What Do You Want for Your Child?

As parents of (any aged) child on the spectrum, we are often asked, "What do you want for __________ ?"

The questioner seems to be prodding for a clue as to just how disabled our children are. It's understandable.

Still. There was a time when this question could bring me to my knees. My heart hurt with the weight of the standard expectations for my daughter. I watched those dreams break off like dry limbs in the wind. One by one, they fell into the river, floating away, forever out of reach.

The separation from "normal" began quickly. My child could not play like other children. She had no sense of herself in space, so when other moms would gather to chat on a playground, keeping a causal eye on their children, I would have to climb FASTER than Austen could, so she wouldn't tumble off the edge. (I wasn't always fast enough.)

Often, she would stop at the top of the slide, her little pockets and pudgy fists filled with pebbles, where she would throw them one by one, oblivious to me, other parents, and kids shouting at her to "SLIDE DOWN, ALREADY!"

It wasn't long before I realized casual playdates would never happen.

Before I realized that ANY playdates would be fraught and full of sensory challenges and meltdowns.

Okay, so public school. Out of the question.

Until she got kicked out of two special needs schools, which we couldn't afford anyway.

No normal teen years with their milestones.

No college tours, no first apartment.

No normal adult years for either of us.

BUT...

Because I have learned to throughougly let go off societies expectations and my own hopes and dreams for my child, now when I am asked, "What do you want for your child?"

I say, "I want her to be safe and happy and loved."

That's it.

Austin and Austen

Today, I’d like you to meet Austin and Austen. My daughter is Austen. She calls her friend (all the time and exclusively), the “Other Austin.” They have been good friends for several years. I want you all to hear the “Other Austin’s” story to dispel some of the myths about friendship and people on the spectrum. And in doing so, you may learn more about the meaning of the term “spectrum.”

In many ways, Austin is higher functioning than my daughter. In fact, about three years ago, he and his family moved from the Dallas area to Albuquerque, NM. Austin had been accepted into a music program at the University of Arizona. We were all happy for them but sad that he had to go.

Austin is a savant, that rare end of the spectrum that has seemingly superhuman abilities. Austin composes band shows, among many other musical talents. He feels, thinks, and breathes music.

After auditioning for a well-known music professor in New Mexico, he got into the school. Austin’s mom, Vanessa, was understandably thrilled. Here was someone who finally could look past her son’s “quirks” and see his potential. The family packed up, rented a home there, and were looking forward to their new lives.

However, shortly after they arrived, Vanessa received an email from the professor’s graduate assistant, telling her Austin’s would-be mentor had accepted a position elsewhere.

All that hope was crushed. It takes a very special person, committed to seeing the talents of our kids, to help them thrive. Without his mentor, Austin began to have difficulties. Dorm life was hard. He did not fit in. Despite his massive talent, Austin has many stimming behaviors that are frequently off-putting to neurotypical people, especially teens and twenty-somethings mostly unfamiliar with autism. He moved back into the family home.

While all of this was going on, Austin and Austen continued to deepen their friendship. While Austen’s non-stop chatter can (and does) drive me batty at times, Austin is always willing to talk and to LISTEN to her. They laugh about the types of preschool shows they both enjoy. Austin does impressions of “Teletubbies” and Austen will answer back with her spot-on “Simpsons” voices. They can do this for hours.

My hope, and goal, for Austin is that I can help his parents “shop” his band shows. He has completed three different shows, one with original music and others with a combination of his own work and the scores of other composers.

Finding what works in a non-traditional way is what I personally focus on for the members of our group. Neurodiverse pegs will NEVER fit into a traditional frame. But this does not mean people on the spectrum have nothing to give. In fact, they have incredible gifts, even those without Austin’s tendency towards savantism.

Objects in the Mirror: Sheila

Sheila

Sheila came into the shop on the first day we opened. At less than five feet tall, I tower over her like an albino Godzilla. She asked about the work we do. When I told her, her already glowing aura changed, charged with what I can only call “spirit.”

In her soft voice, Sheila asked if she could bless the shop. “Of course,” I agreed. “We need all the help we can get!”

Slowly, Sheila moved in front of each of the gallery sections, entreating God to bless our space and our mission.

Then she glided into the resale shop, stopping at each display and asking for God’s grace. With her huge hoop earrings and her head wrapped in a colorful scarf, Sheila could well be from a Toni Morrison novel, such is her presence and demeanor.

