The Gates

Every Saturday, my daughters do an exercise called "The Gates" during their pre-school dance class. If I don't sit in my car to avoid talking to all the other mothers, I am sitting in the back dressing room (hopefully alone)-- knitting and answering any questions posed to me from people trying to make conversation. If inside the building, I can hear the music and the instructor calling for the tiny dancers to make their way through "The Gates". What do I think about when I hear this? My mother saying, "What!?! Do I look like I'm wearing skates!? Slow down!"

My mother has a pretty decent sense of humor when I know she is joking. Unfortunately, I don't always realize when people are joking. However, this comment is only one of the many things I remember being said to me. One that may not have been said to me if others and myself had known about Asperger's in the Seventies, Eighties, and most of the Nineties. Another thing commonly heard about my walking was being referred to as "Stompy". Both of those things are true. But now, I kinda of think of it like this: would you poke fun at a blind man about how he bumps into things he can't see? Or on a less dramatic note, would you mock someone for being right or left handed? Sadly, seeing what I have seen of the human race, I think both of those things have happened. The way I walk is not an affliction! It is the way I walk. I walk really fast, with scissor-like glides. Although most of my life has been spent long and lean, I am far from graceful. And, I walk really hard on my heels. Just look at any one of my many pairs of sneakers. Forensics would pin me in a second.

I have trouble telling how hard I am doing something. This is also evident when I write. I usually end up with a divot in my finger from holding the pen. And, you can easily read what I wrote on at least five to ten pages under the original document. As an illustrator, I tried to use dip pens as recommended to me by a favorite comic artist, Peter Bagge. But, my hand is so heavy that it was almost impossible. So back to Sharpies. Thanks god, somewhere along the line graffiti artist made those cool. If you wait long enough, whatever you are doing will come into fashion (if only for a second). And, watercolor? Forget it! I tear through the paper in five minutes flat. I guess that is one of the reasons why I like the early works of Jean DeBuffet. He painted with sand and dirt.

I am sure somewhere someone would like to say all the little comments had an effect on me. Maybe that person should be me. Maybe a lot of those feeling I can't recognize yet. But, in the beginning of this journey, I declared to myself I would not play a blame game. Some people can be nice, some people can be not-so-nice. Some nice people can be not-so-nice without really knowing it. I don't really remember these things because they hurt me. I remember a lot of things that happened many, many years ago for what seems to be no good reason. I guess that could reek of denial. But, I'm not sure it smells of anything but old newspapers.

For every ten to one hundred things that are said to me and fall off me like water on a rain slicker, there are one or two things that did/do hurt. I stopped keeping track of how many times I'd heard, "You are so smart but you have no common sense!" That hurt. Not only did it hurt me, it made me a little confused and scared. Most of the time, I couldn't figure out why someone (usually my mother) would get upset enough to say something like that to me, because it really just translates to, "You're smart but you're dumb!" And, I would be scared because most people who lack common sense do things like get hit by buses when they bend over to tie their shoe in the middle of the street. I may bend over to tie my shoe in the middle of you telling me something very revealing about yourself. But, I would never do that on the train tracks with a whistle blowing in the distance.

Another comment that stung was being called "clumsy". Being the tallest girl in the class usually set me up for playing forward on the basketball team not gliding across the balance beam. But, it was more than that. I had trouble navigating doorways and pieces of furniture that hadn't been moved in years. Watching me get out of a school desk was more like watching a mountain man wrestle a bear. I couldn't figure out how to rollerskate at skating parties. I tripped over my tennis racket and skinned my knee the first time I ever played. I was well-known for disappearing during highschool gym class. Not to go catch a smoke in the locker room or eat candy bars in the auditorium, but to avoid the sheer panic of having to coordinate my arms and legs into whatever red bouncy ball game of the day was being played.

Now, I see my daughter walk around the house on her tippy-toes sometimes. And, I let her, because I know it makes her comfortable. I will never make her feel bad for doing it. And, I will teach her how to deal with it when someone does. And, when I see on school evaluations that she hasn't quite figured out how to do a somersault yet-- I know she will eventually. I can work with her on that.

And, as of today, I am proud to be a minister of silly walks.

