately equipped with this knowledge. My parents, assuming I was acting audaciously, were constantly baffled as to why I found it so necessary to challenge their authority. They found themselves weighing their every directive to be certain I would not find a way to weave their words with mine. Which is of course, exactly what I did. I had to make their language fit into mine. I was not able to make mine fit into theirs.
Typically, my teachers took it upon themselves to analyze this pedantic behavior of mine and I’m told their fondest memories of me included adjectives like obstinate, disobedient and everyone’s favorite, mentally retarded. Because my parents were learning how to talk to me, it never occurred to them that I was not following other people’s directions. They knew how to get my attention, usually by allowing me the freedom to find my own way of expressing my interests. If I wanted to chew the same piece of gum for days on end, that was fine. If I wanted to shape my mouth into the letters they were forming while I spoke, that was okay If I insisted on reading my books out loud that was okay too, even if we were in the library They knew I had my own way of doing things, and they didn’t interfere with my methods so long as the effort was genuine and the result positive. I had control over my learning environment at home and because I was so academically gifted, my parents saw no reason to interfere with a good thing. But at school, the rules changed. Suddenly, I was expected to comply with agendas and schedules that were stifling and illogical.
During my first year of school, the teacher assigned each of us a special number. This number was supposed to be our special number and every time she called our number we were to answer, as if she had called us by name. To my way of thinking, this was a meaningless idea. Naturally, I refused to comply. The teacher called my parents and told them as much. My parents agreed with me that this was a silly issue and they insisted the teacher use my name from then on out.
That same year, we were required to take naps each day. I vividly remember my teacher announcing, «Children, find your mats and take your nap». I refused. Again, the teacher called my parents. Again, my parents made their way to the school.
«Liane, why won’t you take your nap?» my parents wondered of me.
«Because, I can’t».
«You see!» the teacher said smugly.
«Why can’t you take your nap?» my parents continued.
«Because I don’t have a mat».
«You most certainly do have a mat. There it is in your cubby», the teacher replied.
«I do not have a mat».
«You see what I mean?» the teacher asked my parents. «she is an obstinate child».
«Why do you say you don’t have a mat?» the folks asked, not giving up on me.
«That is not a mat. That is a rug», I honestly and accurately replied.
«So it is», said my father. «Will you take a nap on your rug?»
«If she tells me to», I said matter-of-factly.
«Tell her to take her nap on her rug», my father said as my parents turned to take me home. I think even then, I was grateful to be vindicated. I wasn’t trying to be difficult, I was trying to do the right thing. The trouble was, the teacher assumed I understood language like other children did. I did not.
Most children thrive on chaos and noise. Children in school were always running and shouting and moving. They were always busy, always mixing things up, never content to play quietly or by themselves. I liked to play at the kitchen center in our kindergarten room. In fact, I rarely wanted to play anywhere else, another «problem» of mine that caused my teacher great distress. If I wasn’t playing with the kitchen toys, I was reading. Reading was relaxing and it was something I could do very well by the time I was three years old. Should I say, it looked like I could read. Actually, I could call out most of the words printed in my books. I could not typically comprehend the material if it was written above a first grade level. Nonetheless, I did find solace in the dark print so neatly typed on the white pages. I enjoyed the rhythmic pattern and the flow that moved the eye from left to right, from top to bottom. I welcomed the routine that insisted I stop for periods and break for commas and new paragraphs. I loved the way most words played on my tongue. I loved the way they caused different parts of my mouth to move. But if I did come across a word that hurt my ears, typically words with too many hyper-nasal sounds, I would not say them aloud. Similarly, I would refuse words that looked ugly by virtue of being too lopsided or too cumbersome or too unusual in their phonetics. I don’t recall being very attracted to picture books, probably because these required I attach meaning to what I saw. Word books did not require this of me. Word books allowed me to take what I needed and then move on.