When my son was 2 years old, we were standing outside the front door, diaper bag over my arm, his hand in mine, while I closed locked the front door with the other. I turned to head to the car when 2 turned to me and said, "Can't we sit here on the step for a moment?"
Now 2 has become 20. He is still the boy who would rather sit on the stoop and think about life rather than rush off to parties or class or work. It is hard for him to find his groove in a world that says, go here, do that, buy this, wear that, watch this and this and this, now sleep for five hours then get up and do it again. And if you are one of those people who is always rushing around, trying to get to the next thing, you might think that 20 is not doing much with his life.
He has a label, thanks to the powers-that-be in education, which tell us that we cannot identify his needs unless we know what to call him. And that label served him well when it allowed me to lobby for a one-on-one assistant in the classroom, not so well when he became old enough to want his independence and the school, understaffed as most schools are, did not want to delete the need for an assistant from his education plan. By that time, his original assistant, who allowed 20 to earn drawing time in exchange for time spent moving at the pace of the rest of his class, had become a classroom teacher at the school, a teacher who plays music while kids work and spends much of the spring growing garden starts under grow lights with his students. I see him in his classroom, with his daughter, now a student there too, hours after school has ended, puttering around his quiet space.
And I see 20, who still owns every one of his original Bionicles, every piece, in their original container. 20, who put together a 200 piece puzzle when he was four, and 2000 piece Lego set of the Sydney Opera house last Christmas. 20, who read two books in the Game of Thrones series simulataneously, because they take place at the same time but were too cumbersome to be published as one. 20, who when asked if he needs new shoes, says, no, thanks, I already have a pair. 20, who cannot get the groove of how fast you have to move to get a summer job, or get the hang of a full college courseload.
When 20 was in 7th grade, I got a call from his science teacher, letting me know 20 had broken a beaker in class, because, she said, you know, kids like that just don't understand the need to take care of things. Later that afternoon, walking down the street, I turned to see 20, half a block behind me, picking up fast food wrappers and a half-empty styroam cup left on the curb.
"What are you doing?" I called to him, annoyed and in a rush.
"Just trying to pick up some of this trash."
I read recently that if Leo Tolstoy was alive today, he would likely be diagnosed with bipolar disorder. Because that label was not available, he became a genius instead. Today, his wife would be attending meetings for spouses of someone diagnosed with mental illness, or perhaps she would have divorced him, taken the kids and gone to work as a teacher or an administative assistant. We likely would have neither Leo's novels or Sophie's photographs.
Sophie took up photography intending to document the life of the great man to whom she was married. She could not have predicted that in later years, Leo would meet and become great friends with a man who would replace her as her husband's confidente and biographer. Still, I have this book of her creative work, pictures of her grandchild at that baths, and a beautiful photo of her standing by a painting of her 7-year-old son who died. And as I reflect back on my life spent helping other people rise up, I am coming to believe that I have not lost myself. I have postponed some of my own dreams until those in my care have grown up enough to be on their won. Along the way, I have tucked stories and experiences into the suitcase of my mind, until I had time to unpack them.
I sit in Michigan, letting myself, perhaps for the first time, take a moment to sit on the stoop and stare at the lake in front of me, to watch the fog roll in, to color mandalas, to collect rocks and pieces of driftwood that already line the my windowsill, to soak and cook a pot of black beans all day on the stove, to eat only rhubarb pie for breakfast. And I am doubting my choice to hurry all those little people along to adulthood. I am wondering what they lost, what we as a society has lost, in my drive to make sure they became productive, successful members of society.
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