She's Young, Talented ...and Employed!

I am Kvelling!

The Chemistry Geek Princess called yesterday from work to announce that she has gotten a JOB! "Work" is where she processes loans to pay for her university studies. A JOB is a real, professional entry-level Chemist position doing water quality testing in a lab.

Excuse me, while I shepp a little naches here.

I feel we have done well with this child.

First, she is graduating from university this spring. By working around her classes, and taking 18 hours of credit for many semesters, and summer school, she is getting a degree in Chemistry and History. None of those hours were blow-off courses: Chemical Biology, Physical Chemistry, Organic, Quantitative Chemistry, and her Chemical Instrumentation Class, all required long hours in the lab as well as lecture classes that were definitely not content-'lite.' And she did this--a science degree--in four years!!

I get tired just thinking about the work she has put in to this.

And now, a real, professional entry-level job! Even after Uncle Sam "appropriates" 21% of her new-found wealth (yes, folks, it really is that much), she will still be able to buy her "little house" in town. She's already got a college friend who will be working as nurse lined up to be her roommate which will cover part of the mortgage. She has the savings and the credit to buy a small house, and the market here is favorable to buyers. She knows what she is doing, that one, being that she has been a loan processor.

One kid, raised and launched and on the right track!

I wish I could take credit for her accomplishments. But it is she that has done the work.

I get to kvell, shepp naches, and dream of future grandchildren being raised up well--except when I am spoiling them, of course!

This is one of those really satisfying moments in the annals of being a parent. It makes labor and delivery, and all that follows, worth it. Definitely!

A Practical Matter: Power and Control at Machon

Last week, I wrote about my thinking on Jewish prayer. That post was a response to ideas that came from a Christian writer through another blogger, as well as a difficulty N. has been having in Machon--his secondary religious education program. When I wrote, I said that I did not know yet what I was going to do about N.'s concerns.

Concerns. Note the plural ending there.

There has been more going on at Machon than the experience N. had during T'fillah last Wednesday night. I have discussed the concern we had last spring, as well as problems that occured this fall in other posts here on Ragamuffin Studies. And those problems combined with some incidents that happened in early January, are what is driving my thinking about the goodness-of-fit between N.'s unique needs, my educational philosophy, and the Machon program. Once again. Oy.

Our rabbis taught in Pirke Avot: "Turn it and turn it again, for everything is within it." They were talking about wrestling with Torah, but it seems that N. and I --and even Bruce and the Chemistry Geek Princess--are having a similar experience with our discussions about wrestling with Machon. So although I am feeling rather grumpy about it, since I have once again made an appointment to go see the rabbi about this, I can say that this mizukis does have the benefit of making us struggle with what our Jewish practice means to us, consider what we want N.'s Jewish education to accomplish, and clarify our values concerning our affiliation with a particular religious institution.

And there is another piece to this puzzle, one that comes out of something N. witnessed in January at Machon, an incident that illustrates issues of control that pertain to a wider discussion about the purpose and practice of education in general.

Last month, N. witnessed part of an incident in which a staff member at Machon engaged in a power struggle with another child at Machon. This staff member is the same one who insists that the students keep their eyes on the prayerbook in T'fillah and follow the Hebrew words with their fingers.

An aside: This is not necessarily a bad technique to improve Hebrew reading skills for some students. And it is true that in the Jewish practice of prayer, a tight focus on the Hebrew words is emphasized. My objection to this practice is two-fold: where it is done, and to whom it is done. First, that this kind of drill is better reserved for Hebrew school proper, and not for the practice of public prayer. Second, that the technique be applied kindly and creatively, and only with students who's learning will be benefited by it. Some students either do not need it because they already can track the service well, or they will not benefit from it because it is not the best match for how they learn. One size does not fit all.

Back to the incident. The gory details do not matter to us here. (N. gave me a blow-by-blow account, so the incident clearly made an impression on him). The precipitating event does matter. The power struggle started because the student asked this particular staff member for permission to go to the bathroom. And the staff member refused the request.

Think about that. Kids in school are relatively powerless. They must follow the instructions and directions of adult who may or may not care about them. They must accept humbly numerous evaluations of their work, their disposition, their very selves from adults who may or may not appreciate their individuality. And their personal power over their bodily functions is limited by adults for institutional reasons. They may not be allowed to eat when they are hungry, get a drink when they are thirsty, and they must notify an adult if they need to leave the room in order to use the bathroom. Their lack of privacy extends also to the emotional realm, in that feelings such as happiness, joy, rambunctiousness, hurt, anger, and sadness, are all judged as appropriate or not by adults.

