If you were a woman standing in line at a video store, and a nine-year-old boy brushed against your ass, what would your reaction be?
Would you try to speak to him directly, and ask him if he knew that he had touched your ass?
Would you ask his mother if she knew that her son had touched your ass,and give her a chance to apologize?
Or would you be like the woman in our local video store -- who got in my face and demanded that I tell my son Leo that it is not okay to touch women's asses, and that he needed to apologize -- without even asking if I knew the ass-touching had happened?
The confrontative stranger who complains about our kids' odd behaviors is an archetype, an ubiquitous character in many autism families' stories. But not in ours, not until now. I suspect we've been spared because Leo's autism has always been, well, unsubtle.
He is a handsome, affectionate, cherubic boy who appears typical at first -- until you notice his intermittent twirling in place, or patterned grimacing, or the way he contorts his hands while using his beloved and ever-present iPad.
Strangers usually see that our boy is quirky, and are kind to him. So the video store woman's reaction was a shock, and a reality check.
I had been glowing with pride as we stood in line with our DVDs, watching my boy contentedly playing with his iPad on the counter.
This calm boy was the same Leo whose short-circuiting nervous system used to propel him to constant HULK SMASH violence, leaving me with a single option for keeping him and his sisters safe: strapping them into their car seats, and spending hours driving the back roads of San Francisco, San Bruno, Moss Beach, Pescadero, La Honda -- anywhere the rushing scenery would soothe him, would help him forget his impulses to shriek, push, hit, pinch, and scratch.The video store woman couldn't be expected to know that the boy whose lingering discomfort-in-his-own-skin was now expressed by an occasional spin-in-place -- which is probably how he accidentally touched her -- spent years in behavioral therapy, learning to tolerate casual errands like a trip to the video store.
I understand that. But I'm surprised that, given his odd-but-not-disruptive behaviors, she didn't give him the benefit of the doubt.
I am usually all about autism diplomacy, underpinned by Canadian-bred compulsive apologizing.
I want to smooth the road for my son, to create as much goodwill as possible, to help others accept him and his autism spectrum peers. But I am also not used to being chastised by strangers about my guileless child.
So when the woman demanded our apology, I did not offer it. Instead, I roared into overprotective autism mom mode,and, said through gritted teeth that I would have asked Leo to apologize if he was able to talk.
The woman spat back that I should have apologized for him. Which I should have, I would have -- had she asked instead of accusing, instead of judging, instead of assuming. If she had simply said "Did you know your son touched my ass?," then no matter her tone of voice, I would have been prostrate with apologies. Prostrate.
But she was on the offense. And put me immediately on the defense. In my pride, in my rage, I bungled a teachable moment. I blew an opportunity to help her better understand my son, and people like him, as they make their way in this world we all share.
I'm hoping to help correct that error by sharing our story here.
Read more: http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/blogs/lshumaker/detail?entry_id=75264&plckItemsPerPage=50&plckSort=TimeStampAscending#ixzz13O75rA8H
