Lets Go Behind the Scenes of So Hard to Do - Part 5
In So Hard to Do, I’ve written about all kinds of people, both neuroatypical and neurotypical. It’s a rom-com, and I’m honor-bound as well as thrilled to give the characters their well-deserved happy endings.
Sometimes, though, real life situations are much more grueling, and it can be hard to spot the sunbeams peeking through the clouds. Here’s a story I wrote that made the finalist list in the 2019 Tennessee Williams Very Short Fiction Contest. Is it more non-fiction than fiction, though? Just possibly.
Dance Therapy
The air is thick with the sound of guitars, strummed with virtuosic intensity. I gaze at my partner. He stands tall, one hand in the small of his back, the other outstretched. As the tempo of the music accelerates, his periwinkle eyes snap with Andalusian passion.
“Dance!” Mikie raises his chin.
Even though the top of his curly head only reaches the level of my breastbone, he has an authority that can’t be denied. I begin to move my feet to the rhythm of the chords. He nods and then begins to clap on the off-beat, hands raised above his left ear, eyes locked with mine. I make my best attempt at a spirited flamenco, wishing I had castanets and a flouncy skirt and huge hoop earrings—instead of bagged-out sweatpants and hair that needs a good wash.
As the Gipsy Kings wail, Mikie stomps, the rubberized soles of his bear-slippers drilling a fierce taconeo. He circumnavigates the dining room table, with me right behind, following his imperious lead. He’s all macho man. There’s no way he could be that autistic kid—the one shunned by everyone else in his class. He couldn’t possibly be the one who gets bullied every day in the playground.
Mikie begins to sing, joining his reedy soprano to the baritone on the recording. “‛Bamboleo, bamboleo.’” His pitch is perfect; his accent, convincing. He injects his soul into the song. He is resolute—a pint-sized Gipsy King, maybe, but one hundred percent committed.
He flaps me away now and sets up our battered wooden chairs as a barricade. Readying himself for his solo, he lifts his chin and rotates his arms in a syncopated port de bras, focusing his eyes on something beautiful and distant—far away from our dusty dining room with its tired gumwood paneling and worn-out carpeting. He stands on a stone-paved square in Seville, surrounded by his comrades, wild and free. Dancing, swirling—one with the music.
As I watch him, I think about today’s disaster.
“You’ll have to come get Mikie.” The kindergarten teacher’s voice has an edge to it.
“What’s happened?” Other than the usual breakdown, or hitting incident, or running away—almost always caused by the teacher’s refusal to make adjustments to accommodate his needs.
“We had indoor playtime today. Because of the rain. We played with balls in the gym. Mikie went crazy—he screamed and screamed.”
I close my eyes. Of course Mikie went crazy. The echoes of balls bouncing in a wood-floored gym, the cacophony of kids shrieking. What was she thinking? I’ve talked to her many times about his sensory issues. Still, she has twenty other kids, I concede, after I pinch myself to force out at least one charitable thought.
“I’ll leave work now and come get him.” I’m speaking through my teeth, tamping down my fury; my words sound robotic.
It’s lucky I have an understanding boss, but this is the third time in two weeks I’ve had to cut my shift short. Even a sympathetic employer has her limits. I can’t meet her gaze as I mumble something and slink out.
When I arrive at the school to pick up Mikie, he’s under the teacher’s desk, hiding in a cave he’s crafted out of blankets. He’s not exactly crying, or at least not in the way a typical five-year-old sobs. He’s keening, whimpering like an injured puppy. It hits me in the gut, and I have to hold in my temper, which roils inside my belly like a vicious alien trying to claw its way out. Even if his teacher has helped drive him to the brink of insanity, I need her goodwill for him to stay in this school.
“Mikie, it’s Mom. Come on out.”
He continues to make his glissandi noises of misery. The teacher shrugs and turns away. When she isn’t looking I lunge under the blankets and seize him in a firm grip. He can handle this from me—it’s glancing touches that shred his nervous system, not tight grasps—but I don’t want her judging me for manhandling my child.
Head down, Mikie stumbles with me out to the car. He howls in the key of despair all the way home. I want to join in, but instead I say calm things about what we’ll make as a snack, what storybook we’ll read, and what music we’ll listen to later. All the while, I think about how ghastly school is for this beautiful child and how fucked up our lives have become. I wish I could wave a magic wand and make things better. But all I can do is seize moments of joy, for Mikie and me, in this agony of an existence.
At home, a new song starts. Mikie pushes aside the chairs. His blue eyes flash. Again, he stretches out his hand to me. He is a gallant partner, and I a dancing queen. Here in our Spanish wonderland, bullies don’t exist and we’ve never even heard of autism.
I snap open my imaginary fan and follow his lead. Nothing else matters. The music rushes over and through us, and as we move to its rhythm, we squeeze out just enough bliss to get us through another day.