Much of this powerlessness and lack of privacy is necessary for the sake of safety and accountability in an institutional setting. But in my years in the classroom, I have witnessed many teachers who took their power over children to an extreme that I judged to be harmful to the child's dignity. Such adult behavior puzzled me and still does. Not every word that comes out of a teacher's mouth is a pearl of wisdom. And even if each word was, a child in need of the bathroom, a drink, or a good cry, is unlikely to hear those pearls anyway. And sometimes, believe it or not, a kid really needs a break from the teacher. And that's okay.

I have taught children of all ages, and I quickly learned to set policies in the classroom to minimize my control over a child's need to use the bathroom, get a drink, or even to go cry in private. I did this by establishing a permanent pass to leave the room. I had two such passes, made of wood, and nicely painted. They were on my demo bench where I taught high school science, and these same passes hung by the door of my Gifted Pull-Out classroom. At the beginning of the year, I explained to the kids that although I understood their desire for dignity and privacy, I also had the obligation to know who was out of the room. And I also had the need not to be verbally interrupted in the middle of a thought. It was distracting. Therefore, a child in need of leaving the room ought to quietly get up, get the pass, and go. Of course, if s/he did not return in a reasonable amount of time, I would probably come looking or send someone else to see if s/he was still breathing. Emergencies like needing to be sick were exceptions, I told them, and if they bolted without a pass, I would certainly follow up right away to ensure their safety and inform the nurse.

It was amazing how well this worked, too. (Of course with the younger elemetary kids, I also had regular bathroom breaks, because the little ones can get so absorbed in the classroom activities that they forget until...oops). I think that the kids appreciated my understanding of their need for some dignity and privacy, and they responded to my respect of their situation by respecting my need to account for them.

Back to the incident N. witnessed at Machon. I might have chalked it up to a mistake on the part of the staff member, except for other evidence of an extreme need for control over others. Evidence that comes from the way in which the T'filllah experience has been handled, the use of a disrespectful tone towards parents when policies are questioned, and attempts to control adults in other situations.

I cannot even guess at what drives this kind of behavior. I can say that it is unlikely to provoke a desirable response. And it certainly did not in this case. The details of the fireworks that ensued, including use of various inappropriate words by the angry student, were known throughout the school. (Another lesson I learned very quickly as a teacher: the kids know everything. Always). Of course, this did nothing to provoke respect by the other students towards this staff member. And, although I am not excusing the response of the student (there are better ways to get your point across), ultimately the responsibility for an incident lies with the person in power. Another lesson I learned early on in my teaching career: never, never engage a power struggle with a student. Nobody wins. But the teacher will be the bigger loser.

On the more personal level, this incident, as well as the other issues of control, have resulted in problems for N. He has become afraid. His generalized anxiety about everything--a common comorbidity of AS--has found a target. He is now anxious about Machon in general, and about T'fillah in particular, when this person is present. On Friday night, we went to Shabbat services, and when this staff member entered the chapel, N. departed. He sat out services in the lounge. This indicates that for him, the fear is not about Machon, but about T'fillah. Or about T'fillah with this person.

So at Seudat Sh'lishit (supper on Saturday evening), we had a discussion. Bruce told him that he understood why N. left services, and explained that we thought if best to let him do so on Friday night. And then I talked about the need to take control of the fear, and focus on the keva (appointed ritual) and kavanah (aim of the heart) of T'fillah in order to carry him beyond his anxiety about this person. After all, he cannot control the presence or actions of another person, he can only control his own. And then we gave him permission to politely tell anyone his limits.

If, for example, during T'fillah, an adult insists on a certain practice--and he is not being disruptive (very important)--he should nod politely and when the adult moves on, go back to praying his own way. Later, after the service is over, he should then respectfully but firmly tell that adult that he has his own way of praying, and that he would like to be left alone to do it. And that should be the end of it. We hope.

If an adult asks him for a hug--another control issue with--you guessed it!--the same person, he should say: "I'm not a touchy, feely person. But I'll be glad to shake your hand." And that should be the end of it. We hope.

Naturally, we practiced these situations, and helped him form a statement that would be seen as polite but firm. In this way, we hope to return to N. some sense of control over his situation and alleviate the anxiety.

