It is now a new year. The old has passed beneath our feet, and as we embrace this new beginning, I thought I would take a look back at what has ended. The ups, the downs, the highs, and the lows--there were many that took place this past year, and I have encapsulated them all in this piece.
So, without further ado, this is Ode to 2010:
---
On a quiet, moon's sliver of a street
Did we and 2010 first meet
And if we'd known what was to come as we dined on chili and trifle
The calendar hanging we would have aimed, and shot it with a rifle.
Through the winter months' long chill
Different seats in different concert halls were filled
From Y to A in revered North
To gardens grey at thirteenth and fourth.
The final stage of study came
Demands three years of grad school could not tame
Not one, but two thesis defenses
Whose madness robbed me of my good senses.
Eyes gazed upon freckled shoulders, in weather good and bad
Fickle fortune intervened; an accident was had.
While mechanics murmured, poked and prodded under the hood
True blue friends comforted, kept company, and stood.
Longstanding friendships fell from sight
To keep them I fought, with all of my might
Twelve years cast off, with nary a word
Heartbreaking silence the only sound heard.
No relationship did find me hence
No talk of romance, nor white picket fence
Cupid debated, but when push came to shove
I remained alone, and watched others fall in love.
Positives were had, to be quite sure
Published writing, public speaking, new culinary dishes galore
And the greatest accomplishment: a new LLC
A business for coaching college students, just like me
In 2010, a great many things were lost
And compared to what was given, was it worth the cost?
I do not know, nor perhaps will I ever
How time can be so cruel, so kind, or so clever
I'm ready to say goodbye to this lopsided year
To abandon the grief, the doubt, and the fear
So, like the Jews, whose bread stays unleavened
I declare, "Shalom! Good riddance, 2010! And hello and welcome to 2011!"
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
On Grief and the Death of Elizabeth Edwards
As I'm sure most folks have heard by now, Elizabeth Edwards--ex-wife of former presidential candidate John Edwards--has died, from terminal cancer. She had only just decided to stop receiving treatment--on the advice of her doctors, who informed her that the cancer had spread to her bones. Not a day later, she was gone.
I can only imagine the sadness her loved ones must be feeling during this time. Everything that she went through, from the cancer diagnosis to her husband's infidelity and fathering an illegitimate child, no doubt took a great toll on her. From every story I have read, it seems she carried herself with dignity, grace, and comportment, despite having to experience all of this under the intense scrutiny of the public eye.
And now, this terrible disease, which went into remission once before, returned to ravage her body further. If nothing else, I am sure her family feels a sense of relief that she has been released from her pain.
But this does not change the fact that she is gone, and that her passing comes at one of the most difficult times of the year: the holidays.
I have some experience in this area, as it were.
In 2001, my one grandpa died four days before Christmas. I was home from my freshman year of college on winter break. My grandma called to tell me, and I felt my heart sink to my knees and my hands grow cold around the receiver as I said goodbye to her. What I did next was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. I was the only one home, and I called my mother at school, where she was teaching. The secretary in the main office answered and informed me that my mom was in class.
"It's an emergency," I said softly, and told her the news. She did not hesitate to page my mom after that. The air seemed to still when she came on the phone a few minutes later, and then I heard myself tell my mom that her father had died.
My other grandpa died on Thanksgiving in 2003. My parents and I were standing in my aunt's house when my father got a call on his cell phone. He was perfectly calm as he told us, and we left immediately, heading up to his cousin Karim's house, where his side of the family would be.
Nobody spoke as we waited for my great-aunt Lollie and my Aunt Nancy to get there. I remember them walking into the kitchen--my great-aunt in a white sweatshirt with the word "Florida" emblazoned on the front, her straw-like hair freshly dyed and hairsprayed to unprecedented stiffness on top of her head, and the long bags under her eyes, set with wrinkles and stained with dried tears.
She hardly said a word--unheard of, for her--and was followed in by my Aunt Nancy. Her voice was choked as she greeted each of us, the gold Syrian bracelets on her wrist jingling as her hands shook. "He looked like he was just taking a nap!" she sobbed. I cast my eyes to the ground, ignoring the now-fetid smell of the turkey still cooking in the oven.
Last year, my great-uncle Sammy died on Christmas Eve. And though the loss was not as powerful as the previous two, I saw my other cousins swept in a tide of their own sorrow, and I grieved with them for their "giddo" (Arabic word for "grandpa").
I remember the wake. The beautiful stained glass in St. Ann's, a Byzantine Catholic church, and the colorful icons painted across the domed ceiling. I felt the blue carpet beneath my feet, and the cold from the doors opening and closing.
And Kathy, sister of my dad's previously mentioned cousin, Karim. She had been taking care of my great-uncle (her father) for the previous several months. I could see relief in her face, mixed in with the overwhelming grief. I wanted to say something to her, offer a word of comfort, for what little it might have meant. So I took her hand and said:
"I'm sorry. I know right now you're feeling like Christmas will never be the same again. The truth is, it does change your holiday forever--at first, you mourn and grieve, as is natural. But as time goes on, you start to celebrate--to incorporate the things that person stood for into your celebration. Instead of dwelling on what their death took away from the holiday, you remember all that they gave to it, all of the good that came from their presence and how much it meant. How part of them is still there, even after death, and always will be, just as long as you remember."
As I stood in the post office today, attempting to stave off the stress of a long line and only one clerk behind the desk, I thought of this. Of Christmases gone by, Christmases spent with my grandparents. I can still smell my grandmother's cooking in the kitchen, still see their tree festooned with blue-and-yellow ribbons, white twinkling lights, and numerous ornaments.