After that initial visit, I did not see Sheila for a bit. But this week, she stopped in the shop and of course I asked her for an interview. She said, “How about right now?” and so we began.

“I grew up in St. Louis,” she told me. “The youngest of twelve children.” Her parents were married for forty-two years, before her mother’s death from kidney disease after being on dialysis for many years.

Her mother’s death was soon followed by that of her brother and sister. The loss of so much of her immediate family was understandably difficult. But there would be more blows to follow.

After sixteen years of marriage and working together, Sheila’s husband told her he did not want to be married anymore. This revelation completely stunned Sheila. She had no idea that her husband had been carrying on an affair with a coworker right in front of her face.

Sheila was gutted by the betrayal. She remembers getting into her car with the clear intention of driving off a bridge. As she was about to pull out of her driveway, her son ran out and pleaded with her, telling her how much he loved and needed her, and how much her grandchildren loved and needed her.

“It was the darkest time in my life,” Sheila recalls. “I have never felt so hopeless.”

“How did you do it?” I wanted to know.

“Faith,” she told me. “Plain and simple. I still deal with depression and there are hard days. But I’m here,” she says, tapping her chest.

“Here’s what I’ve learned. I am not responsible for the way you treat me. I am only responsible for how I treat me.”

(Note: I got busy with customers near the end of our interview and forgot to get our picture together. I emailed Sheila requesting she send one and will update when I have it.)

Objects in the Mirror: David

David

A couple times a week, David stops in the shop. In his late 70s, David is still an imposing figure at nearly 6’3. Always neatly dressed in crisp blue jeans and a pressed shirt, his favorite thing to do is poke around in our DVD and electronics section.

Last Thursday, as he was browsing, I mentioned that I needed to move one of our fixtures. “Oh, I can help,” David offered. When I demurred, he rolled up the sleeve on his right arm. “Popeye would be proud of guns like those!” I told him. He laughed and told me he was 77.

Of course, I had to know his story and asked if he’d come in for an interview. Tuesday, in the midst of the chaos of getting ready for our fall fundraiser, we sat down to talk.

I was unsurprised to learn David had been an athlete most of his life, playing football, basketball, and baseball while growing up in Lamarque Texas, about twenty-minutes from the seaside city of Galveston.

David was such an accomplished athlete, in fact, that he was the recipient of a scholarship to the University of Houston. God had other ideas. Helping his father with some roofing work, David took a bad fall and fractured his skull. The injury effectively ended his football dreams.

Determined to find his own way in life, David resumed a summer job he had taken as a 15-year-old, working as a longshoreman. The work was dirty and hard. Although the below-deck crew were given masks, the flimsy face coverings did little to combat the sand and dust.

The immediate and lasting effects of inhaling so much particulate matter meant that just six weeks after enlisting in the Air Force, David was discharged as “unable to serve due to severe asthma,” a condition that has since been lifelong.

Plan C was to finish his college degree, which he did in 1963, receiving a BA, majoring in marketing and minoring in behavioral science.

As we talked about his career, I was surprised to learn that the company which he eventually owned handled the marketing for Atlas Van Lines and Mayflower Moving. My father designed the logos for both of these companies.

By 1986, David and his wife were ready to retire. Their plan was to travel around the world, something they had both dreamed of during those long working years that kept them apart more than either would have liked.

David’s blue eyes brimmed with tears. “You don’t have to tell me,” I assured him. I put my hand on his arm.

Composing his voice, David told me that his wife, his high school sweetheart, fell ill shortly after his retirement. A doctor’s visit soon confirmed their worst fears. Pancreatic cancer would take her life three months later.

Since then, David has chosen to remain single, although he proudly says he’s had plenty of opportunities, “a couple of them millionaires, if you can believe it!” I certainly could.

Still, he misses the comfort of companionship.

We can all relate to that.

P.S. I wanted to show you this gorgeous ring David wears, a gift from his late father who told him it is Navajo-made.

(Y'all be nice about my pic. I overslept, had no makeup on, bedhead, and I may or may not have picked that shirt up off the closet floor. There's no way of knowing.)

