Un-Homecoming a.k.a. USSBA Marching Band Contest, Saturday, Oct. 9, 2010

On October the 8^th we played San Marcos in our Homecoming Game.  It was the first whole homecoming game and performance I’d been to, the first for Colin, and for Chloe (evil sister), who was there as a guest of the high school dance team.  Other than that I’ve been to half of a Texas State Homecoming as part of a ESL Conversation Group at work, and the Japanese students had to teach me the Texas State “hand sign” for “Go Cats.”

            Thus, when the weekend finally ended, I was eager to read Colin’s assessment of the whole affair.  And when he handed me his written “review” of the game, I was ready to read how he felt about the surprise half time, improvised band performance, or the king and queen, or all the beribboned mums that most of the girls and some of the moms had pinned on their shirts, on uniforms, or in the case of the dance team, on garters around their legs, or for the cheerleaders, on their megaphones, or for the twirlers, on the back of their pre-performance beach chairs.   

Where are those mums?  Maybe Dragon/Aquatic Lady's carrying hers in her _left_ hand . . . Maybe all those ladies are carrying their mums--and they've tucked in their ribbons . . . right!

Here’s what he wrote: 

           

Being in homecoming wasn’t the horrible especially if you are a shadow.  All you have to do is stand and the other band members play the opener.  After that we got to go and sit in the bleachers and drink water. 

Then:

The blue dudes wearing the masks looked like spacemen and played awesome.

            This gave me pause.  The “blue crew,” the flag carrying guys who run up and down the field after every point is scored, hadn’t painted their faces as usual or worn masks and hadn’t “played” anything. 

Still, I read on:

When we got back to NBHS I was a little tired but I knew we played awesome and won the gold.

Huh?  I’d asked him to write about Homecoming and the Homecoming Game.  Somehow, he’d skipped the event of the season for NBHS and half of New Braunfels.  What I was reading was a description of a USSBA (United States Scholastic Band Association) marching contest we’d gone to on Saturday after homecoming in San Antonio.  But not only that was wrong: 

What a spectacular day this was and I wish I could relive it again.

Now, he wasn’t just not writing about homecoming. 

Drumline "Blue Men" in formation.  No mums in sight though . . .

There's the band, but where's the football team?  And why are we at Judson's "Rutledge Stadium"?  Oh . . . . . . .

Having graded more freshman essays than I care to remember, I know English essay lingo and this was that:  lingo.  It reminded me of some of the journal entries he’s made for English classes in the past.  Like something you’d want to believe someone would feel, and, in his case, like something that didn’t ring true.  The language was formulaic, similar to the kind of talk we gleaned by from him when he was little. 

Then he used his echolalic, gestalt type language processing.  Echolalia involves whole sale, repeated verbage, sometimes words, and in Colin’s case and that of other high functioning kids, sentences and sometimes whole books and songs.  Some of the kids even memorize the scripts to entire movies.  And they, like Colin could with his books and shorter “scripts” from TV shows or books, can repeat them with minimal cues and without the book being in front of them or the movie being on.  Sometimes, they can even use chunks of this language, as Colin did, in situations in which the language actually works for them (hence the gestalt label—the whole chunks spewed like impressions to inkblots).  Specically, this type of language is called mitigated echolalia.

Colin’s most famous bit of mitigated echolalia occurred when he was two and not yet even diagnosed.  While his father held him one night next to my parents’ grandfather clock, he said to my Uncle Hill, “And now it’s eight o’clock!” and pointed at the clock’s face.  My Uncle’s eyes widened as if he’d heard a budding genius or an apparition speak:  the grandfather clock’s hands were, exactly, at eight o’clock.  What poor Uncle Hill didn’t know, and what we simply found funny then, not knowing that Colin was autistic or what echolalia meant, was that Colin was simply repeating a phrase from one of his story books—albeit at precisely the right time and place for that comment to be made. 

Besides, we were used to Colin’s repetitive talk by then.  Even when he was not yet speaking, Colin had been happy to lie in his crib for 45 minutes to an hour after waking simply babbling to happily, and then, later, talking ceaselessly.  When the babbling turned to words, and he kept “entertaining” himself, I’d sometimes listen and hear him saying words or phrases from books or shows he liked, but again, we didn’t know that persistence echolalia was a “red flag.”  I even asked the doctor office if it was okay for me to leave him in his room alone for all of that time—since I was working on coursework for my graduate degree and writing a lot in the mornings, his slow, happy rising was a sort of boon, albeit one I felt guilty about.  The response was that as long as he was happy, he was fine.  And, so I left him until he’d begin to say my name which, other than his father’s, was one of his few communicative words.  Again, no one knew then what his long recitations were prompted by, and, even if we had, I’m not sure we could have intervened much earlier. 

