As an adult I find myself adhering to very similar patterns of behavior. If I unpack boxes from a move and put something away it is very difficult for me to move it. That becomes its place, and it always lives there even if it is not where I want it. It is important for me to unpack and arrange my things thoughtfully the first time because wherever I place the toaster is where it is going to stay. That initial placing, the initial routine becomes set in stone.
It’s a good thing that kindergarten was only a half-day or the other kids may not have survived. I am told that I did not share well, but the truth of it is that I was not trying to keep all the toys for myself. I just didn’t want anyone to mess them up. I tried to help the other children play, to do it the right way, but they couldn’t learn.
The block corner was my favorite place to be. The only problem was that it was popular with the other kids as well. I spent most of my time stacking the blocks—carefully piling them high into the sky. I remember trying to make skyscrapers like the ones I watched whiz by from the backseat of my father’s 1979 baby blue Cadillac. As soon as Dad got on the up-ramp to the Brooklyn Queens Expressway I watched for them, then I hopped to my knees and watched out the rear window until they were completely out of sight.
Skyscrapers are not meant to fall; not meant to be knocked over by giggling boys who wanted to kick their pieces and throw them around like footballs. Blocks were meant for building—so I built, and built, and built.
If only the school had enough blocks for my skyscrapers and for the other children everything would have been perfect—maybe. I couldn’t let them touch the blocks, they weren’t doing it right. I tried to teach them the right way to stack blocks. I wanted their help building, I did, but they just couldn’t get it right.
When one of the boys in my class decided it was his turn, and tried to destroy my building in order to get his meaty hands on my precious blocks, I clawed him.
I dug my fingernails into his spongy flesh, and dragged it down the top of his hands. He screamed, he bled, and he let go of my block.
By the time the teacher was beside us, I was already engrossed with rebuilding the roof that he so carelessly ripped off.
I don’t know why scratching became my weapon of choice. Maybe it was because I was so tiny and could never overpower one of the other kids. I was number three, which means there were only two children smaller than me; Toni and Laura. Shayne was number 4, he stood right behind me. Those three never got clawed, not that I can remember anyway, it was always the bigger ones.
Kindergarten should only have one activity per day; that way we wouldn’t have to change activities. Even now I cannot switch activities easily. If I am interrupted it is impossible to resume what I was doing without delay. My brain needs time to make the switch.
When I am writing, as I am today, and the phone rings, or the kids interrupt, it takes a few minutes to even process what they are asking me. Most of the time I am angered by the interruption, and I am an adult.
Part of the problem is that I get so engrossed in what I am doing that I forget about the world around me. The interruption becomes an unexpected intrusion. To compound the problem, getting back to my activity can take some time. Depending on the nature of the interruption resuming can take anywhere from a few minutes to several hours; it is never instantaneous. This makes switching from one activity to the next difficult and time consuming.
When we were required to switch play centers, and I was moved from the blocks to the play kitchen, I could not do it. I could not run and play house without finishing what I was working on. I didn’t refuse, I wasn’t trying to be ornery, I just didn’t move.
If a switch was successful, I would spend all of my “play” time re-arranging the house area. They did not have the kitchen set up right; the eggs belong in the refrigerator not in the cabinet! I had no interest in pretending to play house, only in arranging things to be in their proper order. While the other girls and boys played mommies, and daddies, I fixed the cupboard. The girls toted baby dolls around, and I fretted about who moved the plastic bananas. Where exactly had they moved them to anyway? Why would they put them in there?
I never did consider that there could be more than one right way to set up the kitchen; there wasn’t.
I realize now that my “play” was always modeled after real life—only better, more orderly, and more predictable—unless of course, others were involved.
I did not build rocket ships that launched off to Mars; no one went to Mars! I did not play with dolls pretending they were babies; they were plastic. There was this one doll though, one doll that I had to have—the Joey doll.
My grandfather watched Archie Bunker in the TV show “All in the Family” every night, which meant so did I. Joey was Archie Bunker’s grandson. Baby Joey was a controversial doll; he was the first doll to be just like a real baby. Joey was anatomically correct! Just like a real baby? OK—I can do that.
First lesson in anatomy, and the excretory system: put water in Joey’s mouth and it comes right out—immediately.
Standing in front of our house, I proudly displayed my stripped Joey doll. “Boys have penises—see! “
I may have traumatized the little old Italian woman in the black dress next door. There were a lot of unrecognizable words coming out of her mouth. Then she made the sign of the cross three times, kissed her crucifix, and rushed off into the house. What? I thought she knew.
My fascination with playing at real life did not stop at dolls. When I played with other children, I always insisted on acting out activities that I did normally.
Growing up we never moved. I didn’t leave that house, except episodically, for twenty-five years. For me that made invaluable built-in friends because other families on the block grew up there too. Some are still there today.
When I was very young, I played with three friends on the block: Theresa, Daniella, and Cindy. Theresa and Daniella lived one house away from me. Theresa was two years older than I was, and her family moved there in 1973, the before year I was born. I quite literally have known her my entire life. Daniella was two years younger; I think Cynthia was three.
