Then as Rex began playing the waltz chords of “Moonlight Sonata,” Richard began singing, “We’re writing a song in the style of Beethoven.”
Rex joined his teacher’s singing. “Writing a song, and it sounds like the ‘Moonlight Sonata.’”
As he joined his own pure soprano voice to his teacher’s tenor, “We’re writing a song, in the style of Beethoven, in the style of Beethoven,” I wondered how it could possibly get any better.
I didn’t have to wait for an answer. Richard said, “Bravo, Signore. Now let’s finish pianissimo. Softly, Rex, softly.”
And Rex countered with plans of his own, “Non—forte ! Loudly! I want to play forte!” And he threw his whole body into the keys as he sang out, punctuating each one-beat syllable, as though it came straight from a waltz lover’s soul—one . . . two, three, one . . . two, three. “WRITING a SONG! And it SOUNDS like the MOON light Son AAAA ta!”
It was like they were in
an insulated capsule,
a bubble world of their
own. Childlike in their
interaction, they seemed
able to tap into something
higher than intellect.
There they were, the two of them, the oversized teacher with his balding head and the giggling, wiggling little boy at his side. It was like they were in an insulated capsule, a bubble world of their own. Childlike in their interaction, they seemed able to tap into something higher than intellect. With my son trailing out his last victorious “and Forte Son AAAA ta,” I felt at peace, like I was in my own insulated capsule, untouched by the rest of our existence.
Then the bubble burst. Richard said, “Rex, you can play whatever you want now, while I talk with your mother. You did a great job.” In the space of the four meters it had taken him to join me on the couch, he had snapped back into his intellectual garb, the magic gone. I couldn’t help resenting it when he said, “Well that proves it.” He seemed deep in his own thoughts, talking to himself more than to me.
“Proves what?” I asked, somewhat annoyed.
“I’ve been trying to figure out the significance of his musical talent and have begun networking. The science of it is almost overwhelming,” he assured me, as if he was making mental calculations rather than communicating personal information to me.
Then, like a treasure hunter who had stumbled onto a priceless find and was staking a claim, he blurted out, “He’s a savant! A prodigious musical savant.” I sat there, mute, not knowing what that meant and not knowing what to say. He went on without me. “And there aren’t more than twenty alive in the world today!”
Richard explained what it meant—a scientific anomaly, causing an extremely rare island of pure genius to exist in a sea of disability. It was simply too much for me to view my child in such terms. Like an oddity? An extremely rare and precious oddity? When all I had ever wanted for my child was normalcy?
IT WAS with my head still reeling and confused from Richard’s announcement that I began the ascent up the mountain for a lesson with Lynn two days later. Maneuvering around hairpin turns, I was driving slower than normal because there was little visibility. September was typically a month of pristine days, but today the weather seemed to mirror my mind. It was the kind of day we normally got only in the springtime, with the coast submerged in dense fog. We called it “June gloom,” and there were days when it never burned off. With my own mind so full of murk and confusion, I felt surely today would be one of those no-burn-off, depressing kind of days.
Rex was often exhausted from his days when I picked him up at school, and today his own fatigue seemed in keeping with my own. In an attempt to lift both my son and myself from the fog of our spirits, I began to sing our favorite driving-up-the-mountain song. “The long and winding road . . . to Lynn’s house.” Our car hugged the mountain on a sweeping right curve, slowed into a hairpin left that took us up a steep slope, and as we climbed, the thick soupy haze suddenly, and surprisingly, began thinning, the coast receding behind us. Just as we were readying for another mountain-hugging pull to the right, the sun burst through the haze, its luminescence staking a victorious claim on the mountaintop.
By the time we pulled into Lynn’s driveway, the sunlight was practically blinding us with its intensity. No more room for stodgy spirits here. In much the same way, our drive today had taken us from dense murk to lightness and air, so the weight of my thoughts was all but gone by the time we arrived.