So, back to the story at hand, when I read those last two lines in his description of “Homecoming” (now, obviously, our last USSBA Band competition), I asked him to tell me the truth about the day of the contest.  I told him, rather wrote for him a request that he tell me, really, what he’d thought of his experience at the competition.

And I got this:

OK, honestly that was not to pleasurable.  I mean I’m pleased we won 1^st place but I felt “left out” which kinda screwed up my attitude because no one gave high fives, no-one patted me on the back, Heck no one even congra[d]lated me but they congradulated the rest of the shadows . . . !!!

Setting aside the exclamatory, hyperdrama of 15-year-old language, “Left out” is a great triggering  phrase for parental anxiety, whether your “left out” kid is autistic or not.  Plus, having just gotten a call from my good friend about how well he was doing, I felt that we were having another roller coaster crash from great to horrible, something we are very familiar with from Colin’s in years past.  In fact, we’d been extra vigilant (especially my algebra-knowledgeable husband—thanks Rog) academically this year because we hadn’t wanted to deal with this sort of crash in academics. 

            So I worried that Colin really was being hurt somehow—for about two minutes.  Then, I reminded myself that the other kids had always spoken to him and seemed to like him, and I simply felt sad.  Maybe the end of something good had come?

            Still, tired (a warning, always) and not yet at a solution for him myself, I tried for another description of Homecoming.  Didn’t want the memory of it to wear too thin . . . and I got a paragraph about a different band competition (in which the Unicorns this time came in 2^nd—which was the competition time before last) except for the last line, which continued along the “left out” vein:

Nobody talked to me like always!!!

And finally, continuing along the line of thinking which endorses continuing a behavior without changing it and each time expecting a different result (a.k.a. insanity), I asked a third time for a couple of paragraphs on the homecoming game. 

First came a paragraph titled “Positive,” which included yet another description of the men in blue masks (boy, did they make an impact) who looked like “moon men playing drums instead of humans,” and a “Negative” paragraph”:

Oh, those Blue "Moon" Men . . .  from Judson!

"Shadows" Marching to Watch (Note fist clenching disgruntled Shadow from left--that's Colin "Shadow Man"

1^st of all was the 40 minute drive with others.  I didn’t like the being of feeling left out which  . . . makes me feel like nobody in the band likes or respects me.

Colin "Disgruntled Shadow Man" in line at front; "unloving" Unicorn Band in Formation beyond

All Bands' Drum Majors waiting for awards to be announced: Unicorns' (to left, black cotton-swab plumes) band wins 1st!  Yey!  (Sorry, Sad Shadow Man--but really, "they done good")

            Though tired and sad, I knew we had to address Colin’s problem.  For while I knew the kids in the band liked him, that they spoke to him and accepted him, I also know that folks will persist in a behavior only as long as it’s being reinforced, and he had to talk and listen to them and respond for him to become reinforcing.

So, prone in my bed at about 11:30 p.m. (oh, it’s 11:45 p.m. now), I called Colin in for some on-the-fly social problem solving.  After about 30 seconds, I surrendered, as I’m about to now:  He was too tired, I was too tired.  And I trudged into his room to pray with him as I do every night.  But I did talk with him, very briefly, after his nightly prayers, after having to re-pray after a smarmy attempt to work in a directive about how we “should act” instead expressing gratitude and asking direction . . . finally I asked him about listening to the other kids around him and when you hear something you know about, chiming in or asking a question.

“Uh.  I tried that before in 8^th grade.  These two boys, they’re friends of mine now, but then they said, ‘Butt out.  This isn’t your conversation.’”

To which told him that this kind or thing happened to me (or at least a lack of responsiveness in my adult “peers” that equated to the more blunt, 8^th grade repulsion), but that you had to keep trying it and most of the time it worked. 

