Emily Sosa Asplund English 2010 1 Jun 2013 The Boy in the Park Summer time as a teen guaranteed

babysitting my niece and nephew for my sister to scrape up some cash and the park was always the perfect place to eat up a couple hours out of each babysitting session. Most days seemed all the same. Walk to the park. Run and play tag in the sand. Play underdog on the swings. Take only one turn going down the blistering hot slide, because after one time you learned your lesson, not to go down again. Take a break in the shade. This is the only stretch in which time seemed to slow down. We would lie in the shade of the trees and stare up at the sky counting the birds soaring, and identifying what animals the clouds formed above us. Oh to be a kid again! There was just one day that was unlike all the others. We arrived, and I was aware of all things going on around me. I could feel the sweltering sun start to diffuse into my bones, as usual. I could hear the chattering of children, laughter and squealing throughout the playground, like always. I could see the wildly-concocted, play pretend games happening among various groups of kids and their peers, nothing new there. But intermingled with all of these normal happenings going on around me, there stood out some peculiar behavior. My peripheral vision about the playground was drawing my attention to a child, tucked in the corner of the giant sandbox where he was isolated from all of the other children, yet he

seemed content with this arrangement. I still recall feeling sorry for him though, and almost inclined to tell my niece and nephew to go ask him if he wanted to play. But some internal influence told me not to do that, and instead just quietly observe. Trying my hardest not to stare and to just take quick glances, my first reaction to his manners struck me as a bit odd. But I found him to be completely fascinating. He kept his index fingers tucked in his ears, only intermittently removing them to bend down and clench a handful of sand with his right hand, hold it up in the air and slowly pour that sand into the palm of his left hand. He so intently watched it fall, that it almost looked as if he were studying each grain that departed his hand. A small hill of sand would form on his flat palm, then that hill would grow and gradually exceed the surface area of his hand, overflow and fall back to the ground. He repeated this procedure three times in a row, then his fingers would return back into his ears, he would pace around for several seconds and then the meticulous procedure of grasping a handful of sand and pouring it into the other would start all over. I may not have been so invested in observing this boy if he did this activity once or twice and then continued on running around the playground, exploring and climbing on its contraptions. But he did not do that like all of the other kids there. He proceeded to do his ritual for nearly thirty consecutive minutes. I believe he would have kept doing it had his mom not finally broke the cycle, dusting the sand out of his hands to grab hold of one and lead him to their car to go home. I couldnt help myself after he left, I just had to grab a handful of sand and dump it into the palm of my other. It felt hot. A sensation I may have appreciated more, had I not been broiling in the sun for the past hour. I felt dirty. Sand seemed to creep and stick into every

crevice it made contact with. I for one could not wrap my head around the satisfactory impression this activity left with the boy. But I wanted to understand. This was my first memorable episode with a child who had autism. Of course after watching him for a few minutes I had already presumed he was autistic. But I really did not have a concrete understanding of what that even encompassed. This experience sparked a phase in my life where I sought out more information. I think my desire to learn more about this disability came from initial feelings of fascination and even some of pity. I felt so bad that he was not able to enjoy the playground like we all were. Did he have any idea what he was even missing out on? Like, playing pretend, talking about the clouds and making new friends. I signed up for the Best Buddies program at my high school the following year. This program was based on helping develop peer interaction between regular students and the special education students at our school. Starting out, it was challenging, because I just didnt understand the disabilities some of my new friends had. But I soon learned that their disability is not the only thing shapes them. Sure the kids with Downs Syndrome have very similar physical characteristics, and the kids with autism spectrum disorders had strange mannerisms. But overall, this group of students learned mostly in the same way I did, just with some more focused and slightly individualized instruction. The following Fall after I graduated high school, I got a job at a center-based school for special needs students. This was an entirely new world for me compared to my experience in Best Buddies. The students I worked with, ranged in age from five to twenty-two years old. The disabilities these students had were all of severe nature. Most of the students with autism were non-verbal and lacked the necessary skills needed to function independently on a daily

basis. While this setting was unfamiliar, some of the students reminded me of that little boy in the park who was interacting with his environment the best way he knew how. Autism is a disorder of the interconnections between systems in the brain and these connections are variable. There can be parts of the brain that are highly connected, like the components that compute math or learn to play music and other parts such as those that help develop social skills, and verbal communication that did not make as many connections. Many children develop sensory issues, and may have sensitivities to lights, sounds and touch. Now I know why the boy at the park was plugging his ears. He was not interpreting the sounds in the park the way I did. Nobody knows what causes autism and we may never know. There are people out there who are convinced that childhood vaccinations cause this mysterious disorder. There have been numerous studies done that show no causation from them, more specifically the MMR (measles, mumps and rubella) vaccine. Despite this evidence there are parents still opting out of vaccinating their children to better protect them from deadly preventable diseases, in order to avoid the risk of their child developing autism. No matter what, increased awareness, empathy and understanding can go a long way when dealing with autism. When I took the measures to become more educated is when I became an advocate of those affected by autism and I have now devoted the last eight years to working with children and adults who have it.