BOOK | PRODIGY | BACKSTORY
A WORLD OF HIS OWN
The story narrated by an 11-Year-old autistic boy with a dead mother and separated from his father finds a new joy
Roger Carlson was the first staff member at the Spellman school who greeted me when the Department of Social Services brought me to the school on 17th Street in Manhattan on19 April 1997. I had come with one suitcase with three changes of clothes and a pair of sneakers that my father had bought for my birthday on April 16. When the two social workers had brought me to the building, Roger had met us in the foyer and had taken the suitcase from one of the social workers. It had been a quick exchange, lasting no more than 15 minutes, 15 minutes which had been fixed in my memory forever like a signpost pointing to where I was going, and while papers have been signed by Roger and the social workers, I had stood quietly with my head bowed. My face had shown no expression. There had been nothing to indicate I was distressed, except of course the two streams of tears running down each of my cheeks.
After the social workers had left me, Roger then took me upstairs to the fifth-floor room, which the school had prepared for me. The room was sterile, not decorated, with a small desk and a full-size bed. Roger walked me into this 11 x 12’ room and then left me there alone, sitting on the bed, holding the handle of my suitcase with my left hand, with no further interaction from anyone that very first day.
The next morning at 8 o’clock, the first person to come into my room was Robert Parker, who at 14 was also a resident at the school. Robert brought me a tray of food, pancakes with eggs and a glass of juice, which he set down on the dresser.
“I’ve been sent by Ms Magnussen to take you to your class,“ Robert told me. I could not acknowledge him nor did I even look at Robert. I sat rigidly on my bed as though staring at the bare eastern wall of the room. Then Robert brought the tray of food and set it down on the bed and I did not move a finger.
“Do you want me to cut up the pancakes for you?” Robert asked me.
When I didn’t respond, Robert began to slice the pancakes. He was about halfway through the process when I suddenly grabbed his arm and stopped him. I began to shake my head.
“Alright, I will stop,” Robert acquiesced.
I then began to eat the pancakes slowly with my fork and Robert stepped away from the bed to watch me. After 11 bites exactly I took a sip of the orange juice and then continued to eat.
“Is there anything else I can get for you?” Robert asked me.
I simply closed my eyes and bowed my head. There was no way I could tell him anything about what was going on inside of me.
“Okay. I’ll let you finish your pancakes and then we can go.” I could see that Robert had no idea whether I could understand what he was saying. As I continued to eat, stopping every 11 bites to take another sip of juice, Robert found a chair and sat down to watch me. Out of boredom, Robert had even begun to count the bites himself. Robert often found himself counting things, which was one of the several obsessions which were part of his autism. It was at this moment, that Agnes Patterson entered the room. She had started volunteering at the school a couple of weeks before. She was studying to be a neuroscientist because her brother Michael was also autistic and she hoped one day to find a cure.
“I’ve been sent upstairs to help you with Jonathan,” Agnes greeted us. She carried in her arms a drawing book and a box of coloured pencils, which she set down on the foot of my bed.
“I have a present for you, Jonathan,” she told me. “I hope you like drawing pictures.”
To both of their surprise, I immediately picked up the pad and pencil and to draw fervently on the pad. This would be the first of my drawings at the Spellman School, a picture of a school bus, which had been the nexus point of the incident which had caused my father to lose custody. This would not be the last time that a school bus would be an important totem in my life.