This, then, is what we are going to do about it. And this will be the content of my conversation with the rabbi. We've determined that we cannot change the overall situation in Machon, but we hope to change the situation for N. in order to alleviate his anxiety so that he can pray.

I hope this is truly the last time I have to go to the rabbi about Machon. The whole situation feeds my own anxieties. Parents with children who are behaviorally different will understand what I mean. When your kid responds differently than others your parenting is always on trial. And the judgments never go in your favor.
But it's the child's needs that matter.

"A person's a person, no matter how small!"

Nitty-Gritty Encounter with an Angry Yekke

Movies and Chinese at the synagogue was a nice time.
The food was good. The movie was Operation Thunderbolt, the Israeli film version of the raid on Entebbe. We have all seen the movie, with the exception of A., but we enjoyed it again. A. did not know much about the raid on Entebbe and enjoyed it the first time.

After the movie and after eating, we let the kids socialize while we talked with some adults around us. And as I was talking to a couple of pretty good friends, I had one of those nitty-gritty moments in which my parenting, for lack of a better term, was called into question.

Mrs. K., a woman that I know only slightly came marching up while I was talking. I finished kibbitzing with the people around me, and they moved off. The conversation went something like this:
Me: Hi, (first name).
Mrs. K.: How old is N.?
Me: (not grokking the context) Oh, he'll be fourteen this coming Friday.
Mrs. K.: Well! Ever since I've known him, and I used to help out at (name of school), N. has been making messes and wandering off!
(I always get nervous when people start talking in exclamation points. I was further non-plussed here by the reference to N.'s second grade year. It's been seven years since then. I decided to stay calm and see what transpired).
Me: And...?
Mrs. K.: N. made a mess with some fortune-cookie wrappers. I told him to pick them up, but he didn't. (She seemed more angry than the situation warranted. I was wondering what else happened).
Me: Where did this happen? (I hadn't noticed any commotion in the room).
Mrs. K. (pointing to the foyer): There. Finally, I had to tell my son to pick them up!
Me (wondering about the intensity of her feeling): Was N. rude to you?
Mrs. K: No. He ignored me.

Now there was a lot I could have asked at this point. I was wondering if she got N.'s attention before she spoke to him, because N. has AS and is often oblivious to what is going on around him. I also wondered why she was so emotional about the situation. It sounded like a fairly straightforward encounter in which she could have pressed her advantage as the adult and gotten N. to do what he was told fairly easily. And why was she so angry if N. had not said anything rude?

I was also feeling a little defensive. I was thinking back to N.'s second-grade year at the school she mentioned. I had never heard that there were any problems of that sort back then, had I? No other person has ever mentioned these sorts of problems with N. that year. Why hadn't someone brought it up with me then? Have I been oblivious to this obvious imperfection in my child for the past seven years? Wow. I must not be a very good parent.

And what is this about N.'s age? As the mother of a child with neurological impairments, I was instantly thrown back to the days when, as I struggled to pull my overwhelmed sensory-sensitive five year old out from under a table where he took refuge from chaos, people would tell me that I should "give him something real to cry about." I would hear comments about how no child "his age" should act that way. If they were the parent, they would see to it that he behaved, by god! And I would bitterly think that if they were the parent, they'd probably be jailed for child abuse before they would get a child with autism to "behave" given their ignorance of the child and the situation.

Inside the woman that I have become, the mother of a child with ASD, the professional with expertise on autism, still lives the new mother who wanted to avoid going out in public in order to protect a fragile sense of worth from such judgement by asses--you know, those who assume expertise without knowledge. Those who know best because they are ignorant of the complexities of other lives. Inside of me during the present encounter anger was building, as I imagined the gossip that had gone on about me and N. among some of these ignoramuses seven years ago. And so I did what my mother told me to do when encountering anger. I counted to ten. It has taken me nearly fifty years to become consistent at taking my mom's advice.

Anything I said to this woman about N.'s disability would just be perceived as excuses. Besides, she was carrying bad feelings from years ago, and probably had gossiped about over the years, nurturing her image of my son into a foil against which to measure her parenting as much better than mine. The problem was really more hers than mine. When dealing with any child, not just one with AS, it is a good idea to get his attention and talk calmly to him one-on-one to get the desired results. That's just good communication. Maybe N.'s reaction was because he had not even noticed the situation. He is, by definition, oblivious to the social situations happening around him. Maybe her anger made him shut down. He does not understand strong emotions in others and is often frightened by them. And maybe he was just acting like a young teenager. That would actually be improvement for him! I didn't know. So I decided that the best course of action was to mollify this woman and see what was going on with N.