Christmas is not the same now, not as it was then, nor will it ever be--but it's inside of me. I'll be damned if I can remember a single present I ever got from my grandparents, but that love is something I will never forget. It is my great hope that in time, Kathy and my cousins and the family of Elizabeth Edwards will find their grief lessened, and that good memories will take its place, trading the cold in for the warmth.
I can only imagine the sadness her loved ones must be feeling during this time. Everything that she went through, from the cancer diagnosis to her husband's infidelity and fathering an illegitimate child, no doubt took a great toll on her. From every story I have read, it seems she carried herself with dignity, grace, and comportment, despite having to experience all of this under the intense scrutiny of the public eye.
And now, this terrible disease, which went into remission once before, returned to ravage her body further. If nothing else, I am sure her family feels a sense of relief that she has been released from her pain.
But this does not change the fact that she is gone, and that her passing comes at one of the most difficult times of the year: the holidays.
I have some experience in this area, as it were.
In 2001, my one grandpa died four days before Christmas. I was home from my freshman year of college on winter break. My grandma called to tell me, and I felt my heart sink to my knees and my hands grow cold around the receiver as I said goodbye to her. What I did next was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. I was the only one home, and I called my mother at school, where she was teaching. The secretary in the main office answered and informed me that my mom was in class.
"It's an emergency," I said softly, and told her the news. She did not hesitate to page my mom after that. The air seemed to still when she came on the phone a few minutes later, and then I heard myself tell my mom that her father had died.
My other grandpa died on Thanksgiving in 2003. My parents and I were standing in my aunt's house when my father got a call on his cell phone. He was perfectly calm as he told us, and we left immediately, heading up to his cousin Karim's house, where his side of the family would be.
Nobody spoke as we waited for my great-aunt Lollie and my Aunt Nancy to get there. I remember them walking into the kitchen--my great-aunt in a white sweatshirt with the word "Florida" emblazoned on the front, her straw-like hair freshly dyed and hairsprayed to unprecedented stiffness on top of her head, and the long bags under her eyes, set with wrinkles and stained with dried tears.
She hardly said a word--unheard of, for her--and was followed in by my Aunt Nancy. Her voice was choked as she greeted each of us, the gold Syrian bracelets on her wrist jingling as her hands shook. "He looked like he was just taking a nap!" she sobbed. I cast my eyes to the ground, ignoring the now-fetid smell of the turkey still cooking in the oven.
Last year, my great-uncle Sammy died on Christmas Eve. And though the loss was not as powerful as the previous two, I saw my other cousins swept in a tide of their own sorrow, and I grieved with them for their "giddo" (Arabic word for "grandpa").
I remember the wake. The beautiful stained glass in St. Ann's, a Byzantine Catholic church, and the colorful icons painted across the domed ceiling. I felt the blue carpet beneath my feet, and the cold from the doors opening and closing.
And Kathy, sister of my dad's previously mentioned cousin, Karim. She had been taking care of my great-uncle (her father) for the previous several months. I could see relief in her face, mixed in with the overwhelming grief. I wanted to say something to her, offer a word of comfort, for what little it might have meant. So I took her hand and said:
"I'm sorry. I know right now you're feeling like Christmas will never be the same again. The truth is, it does change your holiday forever--at first, you mourn and grieve, as is natural. But as time goes on, you start to celebrate--to incorporate the things that person stood for into your celebration. Instead of dwelling on what their death took away from the holiday, you remember all that they gave to it, all of the good that came from their presence and how much it meant. How part of them is still there, even after death, and always will be, just as long as you remember."
As I stood in the post office today, attempting to stave off the stress of a long line and only one clerk behind the desk, I thought of this. Of Christmases gone by, Christmases spent with my grandparents. I can still smell my grandmother's cooking in the kitchen, still see their tree festooned with blue-and-yellow ribbons, white twinkling lights, and numerous ornaments.
Christmas is not the same now, not as it was then, nor will it ever be--but it's inside of me. I'll be damned if I can remember a single present I ever got from my grandparents, but that love is something I will never forget. It is my great hope that in time, Kathy and my cousins and the family of Elizabeth Edwards will find their grief lessened, and that good memories will take its place, trading the cold in for the warmth.
Friday, December 3, 2010
In the Event of An Emergency
I recently became aware of a news story out of Towson University, in Maryland. A student there was interning (student teaching) at Thomas Johnson Elementary School in Baltimore City, and she reported witnessing teachers verbally and physically abusing children with autism. The principal of the school immediately attempted to discredit her claims by saying that this student has Asperger's Syndrome and was "mentally deficient and probably lying," and her advisors at Towson questioned her story. The final nail in the coffin was the Dean of Education telling her to stop talking about the incident altogether (Click here to read the full story).
As a student in a Masters degree program in Applied Behavior Analysis, one of my requirements in my first year was to do classroom "observations" at partner schools here in New Jersey.
It was a crisp Fall morning in 2007. I drove down the Garden State Parkway somewhat nervously, having just gotten my license the month before. After signing in at the main office, I made my way through the beige-painted hallway, the walls periodically dotted with the students' brightly-colored artwork.
I sat in a blue chair, the hard plastic pressed against my thighs as I surveyed the self-contained classroom before me. Small wooden cubbies containing coats, knapsacks, and carefully packed lunch boxes lined the wall, and various toys and other objects lay scattered across the carpeted floor. Several pieces of chalk sat idly in a tray beneath the blackboard, and I resisted the urge to pick one up and smell it.
The children made noise, as children so often do, sometimes so shrill and loud that I had to hold my ears. I've never felt particularly at ease around children, but knowing that they were on the spectrum--knowing that I was once them, and in some ways, still am--gave me a small measure of comfort.
Yes, in case you didn't know: I have Asperger's Syndrome.