He still wasn’t that comfortable with the “listening to others” approach and asked if I could help him.  I said I could, but, my head inclining more and more toward the floor and my voice angling into a lower, duller register, I mainly wished the social skills group hadn’t disbanded for lack of participation (not enough high functioning teens in New Braunfels) and wondered if I could ask the speech teacher for help. 

Again, sleepy, I don’t think very creatively, or practically.  Sleep, I’m finding, will let me see possibilities where, before, I’d seen mainly obstacles or grief.  And, at the least, it’ll give me the time to consult a trusted friend—something I did do the next day. 

Then as my wise friend pointed out to me as regards the missing high fives, “He could have just held his hand up.”   

Mighty Unicorn Marching Band vs. the Westlake Chaparrals (i.e., roadrunners, i.e., “Chaps”)

Driving into Westlake territory set off, as many things seem to these days, another Missy Elliot song, this one about having money and expensive cars, because, as far as I can see, Westlake is, in part, fueled by a lot of money and has, perhaps, even more expensive cars.  

Escalades, BMWs, Lexi, Porshes—even those cars whose doors raise like roach wings—abound there.  And the High School reflects these “fly cars” and the “platinum Visa cards” their owners possibly carry.  The football stadium looked comparable to some college ones:  new with a central red section in center of the home side for the season ticket holders, a super elevated press box, instant replay (really, at an HS football game) on a big end-screen.  And, at half-time, the announcer, in the highfalutin’ diction with which such affluence is associated, described the band’s marching routine as a “confluence of Tchaikovsky and the rhythms of jazz, juxtaposed to the traditional strains of a John Philips Sousa anthem”—or some such talk.

Groovy, instant replay screen, final score displayed.  Not my photo, of course.  Sun was behind screen (which was to my left) shining on us poor visitors during most of game and hindering picture taking on the handy dandy digi-cam. 

Fancy red section across from quotidian visitors' side.  Chaparral Band on field.

Even the dance team had costumes which left our drill team looking like kids wearing sparkly blue tow sacks.  Maybe we were in our “away” suits, as I’ve seen our dancers in fancy boots and hats too. 

Boy, this is a downright professional looking photo of the Chap "Hyline" dance team--nudge nudge, wink wink.

 However, while the band was bigger than New Braunfels’ (Roger and I joked about their having an escalator to take them all into the stands), their costumes were comparable to ours in their newness and quality:  their blue feathered hats nicely “juxtaposed” our white feathered ones.  Watching the bands bob out to the field, Roger observed, “It’s the battle of the plumes.”

All this is not to say that the school’s parents and students aren’t dedicated because the district is wealthy.  I know parents there who have devoted countless hours to fundraising for their children’s activities and getting tutoring for their kids.  And I know that the students have a competitive, even dangerously so, atmosphere at that HS, where a straight A, all-AP GPA doesn’t necessary land one in the top ten percent of the class and a large percentage of graduating seniors end up going Ivy League. 

However, the affluence of the area, and the educational reputation of the district, brought back memories of Colin’s early days in therapy in the land of less fortunately funded public school ed.  At the first district we had him in, the spec ed autism resource people claimed that they didn’t even know what PDD-NOS, the clinical diagnosis for High Functioning Autism, was.  Though, to their credit, that district was probably one of the poorest in the state, and Colin one of the first of a huge, new “wave” of autistic kids.

Which takes me back to my first encounter with Westlake’s reputation, way before now, when Colin was going through hippotherapy at a wonderful, nonprofit org in San Marcos called AWARE (Always Wanted to a Riding Experience).  Largely devoted to disabled kids, the therapists at AWARE honed and developed Colin’s proprioceptive functions (sense of the body in space) and addressed other physical/neurological differences (like sensory integration) associated with autism.  Because he was fairly high functioning sensorily, Colin got assigned faster moving horse, Tupelo Honey, bless her soul, a twenty-something mare.  In fact, most of the therapy horses were 20-plus with extremely gentle natures.  

Thanks to Stephanie Boyd, id-ed below!

 Colin recently told me he remembers his time there, when he had to have been all of 4 years old.  Here’s what he wrote about it:

Feeding the horses in my early life was a big deal because I had to nearly put my hands in their mouth which is covered with bacteria.  Riding the horses was pretty cool.  It was like taking a piggy back ride only on a four legged creature.

Sound underwhelmed?  What happened to the freedom and self-confidence granted one by a hippotherapeutic experience?  Does Colin remember old Tupelo Honey at all? 