Me: Oh, I'm sorry, Mrs. K. I was momentarily distracted and I didn't realize what was happening. I will speak to N. straight away. That's him, over there. Would you please excuse me?

I pulled N. from a scrum of children reaching for chocolate cake, and brought him to the lounge where it was quiet. I asked him what had transpired.

Me: Honey, did something happen with Mrs. K.?
N: Mrs. K.?
Me: Did you notice Mrs. K. in the foyer a while ago?
N: Oh, yeah. She was yelling at I. (her son) to pick up something from the floor. She was mad, so I left."

He had noticed her, but was totally oblivious to his part in the encounter. He was afraid of her strong emotions, and he had cleared out. He did ignore her, but for different reasons than she assumed. He missed the social context completely. It was understandable to anyone who knows something about AS. At the same time, it was a teachable moment for me and my son.

Me: Boychick, Mrs. K. had a different idea about what happened out there. Listen and I'll explain.

I told him what her point of view was and why it was important. I told him that when adults come to talk to kids, it's best to pay attention. We practiced the proper way to respond politely to an angry adult. Then I took him over to apologize to Mrs. K. for not picking up the wrappers. I explained to N. that I understood that he had not deliberately been rude to her, but that sometimes, for "social reasons," apologizing is the best response.

We have talked many times about the different needs of neurotypicals, and that sometimes it's best to mollify them and get on with life. It makes things go more easily in future encounters. This is what we mean when we say "social reasons."

Later N said: Mom, is Mrs. K. a Yekke?"

"Yekke" is the Israeli appellation for a German Jew. Someone obsessed with order and orders. Someone who always wears a jacket (yekke) and tie, even when the temperature climbs above 100 degrees during the hamsim. Someone who has all their cups lined up in order in the cupboard, and has the same standards for the rest of the world. Someone who is not comfortable unless they are getting the sabras (native Israelis) up to snuff.

Me: I don't know, darling. But remember, our congregation is a yekke congregation. Rabbi S.'s congregation is more relaxed. The rules are different in each place.

This is true. Reform Judaism has a certain formalistic cobb up its collective butt. That's why we do the fun holidays like Purim at Chabad. There, people are too busy kibbitzing and dancing to notice a few messes. A round of schnapps, and the world looks pretty good just as it is. The place is always in a state of incipient disorder anyway. And nobody cares. We all pitch in to pick up later.

Each congregation has its own, endearing and sometimes, exasperating qualities.

But different rules for different places are hard for Aspies to grasp. We are working on it.
And I think that the learning we did yesterday was good learning.
But I have no illusions that N. will consolidate this learning and act perfectly according to yekke standards in his next encounter with Mrs. K. In fact, I counseled him to avoid run-ins with her.

Why should we become further grist for the congregational yekke gossip mill?

Making It Theirs

Yesterday, I had a meeting with our rabbi about N.'s religious education.

Since February, we have been unschooling Jewish education for N. The 7th grade class at the synagogue was long on sitting, notes, and tests, and short on hands-on activities and discussions. I discussed all of the reasons for our decision here. I had sent that blog directly to the rabbi, who, as far as I can tell, did not read it. On the last Sunday in April, I attended a parents meeting for the Religious Education Committee to hear what their plans are for the next year. The religious education program has been in some state of disarray for a long time. Two years ago, the educator that had been in place for a number of years resigned because her husband had gotten a new job in Colorado. She was a good educator, but over the years so much had been put on her plate that the core programs, the religious school, Hebrew school and the teen Machon program, were left to run themselves. Last year, we had a temporary educator on a one-year contract who made a number of recommendations to strengthen the core programs. She was a sharp lady and had a lot to say. This year, the congregation hired a new educator who, for various reasons that I do not know, was terminated within six months. As I understand it, the termination decision was based on performance rather than any egregious act. So, last week I attended that meeting for parents. And found out that after two-and-a-half-years of frustration, a promised special needs procedure was still not going to be put in place. GRRRR!

I know all of the reasons. We had set-backs due to all of the administrative changes. We are hiring a consultant to hold focus groups and make us look at ourselves--the good and bad--so that we can make constructive changes. They all sound reasonable--when it is not your kid who is losing out. So I made an appointment to talk to the rabbi about N.'s Jewish education. It was my plan to discuss an alternative program for N., mediated by me, composed of all of the components we have in place alreadly along with, hopefully, possibly,...some kind of service work at the synagogue. Please?

