“Is he going to behave like that while on stage?” The high school theater director, with his sparse crop of mussed brown hair, was referring to Micah who, as usual, had wandered away from me and now was at the other end of the fine arts wing corridor. The question was accompanied by a little chuckle, and maybe (if I detected correctly) just the tiniest hint of a sneer. I was stunned, a hot tingling washing over my face and hands.
I did not allow this man to see my hurt. “Oh…no,” I had answered blandly, shaking my head, then turning around to see Micah down the hallway. He was talking to himself and gesticulating with his arms and hands. “He does this sometimes,” I explained, “He likes to pretend he’s some Disney character or Marvel superhero…you know, like Venom or Black Panther. Like I said, he’s pretty theatrical.” I assured the director that Micah had never done this during any of the plays he’d been in.
It was the first day of school, the cusp of Micah’s ninth grade year. We’d been standing, surrounded by students, in front of a large blackboard that held audition signup sheets for the fall musical. I’d been telling him about Elf JR The Musical. It had been the pinnacle of Micah’s seventh grade school year. Seven lines, three costume changes, and learning the choreography was more opportunity than I’d dreamed he’d be given. For four months he’d rehearsed with his middle school castmates, memorizing lines, learning the music, the dances. During the last few days of a brutally cold January, we’d attended all five performances. Not once did he miss a cue, and the hours we’d spent practicing the choreography in our kitchen had helped him blend in well with the others.
I’d savored every moment.
But now, almost two years later, with this one defeating question, it seemed Micah was already on the chopping block, even before auditions began. I didn’t know if I should even allow Micah to go through with trying out. Would it be best to protect him from disappointment…or worse? I wondered what other comments this man might have for my son.
Later that night, I dug deeper. Was it me? Was I being overly sensitive? I suppose the director was mainly just trying to be humorous, or maybe he was nervous having just met me?
I’d recently started reading a book about what to expect after someone with autism finishes high school and, in the case of our state, the three-year transition period through age 21. The author had a son who had just entered this phase of his life. She wrote about limited opportunities for people with autism, depending on where they fall on the spectrum, and that it was up to us as parents to carve out a fulfilling life for our autistic children. Her predictions were dismal and depressing, and I could feel the pressure build within me. I wanted Micah to have so much more in life, not just bagging groceries or wiping tables at the local mall.
Perhaps I carried these feelings with me into the school that first day.
Then again, I knew I’d always have a mix of strength and sensitivity when it concerned Micah. That’s just how it works with so many of us who parent children with special needs. Certainly, it wouldn’t be the last time a comment or question like this would come my way. But perhaps with time, they might affect me less and less, as I press on to make Micah’s life the best it can be.