Uh.  Not Tupelo Honey.  This is Stephanie Boyd, at AWARE.  Stephanie is one of my honors thesis students, and this and the preceding shot are from her Honor's Thesis:  Horse AWAREness, which she did about AWARE, years after we had moved to Unicorn Land.  Thanks Steph! 

In all fairness, I suppose his could be a response almost any 15-year-old male, with or without autism, could give.

But again, AWARE connected us to Westlake.  A mom of a kid we saw at AWARE had moved with her whole family to Westlake—because the autism services were so great.  Problem was they had to live a cardboard-walled shanty to afford doing so. 

While Roger’s work and our schedules (and money) kept us from going that far afield, I know what this is like, moving for a district, and in our case, for a teacher in a district.  It might sound precarious but for us what the autism services came down to in public ed was people, and help from those people early.  And those people cost money, which usually means higher property taxes derived from those who own expensive homes.  Many families move to places where they knew the educators were doing what their child needed then, because with autism, statistically, usually, the kids who get closest to living happily and independently in the world neurotypicals inhabit get educational therapy that consists of structured, one to one drills--and they get it early. 

So, prior to the game, we knew something of the territory we were entering.  Thus we weren’t all that surprised to hear the aforementioned announcer tell us that Westlake was the first high school in Texas if not the nation to offer its own IPod app, nor that the educational booster club had a $5000 Visa gift card to award to a student, nor that the boys and girls LaCrosse teams were having a car wash.  High school LaCrosse?  In Texas?    

But the point, the kids, the game, Colin’s experience.  How Colin lived through a radically long day that had already included marching in a parade, performing at a fair, rehearsing, and driving in school buses an hour-and-a-half to, and later from, a city for a game: 

Here is your turn, Colin, on the trip (in schoolbuses, with band) to Westlake:

The trip to Westlake wasn’t that long.  We got to eat chicken express on the way there as well as take some ipods.  [He didn’t take his because he was afraid he’d lose it.]  I didn’t fall asleep on the way which was good because I needed to get pumped.  I didn’t talk to anyone because I was usually very quiet.

Then, once back and rested, he wrote about his experience there:

Standing and watching the band play was a hard task to accomplish.  My face began to sweat and started to itch but I didn’t scratch until the music was over because it wouldn’t help the band at all.  Sitting in the bleachers was very tough in which we were squashed in together in the top row which I got vertigo.  It was also difficult up there because we had bugs zooming in and out of our faces.  While we were up on the stands we were basically just goofing off in which I didn’t say anything because I don’t like to get hyper after watching the band till I was exhausted. 

Woodwinds' section practice, right before marching.

Colin's one of the "possessed" clarinetists, middle, but off-center right. Curly hair, no glasses, not quite as "possessed" as the flautist with the ponytail, lower center.

The next day, I asked him some questions to expand on his feelings about the game:

[Transcript]

Mom:  Did you like dancing in the stands at Westlake [because he did this]?

Colin:  I did it to impress the others.

Mom:  Who did you do it to impress?

Colin:  Just some of my friends.

Mom:  What are their names?

Colin:  I don’t know.  Just some of my friends.

Mom:  What their names?

Colin:  I don’t know.

Mom:  Did you like watching the football game?

Colin:  Yes.

Mom:  What did they do that you liked.

Colin:  Just liked watching them ambush each other. 

Mom: Did you like it when the guys [the Blue Crew] ran up and down the field with flags and the girls pulled the blue unicorn [the Swarm] back and forth in front of the stands?

Colin: Sometimes—if it means we scored a point I do.

Dad:  What part of the football games do you like?

Colin:  Basically, none.  I don’t like watching football games very much.  They’re just boring.  I’m not a sportsman.

Mom:  Did you like Westlake’s mascots and paraphernalia?

Colin:  It doesn’t bother me.

Mom: What section of the band do you like [he plays clarinet in the woodwinds]?

Colin:  I wish I would have signed up for percussion.

I wouldn’t be blowing my mouth so hard I would suffocate.  Blowing so hard my face turns red.  It doesn’t scare me [though???].

And one finally word, from Missy Misdemeanor Elliot who, to the day two weeks later has been haunting my thoughts:

“Where your Lexus jeeps, and the Benz jeeps, and the Lincoln jeeps, and the Bentleys, and the Jaguars, and the fly cars?