When I was applying for graduate school, the decision of disclosing the diagnosis was one I did not hesitate on. I stated it outright, both in my written application and during the in-person interview. I believed that it would be an asset, to have a firsthand perspective that I could add to class discussions and use to help my fellow classmates better understand the students with whom they work on a daily basis.
It took a great many years for me to see having Asperger's Syndrome in such a light. To view it as a positive, rather than a negative. And here I was, walking into this completely new environment, unwilling to disguise a diagnosis that had been such an integral part of my being accepted into that environment in the first place.
I was fortunate, yes, where so many others are not. When I imagine being treated as the young woman in this story was treated--her credibility tarnished, her good name dragged through the muck--I am pained beyond the description of words. I am stirred, furious, into an ardor of righteousness, because I know that if I had seen what she had seen, I also would have been moved to report it.
So why should what she says, or what I say, or what anyone else with Asperger's Syndrome say, be so harshly discredited? Indeed, the most laughable part of this entire debacle is the school's principal saying that because of this young woman's condition, she was "probably lying." There is a sad irony to an authority figure whose charges include students on the autism spectrum completely and utterly failing to understand one of the most frequent hallmarks of ASDs, which is the near inability to lie.
People on the autism spectrum are said to be extremely honest, sometimes even brutally so, and that lying is a social event in which they will not and/or cannot engage. For me, it was simply that I never saw any point in lying. I may not have always been so tactful when I was younger, but it was never because I intended to hurt anyone or meant any harm. I have learned how to frame my honesty in a proper context, but never have I diluted it.
I do not believe this young woman would do so, either, and in fact would be more moved to seek justice for the terrible treatment visited upon these students by the very people who are meant to be taking care of them. Because how close did she perhaps come to being one of them? How close did I come? And just as I had no one to speak for me, these children also have no one to speak for them.
Except her.
The school principal and the members of this young woman's department at Towson, by their actions, sought to silence her voice--and, in turn, silence the voices of these children. There can be no defending them, no rationalizing or logic-ing their deeds away.
How can we expect these children to value themselves if the adults around them are so clearly demonstrating that they do not value them? I spent too many years believing I was not a person worth loving, or having as a friend, as a student, a daughter. Too many years believing I was not a person at all, and that vicious trap is what awaits these kids and so many others if things do not begin to change.
This young woman is one of the voices of change, one that I hope will be able to speak up loudly and proudly, rising from the ashes of the two schools' disgraceful actions. I hope she does go on to become a special education teacher and give students with ASDs and other developmental disabilities the support and encouragement they need--the very same support the education department at Towson so astoundingly failed to show her during their gross mishandling of this entire matter.
For the hope of a better future for all: Stop the abuse, stop the cover-up, stop the deliberate spread of misinformation. Let the truth ring out.
As a student in a Masters degree program in Applied Behavior Analysis, one of my requirements in my first year was to do classroom "observations" at partner schools here in New Jersey.
It was a crisp Fall morning in 2007. I drove down the Garden State Parkway somewhat nervously, having just gotten my license the month before. After signing in at the main office, I made my way through the beige-painted hallway, the walls periodically dotted with the students' brightly-colored artwork.
I sat in a blue chair, the hard plastic pressed against my thighs as I surveyed the self-contained classroom before me. Small wooden cubbies containing coats, knapsacks, and carefully packed lunch boxes lined the wall, and various toys and other objects lay scattered across the carpeted floor. Several pieces of chalk sat idly in a tray beneath the blackboard, and I resisted the urge to pick one up and smell it.
The children made noise, as children so often do, sometimes so shrill and loud that I had to hold my ears. I've never felt particularly at ease around children, but knowing that they were on the spectrum--knowing that I was once them, and in some ways, still am--gave me a small measure of comfort.
Yes, in case you didn't know: I have Asperger's Syndrome.
When I was applying for graduate school, the decision of disclosing the diagnosis was one I did not hesitate on. I stated it outright, both in my written application and during the in-person interview. I believed that it would be an asset, to have a firsthand perspective that I could add to class discussions and use to help my fellow classmates better understand the students with whom they work on a daily basis.
It took a great many years for me to see having Asperger's Syndrome in such a light. To view it as a positive, rather than a negative. And here I was, walking into this completely new environment, unwilling to disguise a diagnosis that had been such an integral part of my being accepted into that environment in the first place.
I was fortunate, yes, where so many others are not. When I imagine being treated as the young woman in this story was treated--her credibility tarnished, her good name dragged through the muck--I am pained beyond the description of words. I am stirred, furious, into an ardor of righteousness, because I know that if I had seen what she had seen, I also would have been moved to report it.
So why should what she says, or what I say, or what anyone else with Asperger's Syndrome say, be so harshly discredited? Indeed, the most laughable part of this entire debacle is the school's principal saying that because of this young woman's condition, she was "probably lying." There is a sad irony to an authority figure whose charges include students on the autism spectrum completely and utterly failing to understand one of the most frequent hallmarks of ASDs, which is the near inability to lie.
People on the autism spectrum are said to be extremely honest, sometimes even brutally so, and that lying is a social event in which they will not and/or cannot engage. For me, it was simply that I never saw any point in lying. I may not have always been so tactful when I was younger, but it was never because I intended to hurt anyone or meant any harm. I have learned how to frame my honesty in a proper context, but never have I diluted it.
I do not believe this young woman would do so, either, and in fact would be more moved to seek justice for the terrible treatment visited upon these students by the very people who are meant to be taking care of them. Because how close did she perhaps come to being one of them? How close did I come? And just as I had no one to speak for me, these children also have no one to speak for them.
Except her.
The school principal and the members of this young woman's department at Towson, by their actions, sought to silence her voice--and, in turn, silence the voices of these children. There can be no defending them, no rationalizing or logic-ing their deeds away.
