Before entering the Autism Room, I tried to prepare by immersing myself in books and articles on autism. I knew a few people on the autism spectrum, but their world was still a mystery to me. I filed common characteristics and relating strategies listed by experts into my mental toolbox, and approached the classroom door.
Screaming greeted me. I hesitated. It’s not like I expected silence, but my heart still began beating faster. I took a deep breath and stepped inside.
Three little boys sat in plastic chairs around a circular table munching on cereal bars. One boy pushed a match box car along a track and yelled when a second boy ventured too close to his car hoard. Another boy screamed when his tower of blocks toppled over. Yet another boy sat quietly in his chair while a teacher encouraged him to play. The lone girl was bouncing between toys every thirty seconds.
The teachers patiently explained the individualized programming for each child, and showed me how to collect daily data. After a brief circle time, we each guided our assigned student to his (or her) station.
My first student was a sweet boy with big blue eyes, spiked brown hair, and a beautiful smile. He was nonverbal and moved at his own (slow) pace. We worked on matching, motor imitation, and receptive identification. Whenever I sensed he was losing focus or becoming agitated, we would use PECS (Picture Exchange Communication System) and he would select a rewarding activity. He often chose a school supply magazine, as he was fascinated with looking at the fine print. He loved hugs and I loved giving them, so we were a good match.
Normally the teachers rotate students every Friday, but they were kind and let me stay with the same student for two weeks. There was a huge learning curve, but soon I felt like I was catching on.
That changed when I was assigned the next student. He was becoming verbal and had an entirely different program. He learned quickly and needed to be asked questions at a fast pace. I constantly had to remove items he managed to spin. His sensory breaks were more challenging because looking at a magazine or book usually did not interest him. He did not like hugs, and would cringe at physical contact as he was afraid of being shocked.
Every time we rotated students, I felt like I was starting a new job. Each child was so different from the others. Now I understood what Dr. Stephen Shore meant when he said, “If you’ve met one person with autism, you’ve met one person with autism.”
Working with extreme differences has taught me to be more accepting of differences in others and in myself. We all have attributes of interest and value and aren’t going to fit the same mold. We should encourage each other to reach our full potential and be a blessing to others—in whatever shape that may take.