Objects in the Mirror: Maureen

MAUREEN

As I suspected, getting people to be at ease with me was not hard. No one has much difficulty summoning a story about their donated object. Unlike broad questions which tend to terrify people (“So! Tell me about your life!”), the safety raft of an object offers comfort.

Maureen and I settle into the classroom. “First of all,” I say, laughing, “you must tell me about that gorgeous swimsuit!”

“Oh my,” she chuckles, “That was purchased at my mother’s urging. Trying to live through me, you know. The damned bathing suit was uncomfortable. See all that elastic? Yuck! Do you know how old that thing is?”

“I do,” I reply. “My research says it is likely 1949-1954.”

“That’s correct! Absolutely right, 1954. How did you know?”

I tell her I did a deep-dive on Jantzen labels and that I love doing research.

This led us to our shared experience of having been college professors; she, a history professor. While vacationing in Denmark, she met her American husband-to-be and later moved to the US and settled in Pittsburgh, where she taught at Point Park University.

While her professional life, and that of her husband’s, was  doing well, her marriage was faltering.

“I got pregnant with my first child and he decided he had to do his Master’s degree at Harvard, instead of where we had made our home and our lives.  I had another child and things did not get better. In 1980, we divorced. It was not amicable.”

Our discussion segues to the history of women’s rights and the current state of things. We both are getting depressed. Time to turn things around.

I ask memorist Mary Karr’s question: “Tell me about a smell from your childhood.”

A smile flickers across Maureen’s lips: “I know. I know. It’s weird but I will tell you.  When I was about six my mother and I would wait for the bus to take me to my grandparents’ home.  Lining the bus stop, there were poles, about this big around,” she gestures with her hands to form a circle about five inches wide, “to help people queue. You know how we English like to queue! The poles had a peculiar, metallic odor, probably mixed with fumes but that smell…,” she pauses. “It reminds me of home and being cared for. I was an only child.”  My mind saw little Maureen, in a tweed jacket and saddle shoes, resting her head on that pole and waiting to be spoiled by grandma.

What a remarkable woman her great-grandmother was! “She was illiterate,” Maureen told me. “She had twelve children. She managed my grandfather’s dry goods store.  When the family found her logs for the store after her death, it became apparent that my grandmother had developed her own system of writing! Can you beat that?”

Could anyone? I wondered.

Before we knew it, an hour had flown by. “Only one more question,” I promised. “We have talked a lot about being strong women. What advice would you give young women today? I know that’s a big question. Take your time.”

“No need, no need. I know immediately. It is this: “Get career qualifications. It doesn’t have to be college. Learn a trade. Never be dependent.”

Right on, sister.

Objects in the Mirror: Oswaldo

Oswaldo 

This kid came in and spent about a half hour poking around. Shyly, he asked, "How much for this?" I told him I'd give it to him for free if he'd let me take his picture.

"Why?" he asked, "I mean, sure but..."

I told him I just wanted to encourage his interest in art.

Plus he bought $50 in trading cards. What? I'm not stupid!

But you know I'd've given it to him regardless, which is why I'm poor.

Objects in the Mirror: Bernice

Every Wednesday, Bernice comes into the shop, her hair wrapped in a colorful headscarf (many of which she has purchased from us) and a loose African-style dress.

Bernice is one of the many patients who visits us from the dialysis clinic just a few suites down from A3. While she sometimes purchases an item or two from the store, we know she will always have money for a Dr. Pepper, a Sprite, a bag of Fritos, and a bag of Cheetos.

Last weekend, we had a “Fill-a-Bag” for $10 sale but Bernice would not get her disability security check until Monday. Lisa and I knew she had been eyeing a particular ornate cross. Would we hold it for her until she got her money? Well, of course. My heart wanted to just give it to her outright along with all the other items she had placed carefully in her bag. But I could sense that it was important to Bernice to pay her way. 

Yesterday, right on time, here came Bernice, her purple and black dress sweeping in behind her as the door closed, eager to claim her cross.

Before I gave her the bag, however, I asked if she would sit for a short interview with me.

Trying to ease her into our talk, I asked some basic questions and discovered that Bernice was born and raised in South Dallas and had attended Lincoln High School.

I asked her to tell me about what she did for fun as a kid. Bernice’s eyes immediately sparkled; her whole demeanor changed. I could see the scrappy little girl she once had been. 