How can we expect these children to value themselves if the adults around them are so clearly demonstrating that they do not value them? I spent too many years believing I was not a person worth loving, or having as a friend, as a student, a daughter. Too many years believing I was not a person at all, and that vicious trap is what awaits these kids and so many others if things do not begin to change.
This young woman is one of the voices of change, one that I hope will be able to speak up loudly and proudly, rising from the ashes of the two schools' disgraceful actions. I hope she does go on to become a special education teacher and give students with ASDs and other developmental disabilities the support and encouragement they need--the very same support the education department at Towson so astoundingly failed to show her during their gross mishandling of this entire matter.
For the hope of a better future for all: Stop the abuse, stop the cover-up, stop the deliberate spread of misinformation. Let the truth ring out.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Hair of the Dog
Every November, an event called NaNoWriMo takes place. It's where people challenge themselves to write a novel in exactly one month. I tried to do it last year (unsuccessfully), and though I'm not taking part this time around, (much as I would have liked to), I've been thinking a lot lately about a situation that occurred recently with an old friend of mine who stopped talking to me a few months ago.
I wanted to find some way of dealing with the situation, to sort through all of the emotions I've been feeling, so I decided to write about a particular memory I have of her. I have no idea if this is any good, but now I know I can write 850-ish words in an hour (that's how long it took me to write this), so I feel much more motivated to work on my book.
This piece is called Hair of the Dog.
---
"Come on, Charley!"
Her voice is sing-song, playful as she waves her hand. He pants happily, eyes bright and shining, chest heaving with eager breath, and trots over. I watch as she clips the green leash to his collar, readying him.
"Wanna go for a walk?"
He barks in the affirmative, tail wagging nonstop. The noise rings in my ears, but I stay calm, focused on the task at hand. I pull on my coat, following her copper ponytail out into the cool, autumn night.
Down the road, Charley does his business, and she lets him off the leash soon after. "So he can run around a little," she says, and I nod.
The lights from the baseball field behind her street cast a faint glow; beams of light slipping in between the thick trees. It's only steps to the high school from there, beige and black walls and doors that close with a thunderous click.
Charley's vibrating form appears under the streetlight then, thick, white curls turned to an unnatural orange. A rustling in the bushes catches his attention, and he's off, chasing the unlucky--and no doubt unhappy--neighborhood cat.
We shake our heads in disbelief, our collective laughter echoing down the street.
---
She calls him back soon after, and we head inside, clomping up the creaking steps and through the two doors into the foyer. The smell of dog hits me in the face almost immediately, and I wrinkle my nose in disgust.
I'm not a dog person.
It's always the barking, the piercing volume that vibrates inside my skull and leaves me trembling, overwhelmed. The yappy dogs are the worst, with their high-pitched yelps and jumping as if they have springs attached to their paws. The combination of the two is enough to send me running from the room.
She told me how dumb Charley was when I first met him. That he'd never hurt a fly. I remember the almost permanent grin he had on his face, teeth exposed, pink tongue hanging down as he stared at us. His fur reminds me of my mother's sweater--coarse and smooth, bristling underneath and between my fingers.
He's helped me be not afraid.
I walk behind her to the TV room, listening to the scritch-scratch of his feet on the hardwood floor. It had been the usual back-and-forth at the video store that night, trying to decide what to rent. We never agree on anything, until the very last moment, when some movie we'd missed catches both our attention.
"Are you okay with this one?"
"I am if you are."
"I'm good."
I watch the tape slide into the VCR, the television flickering as the FBI warning appeared on screen. She grabs the remote then--one of several on the ruddy wooden chest in front of us--and fast-forwards. Her legs are tucked under her, a bowl of popcorn curled in one hand and pressed against her sweatshirt-covered torso. My purchase from the store was a box of gummi bears, and I've already taken them out of the package and sorted them by color, discarding the oranges and yellows.
She's washed her makeup off, revealing the truth behind the facade. Erect, reddened pimples dot the landscape of her face, all connecting to form a picture of what is inside. I've watched her hide, standing in front of the mirror, concealing, pressing the brush with fevered strokes, again and again. I don't understand it.
To me, she is beautiful. She is my best friend, and she is beautiful. If I can see it, why can't she?
The movie begins to play, but I'm regarding her silently now, honored by this moment. She has let me know who she really is. I do the same thing, but all the time, because I don't know how to hide. Sitting here beside her, eating painstakingly arranged gummi bears, I can finally breathe. I am at peace.
She's a part of me. A string for this kite that is always flying, flying, nearly flying away forever. She makes the earth real. And when I'm with her, I'm real.
Charley is lying next to her on the couch now, head bowed and resting on her leg. His doggy derrière is perilously close to my person, and so I hurriedly scoot over, one eye fixed warily on his posterior. She seems even calmer when he is around, and I gaze at the two of them, grateful for the comfort they have both given me.
The movie has finished, a final swell of music crescendoing as the credits start to roll. This is the part I dread, the knowing it's begun to end. I would like to live in a universe of infinite Saturday nights, spent exactly like this. There would never be any Sundays. Sunday is the falling day, the day of knowing what's coming, and being able to do nothing about it, except wait.
But I am safe here, in the night. Behind these walls, in this room, on this couch. With her sitting next to me. I'm sixteen, and she's my best friend, and she always will be.
...Won't she?
I wanted to find some way of dealing with the situation, to sort through all of the emotions I've been feeling, so I decided to write about a particular memory I have of her. I have no idea if this is any good, but now I know I can write 850-ish words in an hour (that's how long it took me to write this), so I feel much more motivated to work on my book.
This piece is called Hair of the Dog.
---
"Come on, Charley!"