Together we all put on dance recitals in the backyard. Theresa’s father grew grapes in their yard to make homemade wine. The grape vines wound around a metal frame that we thought would be perfect for holding a stage curtain.
The three of us carefully set-up the stage by hanging bed sheets and blankets over the grapevines. We practiced, had dress rehearsals, and then invited our parents to the shows. We collected music, dressed in tutus, and twirled around like the ballerinas we were. I wonder if they ever tired of our shows. We seemed to always be putting on a show, and many times to an empty audience.
I had an obsession with walking on my tiptoes—I always did. I’m told that I walked on my toes everywhere I went especially when I was very young. My grandparents had a Pianola in their living room. A Pianola that played music all on its own; it was like magic. Grandpa unrolled paper scrolls dotted with small holes, and put them into a secret compartment on the front of the piano.
He slid the cherry wood door to the compartment shut, and flipped the golden switch. The piano jumped to life. The keys bounced up and down on their own, the foot petal tapped by itself like there was a ghost sitting there playing. The ghost played beautiful music. I could twirl round and round for hours to the velvety music that filled the room—and I did.
“She has ballerina feet,” Grandma said. “Look at her twirl, she’s a natural.” And so, off to ballet class I went.
I loved ballet class. For the clumsy mess that I was outside the dance studio it is a real wonder how I didn’t severely hurt myself dancing. When I was dancing, and twirling, and listening to the music, I could drown the world out. Everything disappeared; there was only the flow of the music. I loved the sound of the piano.
An intense focus allowed me to dance without mistake, because I could not tolerate mistakes. Everything had to be perfect; that is, perfect the
way I saw perfect. The only problem was I wanted to dance alone.
I got my wish; my drive for perfection got me noticed. With me it was all or nothing, I saw no point in doing something halfway. I focused on learning my positions, where to place my feet: first position, second position, third, fourth, and fifth. I learned fast, quickly becoming the one who showed others how to do it. This time I could show them the right way, and they listened.
Miss Helen, my dance teacher, was a small older woman with short blond hair. She encouraged me to go around and correct the other girl’s ballet positions. I liked that job. She pulled me to the front of the class to demonstrate, then to lead the class in our routines. It didn’t take long for me to memorize them.
Soon I was given solos of my own to perform; I preferred them to dancing with the class. Many times I was granted solos within the class dances, or set out front to do my own routine with them in the background. I was the new little star.
Mom thought I just loved the attention. I loved being helpful, being accurate, being correct, and being able to show others how to do the same. I am starting to see a pattern here—the beginnings of a perfectionist.
I really did want everyone to do things right, not my way, but the right way. Unfortunately, I had no ability to distinguish between the two. There was one right way, I knew what it was, and there was no telling me anything different. I was not very flexible.
I developed an instant love for ballet, and for the classical music that sent me twirling into my own world. I loved the feel of the leotard on my skin. The leotard was smooth, the tights silky, and the ballet slippers hugged my feet. I tried to wear this outfit as often as possible; to play outside, to dinner, to go shopping, and to school— but my parents drew the line at that one.
Chapter Four
Banished to the Hallways; School Made No Sense.
When did I start despising school? I started out loving school. I loved to learn. I loved facts—not to mention that I loved to be right, and to be able to raise my hand and give the correct answer.
By the time I was in second grade school had crushed my love for learning. It was a nightmare full of loud sounds, bright colors, and noisy children. The adoration I received for being “so smart” faded with each grade. I could not understand what was happening. Instead of praise, I was constantly getting reprimanded. Nothing made sense.
Even Mr. Hiler no longer meant what he said. He said I could come and see him whenever I wanted, but he lied.
When I rose from my seat, walked out of my classroom, and went down the stairs to the main office to see him, I was in trouble.
“Young lady, you cannot just walk out of Ms. Montouri’s class and come down here.”
Tears welled up in my eyes as I tried to make sense of it. Ms. Montouri stood in the doorway with her black pointy witch’s shoes, furious, and red as a tomato. My mother was on her way up to school.
“Fine!” I finally found my voice, and crossed my arms before stomping off.
“Where are you going?” Ms. Montouri said.
“To the bathroom.”
I turned on my heels and marched out of the office, down the hall, and to the girl’s bathroom next to the stairs. I sniffed and snorted so that my nose would not run down into my mouth and held back the tears. I was not letting him see me cry, he was a liar.
I stayed curled atop of the bowl in the bathroom and sobbed. What did I do wrong?
“You can’t just get up and do what you want. You have to listen to your teacher!” mother said.
“But why doesn’t she have to listen to me?”
“Because she’s the teacher”
“I should be teacher then.”
I did try to listen to Ms. Montouri after that, even though I didn’t understand why I had to. I tried to answer questions in class when I could hear them. Sometimes I even remembered to raise my hand. It’s not my fault she didn’t see it.
There were a lot of things she did not see. She didn’t see Joshua poking me with a pencil, she didn’t see him taking my papers, or telling the class if they sat next to me they would get the chicken pox. She didn’t see everyone laugh.