Fun, it seemed, for Bernice, centered around how to make money. She and her friends collected Coke bottles and returned them for five cents apiece. “The best was when it rained hard,” she told me. “Then we kids would all get down in the gutters and ditches and stuff and scoop up crawdads. The gas station around the corner bought them from us; they sold live bait.”

Bernice got to keep her hard-earned money and spent it on treats. “Oh, how I loved these “Indian Head” cookies. Those were only a penny apiece.”

If her collecting had gone particularly well, sometimes Bernice would splurge on a sleeve of “Now and Later” candies for five cents. (If you are blissfully unaware of this dental nightmare “Now and Laters,” are square-shaped Starburst-like candies, appropriately named “Now and Later” because it took forever to get them soft enough to chew. You’d eventually spit it out into the little wax paper cover of each one, this, the alleged “Later.” The wrapper, incidentally, *never* completely came off the surface, but nestled in the cracks. If you were a child, clearly your only choice was to eat a bit of wax paper… but I digress.) 

Bernice learned the value of hard work from her grandfather, her sole caretaker for most of her life. An unusual circumstance indeed for 1964 and I asked her to tell me the story.

“My mother, you see, she gave me up when I was three days old. She was only 20 years old and my biological father 21, I think. Anyway, one night, my mama, she snuck into my father’s room.”

“That morning, my grandmother found her and told her straight out, “God put a baby in you last night.”

“Wow,” I said, “Did she have that special kind of prayer relationship? Did she think she had psychic powers or anything like that?” 

“No, ma’am, she HEARD it happen.” Bernice is quite convinced that there is some sort of literal sound when an egg implants. A curious thing for a vocational nurse to believe, but it’s part of the family mythos, apparently.

“My grandmother died when I was four. My first memory is of her funeral,” Bernice confided. “Then my father left. Just gone. After that, it was me and my grandfather and a couple of cousins, too.” 

“My grandfather did the best he could. He himself didn’t go to church, but he sure made us go,” she laughed. “I went to Mount Gilead most of my life but I am open to anywhere Jesus is.” 

I had not yet asked about her own children. She thought for a minute (it happens!)! “Yes, I have three. My daughter is 42. My middle son is 38. And my youngest…” tears welled up in her eyes.

“My youngest was murdered ten years ago by his best friend. He would have been 37 on the 18th of this month.” Now the tears streamed down her face. And mine. I did not ask if I could hug her. I just did. She hugged me back with the depth of pain I wanted to share with her. We stayed that way for a long minute.

It was getting close to the time Bernice would have to start her dialysis. “This is year eleven,” she told me, as we packed her items away in a big Ikea bag she’d brought along. “Nobody needs to know what I bought and start asking questions!” she tisked, covering up her purchases with blankets she’d packed in the bag, just for this purpose. “Ain’t none of they business.”

Yet, for the last half hour, she told me things that were categorically“none of my business. I am so grateful.

Objects in the Mirror: Sam

Objects in the Mirror: SAM 

For weeks, maybe months, Sam has come into the shop, quiet as a cat, slipping through the door so silently that sometimes I am momentarily startled to realize someone is here.

Unlike customers Bernice and Maureen, Sam comes and goes at random, dressed in androdgynous clothing which typically consists of a ball cap, t-shirt and loose-fitting pants. Lisa introduced herself and got, “Hi, I’m Sam,” in return, which did not help us in the pronoun department. Rather than get it wrong, I defaulted to my general, “Just ask” stance and Sam replied, “Oh, I identify as female. She and her are fine.”

Yesterday, Sam came in for her interview. Refusing anything to drink, she took the seat beside my desk and smiled shyly, her enormous dark brown eyes framed by long lashes with no help from makeup. 

I was about to ask some general question but Sam was ready to go. “I do have something interesting about me. I…,” she said with obvious pride, “I am a triplet.”

“That’s certainly the most unusual first sentence I’ve had since I started this,” I told her.

While an attention-grabber, it soon became apparent how hard it was for Sam to differentiate herself from her siblings. There were constant comparisons between them. One of the sisters is a brain, Sam tells me. “She got a PhD in History,” rolling her eyes. “I mean, what on Earth are you gonna do with that?”

Sam did not do well in school, thanks to an undiagnosed case of dyslexia. She has only recently come to realize that she is not stupid. In fact, listening to the stories of how she managed to make it through school shows her innate cleverness. 