Where you at?”

Colin’s 2010 Comal County Fair Parade and Fair Band Performance or

While this venture has so far addressed my High Functioning Autistic son Colin’s performance in the Mighty Unicorn marching band at football games, this entry regards his participation in a New Braunfels’ institution, and one that marks, for us, the beginning of fall:  The Comal County Parade and Fair.

            For one Friday at the end of September, New Braunfels shuts down for an entire day to celebrate a county fair and the agricultural roots it represents.  The city government stops, all but essential services are halted, and the public school systems (and most private) are closed so that workers and students can participate in the parade that begins in one of the oldest neighborhoods in town (ours), and trails down one of the town’s old main streets, circles the town square (in New Braunfelsian German, “the plotz”—which sounds, to those few Woody Allen fans still living, like a very unpleasant digestive system problem) and on down across to the Comal River’s narrow, and old, bridge, to peter out near one of the town’s oldest parks and tubing chutes and the city’s newest, internationally renowned “waterpark,” Schlitterbahn (that’s German for water road, I believe).

            I’ve always managed to take work off for fair day when Colin and his despicable sister Chloe, whom he didn’t yet despise, were small:  in part because his pediatric neurologist encouraged us to expose him to as many social and public occasions as possible. 

This “exposure” also meant that, when the marching band passed and the brass section stopped right in front of us (as it always did) to perform a number, I would have to pull Colin off the curb and across the street as the noise provided an unbearable sensory event for him.  He screamed, and, even more frequently to my memory, melted into profuse tears.

            Now, like many other high functioning autistics, he’s gotten used to tolerating sensations and sounds that were unbearable (while new ones become bothersome, ones like say, rain).  Now, he actually marches in the band himself, not far from his anathema, the brass section, while playing his woodwind instrument, the clarinet.  And his despicable sister has begun marching as of year before last, with whatever gymnastics or dance groups she participates in.  The effect upon me and my husband is that we both have to take off work to pick up kids, and now, with Colin, to run errands for him between the parade and his band’s performance at the Comal County Fair, and shortly after, his trip to another school to perform at yet another High School Football game. 

            So Fair Day is now called Unfair Day, at least for all band parents and members because it is so unnervingly busy and chaotic.  And it was unfair, in the sense that, for the first time since we have lived in this “burg,” half of the parade was pelted with that sensorily loaded disaster for Colin: one more time that’s rain. 

            Which we sat in, and somehow, he got through.  Along with the other wet-haired band members, cheerleaders, Fair Queens (“Hello, Queen’s,” he’d yelled at them on another parade day years earlier), floats, and passels of western style outfitted horses and riders.

The Mighty Unicorn Marching Band (Colin is not in the pic, but we can pretend he is . . .)

Yes, I'm fascinated by giant, stuffed mascot suits and strange blue icons.  Oh yes, and there are cheerleaders to the left, and a kid in purple that Colin's evil sister Chloe knows from school to the right.

Evil Chloe (Colin's younger sister--his only sister) center in black.  Bored kid on left, see.

The people in the middle of the street dance with chairs.  The ones with their backs to us sit in them. 

Hello, Queens!

And here’s Colin’s assessment of the 2010, Comal County Parade:

The parade went quite well although it rained a little but stopped so luckily we got to make it through the parade.  The rain did excite some people and I could tell because some of the other band members were cheering and hollering.  So we headed under the shade for a few moments.  I heard some of the band players sing a song that we played at the game called hey baby.  As we marched along the streets we played a pattern of fight song and march grandioso until we got to the center block thats when we played part 1 of what goes around comes around.  When the parade was over I almost felt like I got out of the shower because I was sweating so hard that my hair was wet and I wanted to take off my jacket. 

            And because Colin forgets, right along with many other, neurotypical 15-year-old boys, much of what he’s supposed to tell me, and because, even more than other 15-year-olds he hasn’t kept up with the very clothing he needs, clothing being a thing High School and most Middle School boys are finally noticing, I had to make two additional trips to and from the High School: first to buy him a Pep Rally shirt he had already bought (that I had absolutely never seen) and a garment bag (about which he had absolutely no clue) for the trip to the “away” football game that night. 

            Thankfully, one of his other 15-year-old school mates who’s also a family friend did know about the shirts and the garment bag in particular (God bless your, soul, Clayton).  All this because when I gave Colin his new pep rally shirt and asked about his garment bag before the parade, he held up a small, thin, plastic covering and said, “This is my gauntlet bag.” 