I clawed him, I made him bleed, daily—that she saw.
My desk was effectively relocated to the hallway where I could sit by myself and think about things. What things was I supposed to think about? What are things anyway?
I can’t say that I sat in the hall everyday but it sure felt like it. In fact, I longed to get away from the noisy classroom and be alone in the hall. Out in the hallway I could actually hear the lesson going on in the classroom. The distance made all the madness of the classroom less assaulting. No one poked me, or threw things. I didn’t have to try to listen to the teacher when other children were constantly talking.
When they were talking I couldn’t hear anything but noise. Just noise—all around me.
“Shut up!” I screamed holding my ears. “I can’t hear.”
“Jeannie, out in the hallway!” Ms. Montouri pointed toward the door to the desk that sat permanently out there waiting for me.
There was no point in staying in the room; she wasn’t teaching us anything we didn’t already know. Why would she teach an entire class to read? That is a waste of time, we knew that already. Then our times tables, really? This is kid stuff.
I raised my hand to answer the questions, I did. I waved my arms back and forth trying to keep my butt in the seat like she said I should. Still, she didn’t call on me.
“Someone else—besides Jeannie. Does anyone else know the answer?”
When no one had the answer, I could no longer contain myself. I blurted it out.
“In the hallway.”
I know, go think about things. Things are a problem.
“She was the last one in the school, and the last one out. She made the whole class wait for her every day.” ~ Mom
School was a minefield. For starters, I was late every day because my alien leaders, the ones that dropped me off at my mother’s house when I was born, didn’t give her an instruction manual—and she was not a fast learner. We continued to struggle over what I would wear, and what I would eat, which was usually nothing. I didn’t sleep well either so I was hard to wake in the morning, but much easier to wake than her.
School nights didn’t mean much in my house; my parents liked to party. My brother and I stayed in their bedroom to go to sleep while aunts, uncles and friends played loud music, drank, smoked, and played cards.
I tried to sleep curled up in a ball under the covers cupping my hands over my ears trying desperately to drown out the noise. The smell of cigarette smoke and beer made my stomach sick and my eyes tear.
In the morning, navigating the sea of sleeping bodies sprawled out across the living room carpet surrounded by empty beer bottles, and half spilled ashtrays brought on the vomit. Vomit brought on the screaming.
My screaming because even then I hated to vomit; although I should have been used to it, and my mother’s screaming because now there was a mess to clean up. Now? There was a mess to begin with! Vomit was hard to get out of mustard-colored shag carpet.
Mornings sucked, school sucked, and we were late. At least I no longer needed to go see Mr. Hiler for a late pass; he was a liar.
I was never in a rush; that much is true, but I certainly did not intentionally make the whole class late coming out of school every day—not intentionally.
The end of the school day was always the same.
“Pack your things, and line-up.”
Line-up I had down. I was number three; Toni was number one, Laura was number two, then me, and Shayne was number four. Line-up: check. It was the pack your things part, the part that needed to be done before line-up that was the problem.
My desk was a wreck. The small space inside the metal-framed desk reserved for books was jam packed with my things. Papers were shoved inside, crumpled and torn. Pencils fell to the floor when I pulled on something I thought I needed to pack up, and were fo
llowed by an avalanche of debris that scattered across the floor making my head spin.
The mess, the chaos, and the lack of things having their own place made me feel sick. My brain ceased to work; I ceased to respond. I just stood there staring at the mess that I had no idea how to begin to clean up.
“We are not leaving until Jeannie cleans up this mess and packs her things.”
I froze. There is that word again—things.
I made several attempts throughout the year to pack-up my things. All of them were wrong. I never arrived home with any of my textbooks, and couldn’t do my homework. I spent the nights crying because my homework wasn’t done, and the morning being screamed at because my homework wasn’t done.
Going to school without my homework meant writing, I must do my homework, twenty times on the blackboard. I longed for the end of the day; longed to be out of the clutches of the classroom.
“Jeannie, pack up your things,” the dreaded words seemed to echo throughout the room.
The whole class grumbled while I stood there staring blankly at my desk. They knew we were not leaving until I got my things together. The mothers waiting outside would be angry and grumbling that everyone always had to wait for me.
“If someone doesn’t help Jeannie pack her things, we are going to stay here all day.” Ms. Montouri said.
I didn’t know what to pack.
Shayne, number four, rushed over to help. He helped me shove everything into my book bag, and slung it over his shoulder. Shayne wanted to go home.
From that day on Shayne helped me pack, or rather he packed my things for me. Actually he packed everything, and carried it because when he was done it was too heavy for me. I couldn’t lift it. I had to drag the book bag along, slowly.
When Shayne packed my book bag, I was able to do my homework. He packed the textbooks; I never did. The teacher told me to pack my things. The textbooks did not belong to me; they were not mine. They could never be my things; they were their things.
Twirling Naked in the Streets and No One Noticed; Growing Up With Undiagnosed Autism Page 3
