His Theatrical Debut – On Inclusion and Plays in Autism Land

In flipping through his yellow binder, where his teachers and I do our daily communication, I found it.

A simple flyer with a simple announcement. But it was everything to me. Everything.

We are putting on a play!

**********

In our parental autism journey, there came a point when I learned that the so-called “normal” experiences and rites of passages of childhood are not always meant to be — and that was ok. I didn’t feel it so much in the early years after D’s diagnosis, when he was in an autism classroom in a full-on autism school, first in New York and then in Virginia. But after he transferred to a public elementary school and our priorities shifted, these were new lessons for me to learn.

Inclusion and mainstreaming of kids with special needs with their typically-developing peers in classrooms and school activities is a great and important goal — if it’s done in a way that is first beneficial to the child with special needs and then also to their peers. When D entered first grade in a public school after spending four years in private autism programs, one of my biggest goals was to see him engage with classmates and in classes with his neurotypical classmates as much as possible.

It wasn’t so much that I thought he would academically learn better with “normal” kids. Even back then we knew how profound his autism was. But, I figured the more he could learn to be, learn to live, learn to exist with other kids doing what other kids do, then the better that would be for him. If he could maybe attend physical education with the other kids, or music class …

If he could stand on the risers with the third graders while they sang in the Winter Concert — be included with them — it would be a good experience for D.

But what was really better for D? How would it be helpful, meaningful, appropriate, comfortable?

**********

We enter the classroom — me, D’s Baba and H, who we picked up from school early so he could come and watch. We brought Dadima (D’s paternal grandmother) with us as well. Another mother and grandmother of D’s classmate is also there, as well as the parents of yet another classmate. Various school administrator have also converged for the play.

We sit ourselves down in a scattering of black chairs, parents and grandparents, all nervously excited to see our kids perform.  On the other side of the classroom is a little set, built by some of the students, and a divider behind which the students and their teaching assistants hang out. It’s chaotic, messy, joyful, difficult and beautiful.

One of D’s teachers stands in front of us and sets the scene, as the kids, all autistic, all fabulous, wait for the play to begin.

Welcome to our class play. We’ve been working on it for four or five weeks. It’s been a lot of fun. It’s probably right about what you expect — a whole lot of fun, and we’re going to act out the story.

**********

In his 12th year of school, D appeared in a class theatrical production of “Caps for Sale.” As we worked for years to figure out the best kind of inclusion for him while he was in public school, what would beneficial for him as well as for the other students, I came to a realization. Sometimes what I wanted for him — really, I wanted for me.

I wanted to see him do certain things. I wanted him to participate in certain things, like I had done growing up, like his sister and brother were doing now. As parents, we all push our kids to do things at times that are more about what we want then what they want. Often it’s because we know ultimately the experience will be good for them — they will learn something valuable.

But sometimes its selfish. It’s because we need to see them do it, for whatever reason. Whether right or wrong, we’re all guilty of it. I certainly am. The lead up to D’s fifth grade graduation, which came at one of the most difficult points in his life when he was plagued with problems, illnesses and an intensity of self injurious behavior the likes of which I’ve never seen nor ever wish to see again, became an ongoing battle with my internal self. In Arabic, we call it our nafs — our self, our ego, our psyche. When we talk about improving ourselves and trying to better ourselves, we talk about struggling against our nafs.

The struggle is hard for me. It it’s real. Most times I conquer that selfish need to see D do things as others were doing them, or that need to compare D to who and what his peers are. At other times I falter, retreating into myself to lick my self-imposed wounds.

It was a huge struggle with D’s fifth grade graduation. For all that had never been the “normal track” with D — the years in a self-contained autism classroom, the IEPs, the lack of academic progress, the continued non-verbalness, the profoundness of his autism — I desperately wanted to see him walk the stage like the other fifth graders would be doing and accept his medal from his principal. But given the state he was in at the time, it seemed highly unlikely. It tore me apart, but there was nothing I could do.

But God made a miracle happen. A prayer was answered exactly in the way I prayed for it. To my dying day, I will never forget that.

**********

The teachers guide the students through their lines. Finally, D comes out – he is part of a group of monkeys, and following his teacher’s prompt, he “steals” a cap and puts it on his head. I can’t stop laughing. As my husband takes video, all you can hear is my laughter.

I laugh until I cry. It is just so damn delightful to see him up there, for this brief moment, having fun while acting in a play. I know this is hard for him. It’s chaotic, and there are a lot of kids and a lot of teachers going through the motions of theater. This is no sophisticated production, with stage right, stage left, curtains drawing, elaborate sets, beautiful costumes and music swelling from the orchestra pit.

No. This is something greater, funnier, awesomer than all that.

Later someone will ask me – how did it go? How was it?

Great, I say. It doesn’t matter what happened. None of that matters. It was just great. All of it, all of the kids – they were great.

In his 12th year of school, D appeared in a school play. In the practicing of lines, making of costumes and chaotic rehearsals, he learned some important lessons. And I? I got to see my son in a school production. How it was, what the kids actually did – none of it mattered.

It was great.