Her voice is sing-song, playful as she waves her hand. He pants happily, eyes bright and shining, chest heaving with eager breath, and trots over. I watch as she clips the green leash to his collar, readying him.
"Wanna go for a walk?"
He barks in the affirmative, tail wagging nonstop. The noise rings in my ears, but I stay calm, focused on the task at hand. I pull on my coat, following her copper ponytail out into the cool, autumn night.
Down the road, Charley does his business, and she lets him off the leash soon after. "So he can run around a little," she says, and I nod.
The lights from the baseball field behind her street cast a faint glow; beams of light slipping in between the thick trees. It's only steps to the high school from there, beige and black walls and doors that close with a thunderous click.
Charley's vibrating form appears under the streetlight then, thick, white curls turned to an unnatural orange. A rustling in the bushes catches his attention, and he's off, chasing the unlucky--and no doubt unhappy--neighborhood cat.
We shake our heads in disbelief, our collective laughter echoing down the street.
---
She calls him back soon after, and we head inside, clomping up the creaking steps and through the two doors into the foyer. The smell of dog hits me in the face almost immediately, and I wrinkle my nose in disgust.
I'm not a dog person.
It's always the barking, the piercing volume that vibrates inside my skull and leaves me trembling, overwhelmed. The yappy dogs are the worst, with their high-pitched yelps and jumping as if they have springs attached to their paws. The combination of the two is enough to send me running from the room.
She told me how dumb Charley was when I first met him. That he'd never hurt a fly. I remember the almost permanent grin he had on his face, teeth exposed, pink tongue hanging down as he stared at us. His fur reminds me of my mother's sweater--coarse and smooth, bristling underneath and between my fingers.
He's helped me be not afraid.
I walk behind her to the TV room, listening to the scritch-scratch of his feet on the hardwood floor. It had been the usual back-and-forth at the video store that night, trying to decide what to rent. We never agree on anything, until the very last moment, when some movie we'd missed catches both our attention.
"Are you okay with this one?"
"I am if you are."
"I'm good."
I watch the tape slide into the VCR, the television flickering as the FBI warning appeared on screen. She grabs the remote then--one of several on the ruddy wooden chest in front of us--and fast-forwards. Her legs are tucked under her, a bowl of popcorn curled in one hand and pressed against her sweatshirt-covered torso. My purchase from the store was a box of gummi bears, and I've already taken them out of the package and sorted them by color, discarding the oranges and yellows.
She's washed her makeup off, revealing the truth behind the facade. Erect, reddened pimples dot the landscape of her face, all connecting to form a picture of what is inside. I've watched her hide, standing in front of the mirror, concealing, pressing the brush with fevered strokes, again and again. I don't understand it.
To me, she is beautiful. She is my best friend, and she is beautiful. If I can see it, why can't she?
The movie begins to play, but I'm regarding her silently now, honored by this moment. She has let me know who she really is. I do the same thing, but all the time, because I don't know how to hide. Sitting here beside her, eating painstakingly arranged gummi bears, I can finally breathe. I am at peace.
She's a part of me. A string for this kite that is always flying, flying, nearly flying away forever. She makes the earth real. And when I'm with her, I'm real.
Charley is lying next to her on the couch now, head bowed and resting on her leg. His doggy derrière is perilously close to my person, and so I hurriedly scoot over, one eye fixed warily on his posterior. She seems even calmer when he is around, and I gaze at the two of them, grateful for the comfort they have both given me.
The movie has finished, a final swell of music crescendoing as the credits start to roll. This is the part I dread, the knowing it's begun to end. I would like to live in a universe of infinite Saturday nights, spent exactly like this. There would never be any Sundays. Sunday is the falling day, the day of knowing what's coming, and being able to do nothing about it, except wait.
But I am safe here, in the night. Behind these walls, in this room, on this couch. With her sitting next to me. I'm sixteen, and she's my best friend, and she always will be.
...Won't she?
Thursday, October 21, 2010
It Will Get Better
In response to the recent suicides by several gay teens, there is currently a campaign going around called "It Gets Better," featuring videos of the famous and non-famous alike, telling these young people that things do get better. I was inspired to create a video of my own, though this is geared more towards individuals on the autism spectrum than GLBT teens (but everyone is welcome to watch). It is a little lengthy, for which I apologize, but if you enjoy it, please "Like" it and pass it on!
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Call for Participants: Please Repost!
CALL FOR PARTICIPANTS
I am recruiting males over the age of 18 with a clinical diagnosis of Asperger's Syndrome for a study to teach how to ask someone out on a date. Sessions will be conducted three to four times per week. The study is currently ongoing and participation for each volunteer should last for approximately three weeks. If you are interested in participating in this research, please contact Amy Gravino at Amy@amygravino.com. Thank you!
Study Participation Criteria:
- Must be over the age of 18
- Must have official Asperger’s Syndrome diagnosis from an outside agency or clinic
- Must live in the NYC/northern New Jersey area.
- Minimal to no previous dating skills training
- Must have at least two to three unsuccessful previous attempts at asking someone out for a date.
I am recruiting males over the age of 18 with a clinical diagnosis of Asperger's Syndrome for a study to teach how to ask someone out on a date. Sessions will be conducted three to four times per week. The study is currently ongoing and participation for each volunteer should last for approximately three weeks. If you are interested in participating in this research, please contact Amy Gravino at Amy@amygravino.com. Thank you!
Study Participation Criteria:
- Must be over the age of 18
- Must have official Asperger’s Syndrome diagnosis from an outside agency or clinic
- Must live in the NYC/northern New Jersey area.
- Minimal to no previous dating skills training
- Must have at least two to three unsuccessful previous attempts at asking someone out for a date.
