language
Confessions of a second-grader #1
I kept Sam’s journals. I’ll roll out some more highlights over the next few weeks and you’ll see why. Thanks again to all the brave teachers at Argyle Elementary for guiding him.
August 18, 1995
My goal for second grade is to stay in my seat.
September 7, 1995
My favorite city is Bear Valley because there are pine cones.
September 12, 1995
I wish my teacher would blow science bubbles all day today. And for the rest of the week.
Book report, part 2: The Science of Consequences and autism
I hope the first essay about Susan Schneider’s The Science of Consequences — dealing with the ostrich effect — doesn’t turn out to be a spoiler for this one. I wasn’t reading the book for my day job, yet there were many cross-overs.
That’s always nice.
At the end of the book, Schneider shows how we might solve problems on a grand scale with consequences (global warming, overcoming prejudice) and, as I was reading that, it occurred to me that many parents of kids with autism — especially the young parents — don’t realize the power of consequences.
Ivar Lovaas had put together a program of consequences (they called it Early Intensive Behavioral Treatment) that raised the IQ of kids with autism, on average, by 20 points back in the 1980s, not long before Sam was first diagnosed. We helped bring his program to Sacramento, even though we didn’t understand it very well and Sam would never directly benefit from it.
Back then, we couldn’t see how learning to imitate, or learning to pick up a red block, or learning to talk in increasingly longer and more complex ways was going to help Sam in a substantive way. He had autism. We thought that this kind of work wasn’t a cure, it was a way to adapt. Why would any parent think that applied behavioral techniques could make substantive changes in the brain of their child with autism?
But, as I have seen and learned, they can.
Schneider doesn’t set out to show us that in the book. In fact, she doesn’t tackle autism until the final chapters and its quite a brief passage. But, by then, I understood what she was laying out — how consequences have shaped the world.
The book is a review of the scientific literature for the lay reader. Schneider helps us understand the concepts of reinforcers and the variety of behaviors they can shape, including complicated ones. She helps us understand how negative consequences aren’t always, and how positive consequences can be negative.
She shows us that genetics are affected by consequences, and almost in real time, not just through evolution. And while scientists have long known that an enriched, language-filled upbringing is best for young children, they have also determined that enrichment later in life can make up for a young life that missed out. What parent of a kid with autism wouldn’t find hope in that science?
I actually got more out of the chapter on “Thinking and Communicating” and its implications for autism, than I did on the autism section. To wit:
“Simply listening to language is clearly not enough to pick it up. Interactions — and the consequences that necessarily go with them — are critical. For example, a hearing child raised by deaf parents spent most of his time at home. The TV was kept on for him on the theory that this exposure to spoken language would suffice for his language development. By age three, he had readily learned the sign language that his parents used but could not understand or speak English. There had been no consequences for learning English, but there had been plenty for learning sign language.” (p. 151)
So, turn off the TV and create a rich environment for your child.
There are social elements in all language, and Schneider helps us see how that plays out. Requests, for example, benefit the speaker, while descriptors benefit the listener.
I know. Duh.
Bear with me.
When you are putting together a program to help a child with autism learn language, you have to be able to harness scores of facts like that, because as Schneider writes, “understanding what’s happening and why, and taking advantage of all the positive consequences available” (p. 241) is what you need to make that change. As she cautions us, “the basics seem like simple common sense but are not as easy to do as they sound.”
Just ask any parent of a kid with autism.
The Telephone Book Lullaby
Sam had a hard time falling asleep when he was a toddler. Some nights we had to lay in the bed with him. It got so tiresome that when he finally nodded off, we’d just go to bed, too.
We had a few tapes of lullabies we’d play for the boys when they were little, and it helped on nights that Sam was less fitful and didn’t need a human teddy bear to fall asleep.
One of the tapes was of Jan DeGaetani singing Alec Wilder’s Night Songs and Lullabies. If I remember correctly, Ray Wright arranged them. We wore out a copy I made of a recording borrowed from the Rochester Public Library. If there is such a thing as local produce, there is of music, too. She was a great singer that taught at the Eastman School of Music, and Wright headed up the jazz department. Wilder had his own connections to the school. I knew that bootleg copy was a keeper and I was bummed the day it wouldn’t play anymore.
From time to time, I would call the people at Recycled Books and ask them if they had a recording of Jan DeGaetani singing Alec Wilder’s Night Songs and Lullabies. Never worked out. Earlier this year, I got on a tear again. Another artist recorded it, and I bought the CD. Reading the liner notes, I’m not sure they were even aware of the other recording. It’s lovely, but it’s not Rochester-local. I don’t know how to explain that.
Editions of that music book that I’ve seen for sale are collector’s items. Published in 1965, it was a music manuscript collection meant for children — it’s illustrated by Maurice Sendak (yes, the author of Where the Wild Things Are). I’ll bet in some families it’s an heirloom. This month, I borrowed it through interlibrary loan and started playing the lullabies and night songs on the piano.
Oh, the flood of memories. I swear music hits way more memory spots in your brain than smells and scents.
I asked Sam if he remembered any of them, and he didn’t. In a way, for him, that’s a good sign. When he was little, his memory was lists and lists, like a telephone book. He mapped out everything and it was always available — addresses, people’s birthdays, etc. But as he got older, his memory got less savant, you might say, and that’s ok.
Wilder’s book has about 50 little tunes in it, many of them completely original. As I played through them, I realized not all of them were on the original recording. One of the lullabies, if it had been, would have been Sam’s favorite as a kid — then he may have remembered it as an adult.