On this day, with Rex playing an arabesque far beyond his years and the sun’s brilliant rays streaming through the trees, science was now only hanging on to the periphery of my consciousness. That’s when Lynn turned to me, and for the first time in a year and a half, voiced his innermost thoughts about my son like a sacred confidence. “When I watch Rex playing the piano, it’s as close as I feel I’ve ever come to God. It’s like he has a direct connection to the Creator.” There it was, absolute, without measuring stick or qualifying criteria, a direct counter to the science of it all. Hadn’t I felt it too so many times, during lessons or at home, with heaven-sent notes cascading up and down the keyboard? Lynn continued speaking. “His brain is already wired with things it takes normal musicians years to acquire—he just hits a button and has immediate access to knowledge.” I was hanging on his words. Then, with mock exasperation, he said, “It’s depressing how easy it is for him! Look at me; I’m fifty. I’ve been a musician all my life, and I can’t do some of the things Rex does automatically. That’s depressing!” But he wore a smile that said Rex had wowed him once again, a smile that said the teacher stood in awe of the student, humbled in the presence of something higher than human comprehension. He nodded his head in acknowledgement, in reverence, and said, “Rex has a touch of the Divine.”
CHAPTER TEN
A System
Out of Touch
We find comfort among those who agree
with us—growth among those who don’t.
—Frank A. Clark, author
Rex had the appearance of neither a musical genius nor a child touched by God as he stood outside his classroom door tapping his chin with his hand, repeatedly, mindlessly. It was one of his many stereotypical behaviors. I could see him from the parking lot, and I had no idea what he was doing out there since classes were in session. He was alone except for his new aide, who was perched on a nearby bench, ignoring my son, like she was waiting for something. I’d gone to school mid-morning, after discovering I’d forgotten to put Rex’s hat in his backpack. His eyes would be too sun-sensitive without it, and so I’d come to deliver it. I watched for a couple of minutes, confused. What was he doing? Or not doing? I walked over to see what was going on, but his aide stopped me. “You can’t talk to Rex. He’s in time-out.”
“He’s in time-out?” I asked, surprised, thinking that for Rex “time-out” was probably about giving him a brain break. “What’s he in time-out for?”
Before she could respond, the bell rang, and Rex’s classmates filed out of the classroom. It was time for adaptive P.E., the reason for my rush to get my son’s hat to him. I saw Coach Gary on the playground, waiting as the kids joined him. Just then, Rex’s teacher stuck her head out of the door. If she was surprised to see me, she didn’t show it. “Rex can come out of time-out now,” she told the aide.
I stepped over to his teacher, who I knew hated being questioned, and repeated my question nonetheless. “Why is Rex in time-out?”
Still convinced “time-outs” for Rex would be used more as a break than punishment, I was taken aback by her answer. “He needs to learn how to take turns. He answers for other students during morning calendar, and he does the same thing during phonics.”
“So you bring him outside and let him stand by himself, hitting his chin”? I asked, incredulous.
“We tried to keep him inside, turning him around in a corner for time-outs as we do with the other kids, but it doesn’t work. The other students understand what facing a wall means, but Rex can’t see the wall,
and he can hear just as well from there. So he still interrupts. He needs to learn to work in a classroom setting,” she said.
I was afraid to question any further because I always felt my parental input was resented more than anything else, with his teacher alternately snapping at me or indulging me as though I were a child myself, as she just had. She’d been doing the same thing since Rex entered her classroom in kindergarten, running the class with an iron grip without much room for outside input. It was far from the collaboration I’d been promised in the public school system, but I had to acknowledge Mrs. Spader had made gains in many areas with Rex. In spite of her strong-arm teaching style, my son had learned to feed himself, was learning to write in Braille (although he couldn’t read back what he wrote, with fingers still too sensitive), and was learning phonics skills.
Stifling my desire to know more, having accepted the parent-teacher disconnect as the price I had to pay for my son to be in this school, I handed his hat to Mrs. Spader, saying, “Rex will need this for P.E.”