Monday, September 20, 2010
A.S.C.O.T Coaching, LLC
I am very pleased and excited to announce that the A.S.C.O.T Coaching, LLC section of AmyGravino.com is now up and available for browsing! If you or someone you know is interested in college coaching services for students with Asperger's Syndrome, or any of the consulting or public speaking services I have to offer, please feel free to check out my site and pass it along! Click the banner below to go to the A.S.C.O.T Coaching, LLC main page. Thank you!
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
The DSM-V Asperger's/Autism Debate
Last night, I was perusing the Autism Speaks Facebook page, when I came across this post: http://www.facebook.com/autismspeaks?ref=ts#!/posted.php?id=75219157496&share_id=150715731619580&comments=1#s150715731619580. It's a link to an "In Your Own Words" blog written by a young woman with Asperger's Syndrome about why she feels Asperger's should remain a separate diagnosis from autism in the DSM-V.
I hadn't even gotten to read the blog post itself when I started reading the comments on that link. And there were many, oh yes, from parents/professionals/folks on the spectrum in varying states of outrage/agreement. But the comments that stood out to me the most were from a 16-year-old with Asperger's named Jordan. He flat-out was attacking people at certain points, and his whole overall attitude was doing a serious disservice to Aspies everywhere (you can read some of the things he wrote at the link there).
I was most disheartened by this, as you can imagine, and so I decided to write a response. It turned out to be a freaking novel (is anyone surprised?), but I both addressed Jordan and got out my feelings on the autism/Asperger's debate. This is what I wrote:
"Okay. I've sat here reading (almost) every response to this for the past half an hour, and my brain is aching. Jordan, let me direct this to you first...I know you have Asperger's Syndrome. Guess what? I do, too. But the way you have conducted yourself in this thread is giving a seriously bad name to "Aspies" everywhere. You've attacked people needlessly (telling them to "shut up"), and I find your entire attitude to be condescending and know-it-all. Maybe you didn't mean to come across that way. In fact, you probably didn't, but here's the reality. People aren't not listening to you because you have Asperger's--they're not listening to you because you're sixteen and you DON'T know everything. No one does, in fact. Heck, even I don't. I got this diagnosis at age 10, and here I am seventeen years later STILL trying to figure it all out. And even though I don't have the answers or a great, all-encompassing solution, here is one thing I do know:
We all want people to see our point of view. This is somewhat ironic because, being on the spectrum, we tend to have a difficult time seeing others' points of view. I know that when I was sixteen, all I wanted was to be heard, to be acknowledged. I see you on here, going on about how great you are, how you could have your grades up "if you wanted to" and how you plan to be a published author and this and that. There's nothing wrong with having goals or dreams, my friend. But from your comments I detected a serious amount of insecurity--like you felt you had to tell us these things over and over to "prove" that you deserve to be taken seriously. But if your arguments and the things you had to say were truly sound and well thought out, that's all you would need. No "proving" necessary.
But instead there is hostility pouring off of you in waves, and I recognize it, along with your insecurity, as I have seen in adult males on the spectrum twice your age at support group meetings I have attended. You may think that you don't need any help, but that's the surest sign that you do--and the day will come when you'll have to ask for it. I once felt the same way--I was downright ashamed to ask for help because I thought I should know how to do "these things"...and I didn't. So I suffered, and maybe I lashed out at people too, in the same way that you are. All it does in the end is cause more harm than good, and it further prevents having what you have to say be heard by the people you want to have hear it.
Anyway...back to the subject at hand. I understand both sides of the DSM-V debate. I'm currently a grad student in ABA, and I've done observation in classrooms with kids on every corner of the ASD spectrum. I used to have a fear not unlike the blog author's--of being "lumped in" and seen the way I saw those kids. But the fact is, Asperger's is a part of who I am. They can change the wording, but that doesn't mean its meaning has to be taken away. And if, in the process, it allows folks with Asperger's to receive the services they need (services I certainly never got in elementary, middle, or high school), then I can't see how it would be a bad thing.
It doesn't make us any less who we are, unless we let it. We are different--not better, not worse--just different, both from the rest of the world and from each other. But the more productive use of our energies would be to help one another, not tear each other down. All of the fighting and squabbling is a waste--a waste of time, and heart, the heart that I know we all have. A heart that beats for our spectrumite brothers and sisters, and all their loved ones.
My goal is and always will be to leave this world a better place for folks on the spectrum than it was when I got here, a goal I hope to accomplish by acting as a college coach for people with Asperger's, and by being a public speaker. I have spoken at autism conferences all across the country, as well as professional development workshops and school assemblies, and the overarching message I try to leave my audiences with is that we may be different, but we have much to offer the world. Each person on the spectrum has their own gifts and challenges, and should not be overlooked, no matter how affected or not they may be."
I hadn't even gotten to read the blog post itself when I started reading the comments on that link. And there were many, oh yes, from parents/professionals/folks on the spectrum in varying states of outrage/agreement. But the comments that stood out to me the most were from a 16-year-old with Asperger's named Jordan. He flat-out was attacking people at certain points, and his whole overall attitude was doing a serious disservice to Aspies everywhere (you can read some of the things he wrote at the link there).