School was hard and so was life at home. This past year was especially difficult. Sam’s beloved younger cousin was killed in a car accident a block from his home. The loss of her childhood friend and confidant made Sam re-evaluate her life choices. Although she had lived with, and worked in, the family business her entire adult life, Sam decided to move in with her girlfriend and start an antique business.

Having purchased two ancient typewriters from our shop, I had made the erroneous assumption that she was probably some sort of Gen Z hipster, lugging around the cranky old beasts to sit in a coffee shop somewhere writing esoteric poetry, irritated that her grande caramel macchiato in a venti cup, 1/3 whole milk, 1/3 almond milk, 1/3 soy milk, double the amount of vanilla syrup, caramel wall in the cup, no caramel drizzle on top, upside down, tall cup ice, whipped cream, rounded lid, 1 shot extra espresso (decaf), cinnamon sprinkled on top was in fact, skim milk.

No, Sam is looking for items to stock in her own space in an antique mall. Even though this means living well below the income level she is accustomed to, so far, the freedom has been worth the price.

It always is. 

Objects in the Mirror: Intro

Objects in the Mirror: Intro

Out of the corner of my eye from my spot in the gallery, I see Maureen. Always dressed in stylish, comfortable clothes and oversized, square sunglasses, she reminded me at once of Julie Andrews, even before I heard her lovely accent.

On Wednesdays, I have come to expect her. She never stays long, but always wants to show me the things she is donating: Wedgewood candle holders, a silver tea service, and my favorite, a vintage Jantzen swimsuit that immediately summons the image of a leggy, redheaded Vargas girl.

Here was my chance, I thought, to hear Maureen’s story. There had to be a history to that suit. And there had to be a history of Maureen.

So here begins this blog, “Objects in the Mirror.” As with Maureen,  I will interview people and the history of whatever object they choose to donate. Our treasured objects or even ones we discard…they all have a tale to tell.

Blog Post Title One

It all begins with an idea. Maybe you want to launch a business. Maybe you want to turn a hobby into something more. Or maybe you have a creative project to share with the world. Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference.

Don’t worry about sounding professional. Sound like you. There are over 1.5 billion websites out there, but your story is what’s going to separate this one from the rest. If you read the words back and don’t hear your own voice in your head, that’s a good sign you still have more work to do.

Be clear, be confident and don’t overthink it. The beauty of your story is that it’s going to continue to evolve and your site can evolve with it. Your goal should be to make it feel right for right now. Later will take care of itself. It always does.

Blog Post Title Two

It all begins with an idea. Maybe you want to launch a business. Maybe you want to turn a hobby into something more. Or maybe you have a creative project to share with the world. Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference.

Don’t worry about sounding professional. Sound like you. There are over 1.5 billion websites out there, but your story is what’s going to separate this one from the rest. If you read the words back and don’t hear your own voice in your head, that’s a good sign you still have more work to do.

Be clear, be confident and don’t overthink it. The beauty of your story is that it’s going to continue to evolve and your site can evolve with it. Your goal should be to make it feel right for right now. Later will take care of itself. It always does.

Blog Post Title Three

It all begins with an idea. Maybe you want to launch a business. Maybe you want to turn a hobby into something more. Or maybe you have a creative project to share with the world. Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference.

Don’t worry about sounding professional. Sound like you. There are over 1.5 billion websites out there, but your story is what’s going to separate this one from the rest. If you read the words back and don’t hear your own voice in your head, that’s a good sign you still have more work to do.

Be clear, be confident and don’t overthink it. The beauty of your story is that it’s going to continue to evolve and your site can evolve with it. Your goal should be to make it feel right for right now. Later will take care of itself. It always does.

Blog Post Title Four

It all begins with an idea. Maybe you want to launch a business. Maybe you want to turn a hobby into something more. Or maybe you have a creative project to share with the world. Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference.

Don’t worry about sounding professional. Sound like you. There are over 1.5 billion websites out there, but your story is what’s going to separate this one from the rest. If you read the words back and don’t hear your own voice in your head, that’s a good sign you still have more work to do.

Be clear, be confident and don’t overthink it. The beauty of your story is that it’s going to continue to evolve and your site can evolve with it. Your goal should be to make it feel right for right now. Later will take care of itself. It always does.