He does have gauntlets, along with garments, to be fair.  However, staring at that bag whose weight equaled a measure of Saran Wrap, I realized, again, that something was off-kilter in his view of fashion and its accoutrements. 

            After the parade, as per normal, I was the only parent/old person circling through the first band hall, into the second band hall, out into the hall, and back into the first band hall, looking for my child to make sure he got his garment bag, which I’d had to buy separately from the pep rally shirt.  And Clayton, our savior (again) had to find Colin for me.  I hated to seek Clayton’s help because, really, I don’t want to stigmatize Clayton or Colin by making public my association with them.  They are teenaged boys.  And middle-aged moms are not cool beings in the world of teenage boys. 

            But, after the parade and an hour that consisted of 10 real-time minutes trying to slouch and appear nonchalant--read inconspicuous--as I roved about halls and band halls jammed with band kids eating lunches, I had to ask.  Then, pointed in the right direction through a room of percussion boys trading Beavis and Butthead laughs (and I know they were doing it on purpose—they’re smart, those band kids), I saw that Colin’s face was flushed and his eyes, through my mom-o-scopic vision, looked red.  Let’s face it:  I am a mother, and when I see my child is possibly upset and I know he has autism, and again, I’m a mother, I want to make sure he’s not needing a tranquilizer/escape route. 

            Try edging up to your teenager in a crowd of other teens without looking like the worried parent you are.  Try talking to any teenager who won’t look directly at you to acknowledge whether or not they have heard you speak to ask how they are “doing.”  Add to that the fact that you can’t look at the teen with too much concern because having your mom track you down in a room stuffed with other teens is humiliating enough.   

            Still I persisted in pursuing him to give him his garment (not gauntlet) bag prior to the band’s performance at the Fair because he was supposed to have one and use it for the trip after the performance.  Seeing his red face, I thought, predictably, that the worst had happened: that he was upset and having a nervous breakdown.  Forget that marching in a parade in what is, environmentally speaking, still the summer in and, that’s right, in rain in Texas would have made him flushed and red. 

            He was okay, he said.  He said this at least twice to my entreaties.  Nor could I use language that would sound like I was talking much about feelings.  Female clarinetists surrounded us in that corner of jumbled cases and music stands.  Plus the percussion section was behind me, Beavis and Buttheading away.

            So I had to back off, believing him, and praying, but only after reminding him, soto voce, that he could go to the directors or any adult and say he needed out of a situation. 

            And he nodded and grunted and turned to his locker to stash his garment bag. 

            Driving back through streets of slowly unclotting traffic, I worried, but, what to do?  I had the small bottle of tranquilizers his pediatric neurologist had prescribed him after we reported that Colin had punched a hole inside the car door on a long ride home through the freezing West Texas that spring/winter.  Nine hours in an unheated Honda Civic in 15 degree weather had finally proven too much for him somewhere around Ballinger (deer hunter-land in West Texas).  We’d been in Lubbock for Roger’s dad’s funeral and, when his mother died a month later, also in Lubbock, we wanted to have a neurological “hall pass” for Colin. 

            The best I could do and can still is to be wherever he is, which next, meant the Comal County Fairgrounds.

            However, by the time Roger got Chloe from her parade drop-off spot, and we regrouped at the house, we were running late.  In a rush, we paid five dollars to park for an hour as close to the gate as we could and bustled through dusty air saturated by the smell of buttered corn cobs, bratwurst and pork chops on-a-stick, and beer.  By the time we made it to the Corral, or performance venue, the band was already in place and playing.  They were also, I saw, wearing shirts that matched the one I’d procured earlier that morning (first trip, before odyssey with garment bag).

They were also wearing blue jeans, raiment not on my emailed list of necessary items (to my memory).  As most of the band, but not all (Colin included here), were standing, I worried that his shorts were what made him a seated clarinetist.  As he was on the third row back, I couldn’t tell what he wore on his lower half right away.  But he was playing his instrument and not convulsing in a corner in a fit of nervous anxiety, so, point for Colin.  Then he did stand and I saw he was wearing blue jeans like the rest of band and thought:  a miracle, he remembered something without me.  Progress!

           

Entire band performing at the fair.