So I called the rabbi's secretary and made an appointment. And I began to think about what made my religious education a good one. (I can sum that up in three words: Camp and Sharon Kahn). And what we did that filled the sanctuary on holidays like Purim, when I was a young Hebrew teacher in the 1980's. I talked to MLC about the things that made it all fun and exciting when she was in the religious school. I talked to our "daughter of the heart," L, about what she remembered. And all of these ideas were jumbled in my head as I drove to my appointment with the rabbi yesterday.

Now, I actually, actively dread these kinds of appointments. I always resolve that I am going to appear professional and competent. I AM a teacher. I HAVE a master's in special education. But when it's about my baby, my own little boy, I always end up crying. It did not help that the rabbi was accusatory. The staccato tone of "So you did this...you agreed to this...and then you just pulled him out," felt a bit like gun fire. At this point I realized that he had not read my e-mail.

No, that's not quite it, rabbi. I met with D. (the inflexible teacher) and S. (the educator) in September. D. dictated the terms and did not bother to read the information I gave him about Asperger Syndrome and Central Auditory Processing Disorder. I did attend class with N. for 6 weeks. I saw that my presence was isolating N. from his peers (I was not just in the room, I was expected to sit with N. and make sure he took notes, like a helicopter parent, rather than be a general presence in the class) and I saw that N. was too busy trying to write and spell correctly to actually understand the content of the lecture. So I told N. to focus on listening to what was being presented (pretty difficult anyway for a kid with CAPD) and try to tell me one thing he had learned. I stopped going to class with him so that he would interact with his peers. I waited outside in case there were problems. In late November or early December, D. accosted me and yelled at me that N. was not learning because I was not coming to class and N. was not taking notes. I countered that N. was not learning because the pedagogy was completely unsuited to any 7th grader, let alone one with learning disabilities. I asked D. if he would please use graphic organizers because N. learns best visually. The response was "No." I asked if he could e-mail the content of the lecture power point to me on Tuesday, so that I could make the graphic organizers. No, again. I met with the educator, who promised that she would talk to D. and agreed that it was not appropriate for me to be in the classroom. Then we got caught up with the Bar Mitzvah--where N. surprised them all!-- and then the educator resigned. Having no recourse, and facing increasingly clear evidence that D. did not want my son in his class, and that N. was increasingly frustrated with the situation, I made other plans. The plans discussed here.

Sigh! I am getting all ferklempt just recounting this here! :( It's really embarrassing.
Like I said, when it's my kid...

So I got pretty passionate about what I think is needed. I was waving my arms a lot. Getting loud. Tears in the eyes. The whole ferklempt thing. And then it just came out of my mouth.
"If we want the kids to want to come, we have to make it theirs! They have to own it. They should be conducting services during religious school. They should be playing the guitar and leading the singing! They should be doing Judaism!"

Doing Judaism. Being Torah.

What a concept. Duh!

As I think about it, you know what the problem is with my generation? We do everything for our kids. No wonder the kids are disengaged. No wonder they roll their eyes when we talk at them about the wonders of Judaism, or of math, or of science, or of....anything. How would they know? They hear about it..from us. They watch a performance of it...by us. But we do not engage them in it. We do not require them to be responsible for it. They are passive. They know, as kids do, that we are egoizing to the max. It's all about us.

I feel a diatribe coming on:

Why was my Jewish education--gotten on the sly as my parents were not synagogue members--so exciting? Because we were drafted to lead services, play the music, sing the songs. We ran our own youth group meetings--sometimes badly. The advisor was just that--an advisor. A college student. We learned to be Jews by being Jews.

Why is N. so excited about Boy Scouts? Because his patrol works at being scouts. They follow a series of requirements--that is true. But those requirements require them to own scouting! Why does N. enjoy his Post-Bar Mitzvah class at Chabad? Because the rabbi who leads their discussions poses questions. He does not dictate answers. As the group struggles for answers, the concepts become theirs.

And why is homeschooling and unschooling so successful? Because we adults are stepping back. Relinquishing our places as "Sage on the Stage" to become "a guide on the side."

We are making it theirs.

End diatribe.

Sigh. Sometimes I feel like I am from another planet. Too loud. Too big. Take up too much space. I don't think the rabbi "got it."