She looked me in the eye and said, “Rex won’t be going to P.E. today. He has to finish the work he missed during his time-out.”
I glanced at my son, still mindlessly tapping his chin in the corner. Then I looked out onto the play field, where Coach Gary was just getting the kids ready to play kickball—Rex’s favorite. I saw two of the older kids kicking the ball back and forth, like a soccer ball, as the coach set out the bases, and I snapped.
“Rex can’t miss P.E.,” I said coldly. “It’s in his I.E.P.,” I said, referring to the yearly specialed plan which guaranteed my son his educational supports. The plan stated Rex would have twenty-five minutes of adaptive P.E., four times every week, or this teacher was in effect not observing the regulation. I knew it . . . and she knew it!
She stared at me, her eyes not flinching . . . but neither did mine. Then, suddenly, her face relaxed, knowing too well she couldn’t win this one, not when a parent played the “I.E.P.” card. It was definitely the trump, but it had to be used judiciously so that the educational process didn’t turn into a battle of wills. “Of course, Rex will go to P.E.,” she said wisely. Then, “He’ll make up his work during recess.” If I knew the system, she obviously knew it too, and my son’s weekly recess time wasn’t carefully delineated like P.E.
I felt my stomach clutch, realizing how dependent I was on this teacher’s goodwill. She had my son seven hours a day, and, law or no law, nobody really controlled what went on in the classroom. “Do you know how important it is for Rex to get exercise?” I said, my voice tinged with anger, in spite of myself. “If he doesn’t get outside and move around, his body and his brain just shut down. He needs fresh air and movement.”
“He also needs to learn consequences of his behavior,” she countered, not one to be trifled with. “And if there’s no loss of privilege when he doesn’t stay on task or do what he’s told, then he’ll never learn. Rex has behavior issues I’m addressing through a behavior plan I have him on. I know very well the only thing he really loves is being outside, so losing that privilege has to be his consequence.”
Behavior plan? Why was this the first I was hearing of it? With that, she had thrown down the gauntlet, and the battle lines would be drawn. I couldn’t trust the system anymore, and as a mother I needed to know what was going on behind the closed doors of the classroom. “Okay, I understand,” I said, hiding my outrage, not wanting to risk making an enemy of my son’s teacher but knowing at the same time there was a greater risk in doing nothing. “But I’d like to schedule a classroom observation, so I can see what you mean.” I hoped by my tone she would consider me an ally, there to support Rex’s well-being, someone she could collaborate with and not attack.
She immediately agreed I could come observe the classroom, knowing I had the right, but wanted to limit the time to the very minimum guaranteed by the regulation, twenty minutes. I couldn’t believe the gall of this teacher I had tried so hard to trust. “I won’t be able to observe anything in twenty minutes,” I said, the color rising in my face.
“I can’t have parents disrupting the class,” she retorted. “It will distract Rex, having you in the classroom, not to mention the other students.”
How astute she was at playing that “student card”! But I wasn’t about to back down on this one. With my adrenaline really pumping now, I was committed to my course. “First of all, Rex won’t even know I’m there because I won’t speak. And I’ll need to observe for a couple of hours . . . or there is no way I’ll be able to give you my permission to have Rex on any behavior program.” I once again played the trump she didn’t seem to think she had to consider. She hadn’t advised me even of her intent to put my son on a behavior program, let alone gone about obtaining my consent to do it.
She raised her eyebrows, surprised. That I knew the regulation? Or that I was calling her hand? She conceded immediately. “You can sit in the classroom from the morning bell up to recess. You’ll see for yourself what I’m talking about. But you understand that it’s observation,” she said, treating me to her “teacher” voice. “I can’t have you interrupting.”
“Of course not. I wouldn’t think of it,” I said, mimicking her patronizing tone.
