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.