Colin's dead center, once again, next to the girl whose shades have bright blue ear pieces.  He sits by her a lot. 

Dad/Roger on left, Colin in his "precariously perched pants" to the right.

However, as he slouched away with the band to return to the band hall to leave for that night’s performance an hour-and-a-half away in Austin, I noticed that those miraculous blue jeans were slipping down precariously.  Roger saw me noticing, and said, “He got them from the lost and found.” 

So much for that miracle. 

But he was dressed appropriately.  And he had been there performing with the band at the Fair, and he’d been reasonably content.  After a point, what more can you ask for? 

Colin's 4th Football Game Performance in Marching Band

Colin’s 4^th Marching Band Performance at a Football Game, Friday, Sept. 17, 2010:  The Mighty Unicorn Band vs. the MacArthur Brahma Band or “I can’t stand the rain” (thanks, Missy Elliot).

(Read with my advance apologies:  I've edited, and I've read bad stuff, a lot of it my own, so I hate to see this, but in the interest of time . . . here is this entry . . . so far.)

Missy Misdeamenor, Colin can’t stand the rain either.  The second game, when the Mighty Unicorn Band faced the Clemens' Bisons, I had gotten a call from the speech pathologist telling me she was calming him down about the chance of rain during the game.  Knowing Colin’s sensory trouble with rain, the touch, sound and feel of it distresses him, I was ready for the worst at MacArthur game in San Antonio as it was almost certain to rain.  But I talked with the booster president and teachers to let them know and learned that he’d be given a poncho to wear should rain happen.

And it did. 

But a minor miracle occurred, considering that Colin still sticks his fingers in his ears and wads himself into a tense crouch when it rains and we’re driving:  he did fine.  In fact, he did really well.  It could have been the preparation for the performance at the game, the talks about the ponchos the director gave them all, and the fact that it had been drizzling a little for a while, giving him a slow transition (transitions can be hard for autistic kids, but no transition is worse).  Thus, when the drizzle became rain, Colin simply did what all the band kids did, as a group:  put on his poncho and . . . continued. 

He's the kid in the center, the one with the unponcho-ed clarinet and no glasses

Meanwhile, we sat as close to him as possible without causing a problem.  He’d skipped school the day before on my orders to help him recover from a bad cold, so I did have to sidle up to a booster parent who was chaperoning the kids as inconspicuously as possible and solicit help determining whether or not he’d taken his decongestant.  Of course, I remembered this after realizing I’d gotten so caught up taking photos that I’d forgotten to check on his medicine when we’d first arrived.  I’d had to give it with a permission note to the booster president, who gave it to the nurse that always accompanies the band.

And, as the rain started, I dropped my pen, my one pen, the one I was using to grade, as karma would have it, on the restrooms below the bleachers, forcing me to notice the football team slipping up and down the field. 

I’ve been forgetting them.  The football team.  Not that Colin has.  Entry before this, he talked about wanting the guys on the team to win.  His mother, however, with her bad memories of football Sundays growing up where the women folk cooked, cleaned, and fed first the men folk watching the Sunday game, had been somewhat deliberately pushing those kids in the pads and helmets out of her mind.  It’s not like they are anymore anonymous than the band, which from what I can tell, is meant to function kind of like Star Trek’s conception of the Borg’s “hive” mind.  Every member is but a part of the whole, etc.  And under the plumed hats, square-shouldered uniforms, and white gloves, band members are little more recognizable as individuals than football team members. 

Let’s face it:  football team members are probably more recognizable.  At least they hold different, if strangely labeled positions, to this perversely ignorant viewer.  The football team has running backs and now, I learned, broken into different subspecies, such as half back, quarterback (where are the zero back, ¾ back, and whole back? Even a tail back exists.  What about the head back, torso back, limb back?).

             The point is that I keep forgetting those kids, boys all, yes, running backwards and forwards on the field between hanky throwings by the guys in stripes.  Except when one is injured.  Because then even I remember that they are kids, and that, somewhere in the stands, a parent is as fear-filled as I would be. 

            And I also admit that autism has metamorphosed my attitude toward team sports, especially the single sex ones.  Because of my son’s differences, I’ve become the parent I’d never thought I’d be:  I’d be backing him in football, soccer, or any team sport were he to show and interest in it.  In fact, because of autism, I wish he would play a team sport.  I never thought I would say that pre-autism.  Fringe soul that I was, I thought my kid wouldn’t want to or need to be part of a crowd. 

