I am gradually in the process of migration.  For sometime I have been using Facebook Notes as a blog, but it was inefficient and slow to load.  I am gradually moving things over bit by bit, so things here may be a little redundant to my Facebook buddies who actually took time to read any of my entries.  I doubt there were and will be much readers there nor here, and I am satisfied with that. I am just a small vibration lost in the noise of what is the world. My evolving and nomadic thoughts have been wandering off into other crevices, hiding, as we all do,  in plain sight. There is comfort in being seen and unseen. Maybe one day I will migrate into a chapbook. Until then…

Transformation Tree

After my son was diagnosed with a social disorder, I started reading up on things. After much reading, his life became a window to my own. I began to empathize with my son, remembering my own struggles. We are both children on and of the spectrum. It was a relief to have our strangeness confirmed and labeled. It made me feel closer to normal somehow, that it wasn’t just all on him or me.

When he was a toddler he would bang his head repeatedly on the wall for no reason until there was a semi-permanent bruise on his forehead. When he got angry he would have the most terrible fits lasting hours. Sometimes he would look at me in rage and rip off his diaper, defecating on the floor out of spite and defiance.

When he would play, he was obsessed in putting blocks in straight lines. I remember being extremely proud thinking it was a sign on how intelligent he was for a baby, and that maybe he would one day be an engineer. I also remember how disappointed I would get because his toys became merely decorations to line up in rows.

His speech was delayed. It took him a while before words came out, and when they did he struggled, so much so that other kids noticed and he was bullied for it. He was the odd one out, and I had a sinking feeling he was different from others. I tried to voice my concerns when he started school, but they told me he was too young and still developing. When he got older they still insisted he was fine, so I believed them.

Homework was a chore, more so for me than for him. He was terrible in following instructions, and he was constantly distracted. I almost thought he was doing it all on purpose. I would end up doing most of the work, and I felt like he was tricking me into it. There were also times he would play deaf. I would call out his name, but get no response even when I was right in front of him. I thought, what a stubborn boy.

Looking into his disorder made me look into my own. I was very different as a kid, but there were things that he did that reminded me of myself.  I was the lost kid who repeatedly took the wrong bus to school even when given a set of instructions. After all the children would leave I would sit in the back of the bus until I was noticed. The driver would ask me questions with only blank eyes answering back. He would fumble around in distress, calling around to find out where I belonged. By the end of the week all the bus drivers knew who I was.

I was also delayed in speech. It’s not that I did not understand what people said, but they could not get an answer back. Even when they waved their hands in front of me I did not respond. At first they thought I did not speak English so they tried Japanese. Then they tried something else, until they all gave up. They held me for observation wondering if I was retarded or shy.

During recess I would play with legos, blocks, or even pencils and arrange them in perfect lines. Sometimes I would find solitude in the sandbox, repeating patterns in the sand. I was always far away from the other kids, and I never minded it. Sometimes my teacher, Ms. Coffeen, would take me in and let me help her clean the classroom.

Aside from Ms. Coffeen, I had a special teacher who would pull me away from the rest of the class and give me books and puzzles and tests. It was because of her I began to speak outside the room. She nurtured my social space and taught it to grow.

I loved Ms. Coffeen. Sometimes I caught myself calling her mom. When she spoke with my mom she was excited to tell her how I wrote the word elephant down in Kanji without any reference. I loved how she believed in me.

I remember painting a tree, and the school gave me a bronze medal. My mom thought I stole it and tried to give it back to the school, but they explained to her that I had earned it. They said they gave me first place because the painting of my tree was different from the others. It won, they said, because it went through a transformation.

The watercolor leaves glistened in sunlight. The brown branches broke into fluid and reached into the petals of purple hues while I blew into it. As it moved it bloomed and soon it dried into distress, fading in color. It’s hard to understand how glorious the tree could be when you don’t catch that transformation. It can begin as something and end as something else. Just like people. But in essence, it is still the same tree.

Roll Call

The other children in the room raised their hands when they heard their names. The other children were not her.

The girl did not wish to answer to what the Lady already knew. The Lady looked at the girl and called her name, waiting for a response. The girl saw no need because the Lady knew she was there, but the Lady could not be defeated so once again she repeated. The Lady approached the girl, waving her hands in the air. Clearly, the Lady knew the girl was there. The girl could not discern the Lady’s frustration to her indifference.

Insanity was calling out to the air, and the air answered back but was not heard.