The observation was scheduled for the following Tuesday, none too soon as far as I was concerned. Thankfully, in the interim, Rex didn’t miss any P.E. or recess. That was one thing he would always tell me after school. I assumed Mrs. Spader knew she had been overstepping her authority and had diplomatically pulled back on the “behavior plan” until she had parental consent. Although I suspect the decision had come from higher up, as in the principal. Walking back to the car that morning, I had bumped into Principal Pat. She must have seen a mother’s distress plastered across my face, so she had asked me what was wrong. I had confided to her my concerns about Rex and his current schooling. I knew this principal would go to the mat for her teachers, supporting and believing in them, but I also knew how innately good she was. She had a heart for us parents to be sure, but most of all, she was guardian and protector of the kids. I believed she was doing what she was doing because she loved her students and knew how vital their education would be for their lives. So ultimately, like any good principal or teacher for that matter, she was in Rex’s corner.
My observation day in the classroom started off with fifteen minutes of free time. Each student was asked to pick an activity to carry out, independent of instruction. Five students had formed a circle on the rug and were playing some sort of board game, two others sat at a table with a puzzle, while a younger boy was staring into the aquarium. “Tony, would you help Rex get to his keyboard?” I was happy to see the third grader walking with my son, guiding him with proper technique, to his piano. I had brought the piano there as a social bridge, to create interaction and a subject of conversation, as well as a tool to enhance Rex’s self-concept. But when he sat down at the keyboard, instead of playing some music for the other students, his teacher said, “Your headphones are right in front of you, Rex, as they always are—you know how to put them on.” And that’s what he did—began his school day, as apparently was his usual routine, cut off from his classmates at play, isolated by the headphone barrier.
During language arts instruction, the classroom was divided by ability level, which meant sometimes by age and sometimes by cognitive level. While the “youngest” group began doing more visual work with a classroom aide, Mrs. Spader took four students between first and third grade to desks right in front of the blackboard. Just as I was beginning to wonder what Rex was going to do alone at his desk, his teacher of the visually impaired arrived.
Walking to my son’s desk, the vision specialist saw me in my distant, silent corner and nodded. She sat down beside my son and greeted him. “Hi, Rex.”
“Hi, Karen,” came the return greeting. “It’s Braille time,” he said, obviously knowing what Karen’s presence meant.
“That’s right, Rex; we’re going to do some reading and w
riting in Braille today.” Karen spoke in a low, rather flat voice, which made me crane my head forward so I could hear. I watched her hand my son a piece of Braille paper. With teacher assistance, the student struggled through the process of putting the paper in the Braillewriter, which resembled a very heavy old-fashioned typewriter. But he managed to get it in and was happy with his accomplishment.
Looking at a list of words, Karen asked, “Can you Braille the word sled for me?” Rex said yes, but his hands remained in the air. I wasn’t surprised, since Karen lacked the energy of voice my son needed to motivate him into movement. “You need to put your hands on the Brailler, Rex,” she continued in the same monotone. I knew too well how dependent my son was on the energy of those who worked with him, energy that was conveyed through tone of voice. So, listening to this woman, I had a sense of foreboding.
At the same time, in the front of the classroom, Mrs. Spader was busy with her group. She had a pile of phonics cards in front of her as she faced her students. “We will be working on the short e sound today, pronounced ‘eh.’ Who can spell sled?”
Three of the four hands shot up, but before the teacher could call on a student, Rex had become very excited and called out, “S-L-E-D—SLED!”
Mrs. Spader sighed and said, “Thank you, Rex. That’s right. But you need to focus on your own work.” She cast a glance in my direction as if to say, “You see?”
Karen put slight pressure on Rex’s hands to prompt them down onto the Braillewriter. My son depressed a single key and then his hands shot straight back up again, distracted, and not liking what he was doing. It was obvious he was listening to Mrs. Spader as she held up another phonics card, and said, “Bed. Who can tell me the sounds in the word bed”?
Again, hands shot up, and again Rex called out from across the room. With precise enunciation, he said, “Three sounds. ‘B-ehh-d.’ ” Then proudly, “Bed.”
Rex Page 16