Spontaneous Combustion

For years, I have tried to find others who would understand a time in my life when I was fascinated by the idea of spontaneous combustion. About ten years ago, I saw an article in the Onion that I thought was absolutely hilarious. As I showed it to friends, they didn't think it was as great as I did. "8yr. Old Boy Knows Everything about Squirrels," it read (or close to it). Get it, I'd say, get it? While working on a degree in Psychology at Penn State, I thought of a perfect thesis. It would explore why so many kids in my "Gifted" classes were a little different, a little odd, a little obsessed. This was back in 1992. And, I hadn't heard of Asperger's. I could never figure out why teachers would always tell us to brain storm... to turn things over in our minds OVER and OVER and OVER. Especially when the majority of us were already thinking about things (we were interested in) WAY more then what the average person would consider normal or healthy. It is like asking a gentle, summer breeze to work itself up into a hurricane.

The other day while trying to relax, knitting while watching the Science channel, I tripped over a program about "dark" science. The theme of the episode was spontaneous combustion. Although my interest was peaked, my reply was, "Tell me something I don't already know." I watched it and learned nothing new. It is amazing how little had changed over the past thirty years.

I can't remember exactly how old I was, maybe about 8yrs old like the Squirrel Boy. At that time, I had received a book about various phenomena. It included stories about mysterious footprints on rooftops, rainstorms of frogs falling from the sky, moving photographs of ghostly women, and a whole section on spontaneous combustion. I became entranced. I suddenly needed to find out everything I could about it. Those were the days before PCs in libraries and internet search engines. So, I spent many hours in the library digging through books, magazine articles, and microfiche. I found photographs like of man charred beyond recognition, except for the bit of tattered bathrobe and bedroom slippers filled with what appeared to be hamburger. I found scientific studies about pig carcasses wrapped tightly in blankets and then set on fire. But, more importantly, I formulated my own theory. It took a bit of geology, a bit of Roman Catholicism, and a bit of Looney Tunes. I ultimately figured spontaneous combustion had to be the work of the Devil. I just couldn't believe a being of his power and cunning would settle for sitting in a red hot throne while his minions poked people with pitch forks. Simple chemical reactions didn't cut it. And, it couldn't always be a misplaced cigarette butt. In an almost cartoonish way, I could see Satan himself lifting a fingertip to the outer most crust of the Earth's surface (because hell had to be in a solid center of the Earth's core surrounded by molten rock). He would then randomly set people ablaze like matchsticks for kicks.

I could deal with this theory for a while. It made sense but it was pretty innocuous. But, it still made its way to the forefront of my thoughts OFTEN. Sometimes, I would stop my mother while we were performing mundane tasks, like shopping at the Mall. I'd come to a halt and ask her, "What if I spontaneously combust RIGHT NOW!?!?!" She initially seemed a little disturbed. But, eventually, she would just ignore me. Every time I asked her, I would picture her covered in hot, steaming fleshy bits. Everything, in spite of my obsessive thoughts of flaming flesh, seemed to be moving along nicely in my world-- until the day my mother asked me to do the unthinkable. Go down to the basement and change the laundry from the washer to the dryer. We lived in an older flat with a dark, unwelcoming, Lovercraftian basement. I could handle the shadows and the dank, damp air. What I could not handle was the thought of how much my mother must have disliked me to send me to a certain death. Because, if Hell is in the center of the Earth like many Christians would have had me believe... and it is Satan who is causing humans to go off like fireworks... and the basement is the closest part of the house to the center of the Earth!?!?! I wouldn't return from my task smelling unpleasantly like fabric softener (see previous entry). I wouldn't return AT ALL! I would get so wound up that I couldn't even begin to explain myself. And, what did come out sounded like gibberish to my mother, I am sure. An act of manslaughter, I'd think. In her mind, I was once again being uncooperative, difficult, defiant, overly dramatic, and even lazy. Once again, she'd note that her daughter was incapable of completing even the most simple chore.

As time passed, I though I had outgrown it. An idea lost under the bed like an old sock. Until years later, a boyfriend of mine who worked for a local printer compiled a half dozen pages into a chapbook about spontaneous combustion for me. I suddenly felt like it was a mistake to confide in him. Because didn't he know? The more you think about something the closer it gets to you! Suddenly, the ground seemed warmer under my feet.

I am now able to think of things without thinking I am forming thoughts into matter. I have moved beyond that mode of thinking-- kinda.