My two sons are also attending adventure camp and so they can watch out for Masha on the bus. (Although I am not sure how well this is working out since they both announced on their way down the bus steps today that, “Masha really needs a spanking. She was so naughty on the bus.” The bus driver sheepishly confirmed that yes, Masha was standing up on the seat. Ugh.)
Because it was insinuated that Masha is not “high-functioning” enough for this camp, I was very curious about the other kids in the special needs section. What needs do they have and what makes them special? I decided to tactfully get this information from my older son. Below is our conversation.
I started, “Soooo, Gecko, when you see Masha get off and on the bus for her camp, do you see the other kids too?”
“Yeah, they are there too.”
“Are there a lot of kids with her?” I continue.
“I don’t see her whole group. There are like ten kids with her though, not counting Masha.”
“hmm.” I spring the big question. “What are they like?”
Without hesitation he answers, “They are regular kids, just like her.”
Conversation over.
And that my friends is the beauty of true integration. My son does not see a disability. He does not see atypical facial features. He doesn’t see stereotypes. He simply sees Masha, and a bunch of other regular kids.
Next Fall Masha will begin Kindergarten in a regular classroom with ordinary peers from our neighborhood. We pushed the district hard to make this happen for her (even though it is her legal right). We stood her ground because the more time Masha spends with typical peers the more they will see her, not her extra chromosome. And when the focus on the disability disappears, the doors of life will be wide open for Masha and all the other regular kids.
As a child I played almost everyday in the woods that surrounded our home. I was an Indian who had a bent stick tied with string for a bow and skinny straight sticks bundled together for arrows. I led imaginary hunting parties all through those acres of forest and creek. We caught crayfish, snuck up on deer and squirrels, and fought encroaching white men. If I close my eyes I can still see each rise and fall of the forest carpet that lay next to the creek. Plush browned pine needles, years and years worth, made the path soft under my bare feet. I know where all the good stepping rocks are as far up and down that lazy bubbling creek as my territory goes. I know where there are skeletons of animals, trees, and even a mill from yesteryear. That forest is etched into my being... (I am a beautiful Eastern White Pine tree that sprouted in its shadow so many moons ago.)
I carry on in my efforts. Invisible and impossibly long spider web trails connect one baby oak to another, tearing and sticking to my arms and face as I pass through. One single bright red berry on the ground calls to me... an offering of hope from a tiny plant that seems barely able to hold it up. There is a long downed oak that runs far out into the expanse of giant bulging green leaves. Perhaps it can serve as a bridge. Its dark slippery bark is still soaked from days of heavy spring rains. Ten or so steps along it I realize that I do not have the balance I took for granted thirty years ago and there is no choice but to turn back. Headed toward home, I veer off to try one more way that might take me around the deeper areas. It leads to a tree that succumbed to an ice storm last winter, its roots reaching absurdly toward the sky. (I, too, will reach toward the sky.)
I remember thinking when that tree fell I would take my boys on a little hike to see it after the winter passed. There could be a squirrel's nest in it—like the one I found in a fallen tree when I was a little girl—or maybe a large bird nest... that of an owl or a hawk. Today I could not even get around it’s roots without stepping in a gloppy mess, so I opted to wait for a drier period... maybe the high heat of summertime. (I am a talented writer and my time will come.)
That was it. From there I headed into my neighbor’s backyard, enjoying the flowers of the season all the way home. Perhaps there should be some disappointment for not making it over to explore the other side of the woods but I don’t feel that. I simply feel a powerful urge to buy a pair of knee high water boots. (I will do what it takes to live my dream.)
for the zillionth time... I find myself percolating with an itch to write. It isn’t that simple though... I mean, I can’t just sit down and do it... I feel like I need some foreplay or something.
I have that book. It was a gift from my Artist Aunt. I remember really liking the idea of the book way back when but never actually doing more than one or two of the “tasks.” I ran out to the garage and dug through five or so plastic bins of books until I located it. I am ready.