            Again, autism affects you, the parent.  Not like the child—I know that.  I don’t have to deal with the sensory and intellectual/emotional differences attendant with a different neurology.  All of a sudden, being a member of a group that is so popular in mainstream culture has meaning, appeal even. 

You figure this out the moment your kid can’t play with other kids, can’t want to play with them.  You figure out that being a willing part of a group can actually be good, even helpful. 

As you vainly try to get your 6-year-old autistic kid interested in tee ball because it involves social interaction you, newly realizing the snobbery inherent in your natural, loner proclivities, realize that working with other people is an intelligence, and a necessary part of a full life—especially for your child, who can’t.  Who really, painfully can’t.  It’s one of those moments parents start to grieve.

            So it was we watched Colin in tee-ball, when he was 6 and going through his rose and yellow colored glasses phase—literally—and standing around in the outfield like Ferdinand the Bull, but even more bored than the bull, who at least cared about the flowers. 

Colin wanted out of there and away from those other kids.  The home run he did make, or maybe it was even just a score, was under duress that results from lot of parental pleading and cajoling.  Come in, come to this strange little pad and touch it with your feet.  Please.  Now! 

            And so Colin did walk from third to home, where he stopped, looked down, then deliberately stomped on home plate, as if to say, “I am finished, through, caput with this ridiculous farce in which I have no interest whatsoever.”

            Karate, a one to one sport that we prayed would hold more interest, absolutely did not.

            I’ve even tried to get him interested in wrestling something some parents would cringe to see their 8-year-olds interested in.  Because at least it’s normal.  Now that he enjoys watching it, at 15, I’m absolutely thrilled.

            Remember Pokemon, which had so many parents, of all varieties and flavors, running scared?  While some parents were trudging out of movies (or being tugged into them by their eager children) praying for coffee or valium, or dragging their kids out of narrow-walled, claustrophia-inducing comic book stores, we were teaching Colin about Pokemon ourselves, vainly trying to get him interested in those strange little, wide eyed characters whose names we remember more than he did, or does . . . because other kids loved them, and because if he did too, he might want to actually talk to thtose kids about them and play with them using them!

            Thus autism has changed me, made me a believer in sports because I feel I have to be, because kids talk about this stuff and do it, and it’s a social activity, because one the of the core deficits of autism is the inability or severely limited ability to interact in social situations, and again, sports are a social activity. 

            Back when he was four, I had taken him to Wal-Mart, to try to get him to choose some sheet for his bed.  There, I had encouraged Colin to like those typical boy things I used to despise because of the way they type case children according to gender.  I’d probably still despise them if Colin didn’t have autism.

Sheets bearing cars, or footballs, or basketballs.  And he simply didn’t care.  In fact, at that point, he barely even had the language to say he didn’t care, and I felt, simply, exhausting grief.  Again, he was isolated, and I was reminded that he was different and in a way that could keep him alone for most his life, and in a dangerous way:  it’s difficult to hold a job alone, to have no relationships.  We, his parents won’t live forever, and I can’t ask his sister to take care of him.  What I saw, in that little despised sports sheet (that we bought anyway, hoping), was his future, alone, forgotten, abandoned. 

            So our Unicorn football team, the reason the band performs and the other kids’ groups assemble much as I might not like it, those young men in that institution I’ve held a long seated grudge against—they didn’t do so hot this game.  In fact it was Unicorns 14, Brahmas 28. 

            And Colin, bigger hearted than his mom by far, cared about that loss. 

            In fact, when as if by providence, karma, whatever, I lost my pen and couldn’t continue, I had to watch those padded guys, who run through an inflated unicorn at the game's beginning and middle.

The team runs through this poofy thing . . . 

 . . . and then they touch this blue thing, a hand-molded blue unicorn dragged around by a crew of girls called the "Swarm," and then, after the good luck ritual, out to the field to "play the football" (as my husband Roger's grandma called it)

            And I felt for them.  It had started raining. And they had started losing.  But they endured, and Colin endured, and, as this kid illustrates, sometimes you can endure and maybe even like (sometimes, but not always like) both things we thought were important and things we never believed were important.

Yes, it's dark.  My camera skills are inadequate as my editing here, but you can still see the tuba player, dead center.             Tuba player number 63.