The Nectar of Life: Fostering Special Interests

For many autistics, success often blooms where learning styles and special interests go hand-in-hand. Highlighting and nurturing individual autistic interests are key to fostering self-determination.

Personally, I find little gratification, let alone meaning in life, when I am cut off from doing what drives me. Success goes right out the window when I am forced to do things I am incompatible with. Of course the checkbook needs to be balanced--okay I lied because truthfully I am not in charge of balancing my checkbook, but it's a good example--the house cleaned, as well as mundane errands appeased, but those are temporary distractions. Being forced to live life against my nature is a recipe for disaster, as prolonged adversity equals nothing but the dreaded meltdown.

Last summer, I took my then three-year old autistic son, Moxie, to a classmate get-together at a local park. I was not looking forward to going, yet I didn't want to impose my preferences on Moxie, who actually ended up having a fabulous time. I was overwhelmed by the darting yelping children from the moment I arrived at the park.

Fifteen minutes into the play date, I chanced an escape to the safety of a nearby lone bench. Moxie was happily engrossed in parallel play at a sprinkling water feature. I smiled to myself knowing that it would be a long while before Moxie would bombard me with a demand of any sort.

I let my mind wander while casually observing the other parents. My attention focused on a little autistic boy named Sam who happens to love the alphabet. Sam regularly incorporates letters into his life in the same way that I regularly incorporate several moments of quiet time into mine. Sam lives for letters. I live for stolen quiet tranquil moments.

Sam amused himself by writing letters all over the surrounding sidewalk. His nervous mother stood by consumed with Sam's lack of interaction at this ever-important preschool get-together. She playfully ruffled his hair and gently grabbed his arms, attempting to steer and coax him toward interaction with a small group of chattering mini-social-butterfly peers. Sam resented his mother's intrusions and let her know by running away, shrieking, and wildly flapping his hands. Soon enough, Sam entered meltdown mode, biting and slapping himself, and screaming loud as cannon fire.

Teachers and parents clamored over to Sam bearing offerings of juice boxes, shovels and pails, blowing bubbles, and sympathy. But Sam wasn't having any of it. His mother struggled to calm him while grasping at the last fragments of her composure. Passersby stopped and stared, looking to pinpoint the flagrant source of upset.

Sam's meltdown made me terribly nervous. I felt I had to think of something quick. Then I remembered that Moxie, like Sam, also loves letters. I approached Moxie with some chalk and said, "Letters? Let's write. Moxie and Ima write letters on the sidewalk. Let's go."

I nervously etched letters upon the sidewalk, detesting the feeling of chalk on my hand. Moxie jumped up and down saying the letters aloud. I handed him a fat blue piece of half-wet bubble soaked chalk. He went at the sidewalk with a wanton abandon.

I cast a look at a little girl named Fiona, who happened to be wearing a short pink dress. Rainbow shorts peeked out from beneath her hem and I made a bet that she would like for me to draw a rainbow. She screeched her approval.

As the other children lost interest in Sam's meltdown, they wandered over to me making all sorts of requests from bridges to salamanders. I enlisted the help of a few other straggling parents. I was beginning to have a good time.

Sam soon settled down and began watching us. I slowly moved closer to him. His head lay on the grass fixated on the letters I wrote. I even copied his style and wrote letters in zigzag lines. Avoiding eye contact, I whispered in a low voice, "Sam. S-A-M," as I made out the big smooth letters. He smiled and flapped. "Now Sam do it." I handed over a neglected piece of nubby green chalk.

I walked back over to my spot on the bench. This time, I watched the whole class, including the parents, participate in a mega sidewalk chalk fest. Sam's mother gleefully snapped pictures through misty eyes. She momentarily looked at me and gave me a thumbs up.

I nodded and said, "Looks like letters are the key to Sam's jubilant participation, eh?" I paused in thought, before adding, "Who knows what it will be next."

"I'll be sure to keep tabs!" said Sam's mother through a wide grin.