I was most disheartened by this, as you can imagine, and so I decided to write a response. It turned out to be a freaking novel (is anyone surprised?), but I both addressed Jordan and got out my feelings on the autism/Asperger's debate. This is what I wrote:
"Okay. I've sat here reading (almost) every response to this for the past half an hour, and my brain is aching. Jordan, let me direct this to you first...I know you have Asperger's Syndrome. Guess what? I do, too. But the way you have conducted yourself in this thread is giving a seriously bad name to "Aspies" everywhere. You've attacked people needlessly (telling them to "shut up"), and I find your entire attitude to be condescending and know-it-all. Maybe you didn't mean to come across that way. In fact, you probably didn't, but here's the reality. People aren't not listening to you because you have Asperger's--they're not listening to you because you're sixteen and you DON'T know everything. No one does, in fact. Heck, even I don't. I got this diagnosis at age 10, and here I am seventeen years later STILL trying to figure it all out. And even though I don't have the answers or a great, all-encompassing solution, here is one thing I do know:
We all want people to see our point of view. This is somewhat ironic because, being on the spectrum, we tend to have a difficult time seeing others' points of view. I know that when I was sixteen, all I wanted was to be heard, to be acknowledged. I see you on here, going on about how great you are, how you could have your grades up "if you wanted to" and how you plan to be a published author and this and that. There's nothing wrong with having goals or dreams, my friend. But from your comments I detected a serious amount of insecurity--like you felt you had to tell us these things over and over to "prove" that you deserve to be taken seriously. But if your arguments and the things you had to say were truly sound and well thought out, that's all you would need. No "proving" necessary.
But instead there is hostility pouring off of you in waves, and I recognize it, along with your insecurity, as I have seen in adult males on the spectrum twice your age at support group meetings I have attended. You may think that you don't need any help, but that's the surest sign that you do--and the day will come when you'll have to ask for it. I once felt the same way--I was downright ashamed to ask for help because I thought I should know how to do "these things"...and I didn't. So I suffered, and maybe I lashed out at people too, in the same way that you are. All it does in the end is cause more harm than good, and it further prevents having what you have to say be heard by the people you want to have hear it.
Anyway...back to the subject at hand. I understand both sides of the DSM-V debate. I'm currently a grad student in ABA, and I've done observation in classrooms with kids on every corner of the ASD spectrum. I used to have a fear not unlike the blog author's--of being "lumped in" and seen the way I saw those kids. But the fact is, Asperger's is a part of who I am. They can change the wording, but that doesn't mean its meaning has to be taken away. And if, in the process, it allows folks with Asperger's to receive the services they need (services I certainly never got in elementary, middle, or high school), then I can't see how it would be a bad thing.
It doesn't make us any less who we are, unless we let it. We are different--not better, not worse--just different, both from the rest of the world and from each other. But the more productive use of our energies would be to help one another, not tear each other down. All of the fighting and squabbling is a waste--a waste of time, and heart, the heart that I know we all have. A heart that beats for our spectrumite brothers and sisters, and all their loved ones.
My goal is and always will be to leave this world a better place for folks on the spectrum than it was when I got here, a goal I hope to accomplish by acting as a college coach for people with Asperger's, and by being a public speaker. I have spoken at autism conferences all across the country, as well as professional development workshops and school assemblies, and the overarching message I try to leave my audiences with is that we may be different, but we have much to offer the world. Each person on the spectrum has their own gifts and challenges, and should not be overlooked, no matter how affected or not they may be."
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Introducing: AmyGravino.com!
Hello, loyal readers of my blog! I am most pleased and proud to present you all with my brand-new, fully-functional website: AmyGravino.com!.
AmyGravino.com is your one-stop shop for everything and anything relating to moi. It has my bio, my C.V., pieces of my writing, articles I've written, video and audio clips from media appearances that I've made, and more. The page for ASCOT, my college coaching LLC, is still under construction (which is fitting because I'm still trying to hammer out the details of setting up the LLC), but everything else is finished.
I am trying to attract people looking for college coaching or consulting services, or anyone looking for an autism/Asperger's Syndrome-related public speaker, and I knew I needed to have all of my information in one place, hence the creation of this shiny new site.
Now, I know I am no website designer, and it certainly doesn't look as good as if a professional did it. But, I worked very hard on creating all of the pages and putting stuff together, so I hope that you will all enjoy perusing it. If you have any (constructive) feedback to offer, then please, by all means, do let me know. And if you like what you see, please feel free to spread the word of AmyGravino.com as far and as wide as you like.
Also, I have added a new feature to my blog here: the "Share" button. It can be found on all of my current and previous blog entries, and its function is to make it easier for you to share my posts with whomever you think might want to read them! So please do use this feature at your convenience. Thank you!
AmyGravino.com is your one-stop shop for everything and anything relating to moi. It has my bio, my C.V., pieces of my writing, articles I've written, video and audio clips from media appearances that I've made, and more. The page for ASCOT, my college coaching LLC, is still under construction (which is fitting because I'm still trying to hammer out the details of setting up the LLC), but everything else is finished.
I am trying to attract people looking for college coaching or consulting services, or anyone looking for an autism/Asperger's Syndrome-related public speaker, and I knew I needed to have all of my information in one place, hence the creation of this shiny new site.
Now, I know I am no website designer, and it certainly doesn't look as good as if a professional did it. But, I worked very hard on creating all of the pages and putting stuff together, so I hope that you will all enjoy perusing it. If you have any (constructive) feedback to offer, then please, by all means, do let me know. And if you like what you see, please feel free to spread the word of AmyGravino.com as far and as wide as you like.
Also, I have added a new feature to my blog here: the "Share" button. It can be found on all of my current and previous blog entries, and its function is to make it easier for you to share my posts with whomever you think might want to read them! So please do use this feature at your convenience. Thank you!
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Home Is Where the Hard Is
Sitting on an enclosed deck in the middle of a thunderstorm has become a favorite pastime of mine. I used to be terrified of thunder; as a child, even the slightest rumble would send me flying under the covers, shaking with fear. Even now, the storms seem scarier when I am inside, so I call upon my father to join me, where we settle into the green and white-striped chairs--his, always the recliner. With the sounds of whipping wind and falling rain all around me, I am calm.