When I played it for him a few days ago, he followed along with the lyrics and laughed. This was a good lullaby for kids, he said.
I think all parents of kids (and not just parents of kids with autism), desperate enough for them to fall asleep that they might just start singing the phone book, would agree.
The Telephone Book Lullaby, by Alec Wilder
Ada Jones, Agnes Jones, Albert Jones, Alec Jones,
Alfred Jones, Alice Jones
Alma Jones, Alvin Jones, Andrew Jones, Anna Jones and
All the other Joneses.
For additional verses, Mr. Wilder suggests you see “Jones” in any telephone directory.
What color is your agitator?
When Sam was in elementary school, he often asked people what color their washing machine’s agitator was. You would be shocked — shocked, I tell you — how many people did not know the answer to this question.
Many times people were so loving and accommodating. If we were visiting, they would say, “Let’s go look,” and the whole crowd headed to the laundry room. Sam enjoyed that. If they didn’t know, and didn’t suggest to go look, he didn’t obsess over getting the answer. He had picked up enough social graces that he would simply move on. Often, at that point in the conversation, he would share the color of our washing machine’s agitator. For some reason, I was slightly embarrassed the first few times he shared that — even though I told myself that was not the same as sharing other details about the family laundry.
I was never quite sure of his motivations for gathering that information. I don’t remember when he stopped asking for it. I asked him about it a few nights ago and he remembered that it was something he was curious about. “I don’t remember when I lost interest,” he said. He doesn’t remember why, either.
Sam has been researching home automation systems lately. He thinks about accessibility. A person in a wheelchair can’t reach the controls, he says, and an automated system would let them operate appliances by remote control.
He’s so determined, even if it means teaching himself code, which he finds exacting — even for him.
He had been quiet about it for awhile, but I asked him about it again after this video showed up on the browser history when I came home from work.
(Other parents might have to worry about stumbling upon porn. I just get to see a washer with three speeds of spinning.)
I don’t mind him experimenting on our house. And I wonder about how to show off that quality to an employer. He’s a problem-solver.
The current color of my agitator, you ask?
White.
On writing, on reading and The Mayborn
People often ask artists who has influenced their work — musicians, painters, sculptors, filmmakers, writers. It’s a tough question to escape. I’ve asked it, but not too often, because I’ve found that many good artists don’t seem keen on bringing that kind of consciousness to their work.
I write intuitively, too. I try to edit consciously. And editing often seems to be slightly under the influence of whomever I’m reading at the time.
(Except Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Isabel Allende, and Joan Didion. They are always there.)
This year, Paige has left behind collections from University of Iowa students. Home of Iowa Writers Workshop, there comes from Iowa always something fresh, and often ever-so-slightly unworkable in those pages. I enjoy them. And my friend, RunnerSusan, has loaned me a dozen of her favorite works of fiction that have taken me down unexpected paths.
I took a break from reading the authors scheduled for this weekend’s Mayborn conference to pour over essays for a writer’s workshop. My essay, Carrion (see the pages on the left), has been accepted to the workshop, so I am reading the work of others who will be sequestered with me and our workshop leader. More new voices and ideas.
Like a book club, only on steroids, it’s the eighth Mayborn writer’s conference this weekend. It doesn’t seem that long ago that I threw the manuscript for “See Sam Run” into the workshop to see what would happen. There won’t be anything on that scale for me this weekend, but it will be for someone, and there is all that other talk of writing and reading and writing that is so inspiring to us all. I can’t wait to see what this weekend will bring.
Writing Prompt #15
From Sam’s summer school journal, proving metaphorical questions do not have to be answered metaphorically.
I would rather be a passenger on the plane because I look rather young to be the pilot. — July 19, 2002
Writing Prompt #10 and #11
These entries from Sam’s summer school journal seem about right for our first 100-degree day of the summer:
I would use sunscreen or sun tan lotion. If I didn’t have any of that, I could wear a hat or stay in the shade. — July 10, 2002
My favorite ways to cool down is to drink plenty of cold water or stay in my air-conditioned house. I could swim in a swimming pool. — July 12, 2002
Writing Prompt #9
I asked Sam if he could remember what the prompt was for this entry in his summer school journal. He couldn’t. I’ve read this before and I still can’t even come up with a guess what the kids were shown and asked to write about. Here it is:
I would have a sign that says “do not eat” or “I don’t taste very good.” I could even have it say “I am made of fake meat and bread.” Probably would say, “Too late, I am rotten.” It would even say “Frozen rock solid.” — July 8, 2002
Writing Prompt #7, or Explaining Frisbees on Mars
From Sam’s summer school journal:
If I threw a frisbee into the air and it kept going up until I could no longer see it, it probably went into outer space and might’ve landed on Mars. — June 26, 2002
Writing Prompt #2, or why Texans love Blue Bell Ice Cream.
Sam opened his journal, which I’m now realizing must have been for summer school his freshman year, not high school English, given the date, by describing himself.
“My name is Samuel Donald Wolfe. I am 14 years old. So far my hobbies turn up to be games. I happen to like apples and bananas. My brother is 11 years old. My sister is 8 years old. My mother is 41 years old. She now works in Gainesville. My father is 45 years old He mows lawns, plays the tuba in concerts, and teaches in Arlington. I now have three dogs. I have two black dogs and one brown one.”
Not sure why he has me working in Gainesville. I never did.
Below is the result of his second writing prompt:
My favorite ice cream is Vanilla, Peppermint, White Chocolate Almond, Orange and Strawberry Sherbet with Starburst pieces. There will probably be a new flavor ice cream. I would try to invent grape ice cream or blackberry ice cream. — June 12, 2002