My parents still live in the house I grew up in, about a two hour's drive from where I am now in New Jersey. Graduate school has kept me almost absurdly busy, and I don't go back there very often, except for the occasional orthodontist appointment or holiday.
There is a danger in visiting one's old hometown, in that you run the risk of seeing people you know. People from the past, who remind you of the person you used to be, and who you spent years trying to forget.
People you went to high school with.
The beige and black building is much smaller than I remember. At its feet rests a verdant landscape, the grassy, crater-shaped bowl used for baseball in summer and sledding in the winter. A long handrail in the middle of half moon-shaped steps leads the way to the front doors, whose once heavy handles yield easily to my hand. From faraway glance, it is peaceful, serene, and immaculately kept.
For me, it is and was my vale of tears.
It can be said that people spend most of their lives trying to figure out who they are. It can also be said that this process almost universally begins in high school. Jock. Nerd. Homecoming queen. Band geek. Class president. Loner. Which one are you? Now's the time to find out, to find others like you and stand together--allies in the silent war of the hallways.
But to do that, you first must know that you are a person. I never got that far.
Sometimes it was only a look. A brow furrowing in disapproval, eyes rolling almost comically far up into their heads, a brief scoff before finally turning away. I never knew what these things meant, but still I was left with a deep burning inside my heart. Chest heaving, cheeks flushed, the beginnings of teardrops forming in my throat. A powerful poison that was slowly, methodically, killing me.
I knew I wasn't like my peers. Not popular, beautiful, happy. Not normal. Through elementary and middle school, my apartness from them became painfully obvious in almost every way, but it wasn't until high school that I realized the true nature of the divide between us.
They were human. I wasn't.
I believed this. At first, it was because they told me. "Psycho. Freak. Loser. Retard." In between classes, alone in the hall, standing by myself not saying a word. If there was an opportunity, they took it, hurling insults like tommy gun-loaded paper airplanes whizzing through the air.
Am I someone? Am I even alive? the questions plagued my thoughts. After a while it became impossible to see the difference between their lie and my truth. Their words were pinballs, firing around in my mind through the maze of neurons and synapses, reverberating, shrieking as they traipsed and ran and looked for the end of the labyrinth, to no avail.
I was convinced that I wasn't really there; just a body, floating through those halls day after day, with no essence or tangibleness behind it. Nothing to tether me to the earth, to the rest of humanity. My soul belonged to them.
This was the storm that I lived in, with no shelter to run to, no protection to shield me. No matter where I tried to hide, the thunder always found me. And it roared.
My father gently rocks back and forth in his recliner, the screws squeaking quietly as I listen. The rain is beginning to subside now, the sky brightening, and the air is tinged with a crisp coolness. The trees are stained, their leaves heavy with damp. Tiny droplets hang from every edge, pulling them down as if bowed. Another survivor. I nod my head gently in reply. We have both made it through the storm.
My parents still live in the house I grew up in, about a two hour's drive from where I am now in New Jersey. Graduate school has kept me almost absurdly busy, and I don't go back there very often, except for the occasional orthodontist appointment or holiday.
There is a danger in visiting one's old hometown, in that you run the risk of seeing people you know. People from the past, who remind you of the person you used to be, and who you spent years trying to forget.
People you went to high school with.
The beige and black building is much smaller than I remember. At its feet rests a verdant landscape, the grassy, crater-shaped bowl used for baseball in summer and sledding in the winter. A long handrail in the middle of half moon-shaped steps leads the way to the front doors, whose once heavy handles yield easily to my hand. From faraway glance, it is peaceful, serene, and immaculately kept.
For me, it is and was my vale of tears.
It can be said that people spend most of their lives trying to figure out who they are. It can also be said that this process almost universally begins in high school. Jock. Nerd. Homecoming queen. Band geek. Class president. Loner. Which one are you? Now's the time to find out, to find others like you and stand together--allies in the silent war of the hallways.
But to do that, you first must know that you are a person. I never got that far.
Sometimes it was only a look. A brow furrowing in disapproval, eyes rolling almost comically far up into their heads, a brief scoff before finally turning away. I never knew what these things meant, but still I was left with a deep burning inside my heart. Chest heaving, cheeks flushed, the beginnings of teardrops forming in my throat. A powerful poison that was slowly, methodically, killing me.
I knew I wasn't like my peers. Not popular, beautiful, happy. Not normal. Through elementary and middle school, my apartness from them became painfully obvious in almost every way, but it wasn't until high school that I realized the true nature of the divide between us.
They were human. I wasn't.
I believed this. At first, it was because they told me. "Psycho. Freak. Loser. Retard." In between classes, alone in the hall, standing by myself not saying a word. If there was an opportunity, they took it, hurling insults like tommy gun-loaded paper airplanes whizzing through the air.
Am I someone? Am I even alive? the questions plagued my thoughts. After a while it became impossible to see the difference between their lie and my truth. Their words were pinballs, firing around in my mind through the maze of neurons and synapses, reverberating, shrieking as they traipsed and ran and looked for the end of the labyrinth, to no avail.
I was convinced that I wasn't really there; just a body, floating through those halls day after day, with no essence or tangibleness behind it. Nothing to tether me to the earth, to the rest of humanity. My soul belonged to them.
This was the storm that I lived in, with no shelter to run to, no protection to shield me. No matter where I tried to hide, the thunder always found me. And it roared.
My father gently rocks back and forth in his recliner, the screws squeaking quietly as I listen. The rain is beginning to subside now, the sky brightening, and the air is tinged with a crisp coolness. The trees are stained, their leaves heavy with damp. Tiny droplets hang from every edge, pulling them down as if bowed. Another survivor. I nod my head gently in reply. We have both made it through the storm.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)