We were snuggled on the sofa the other night, watching My Fair Lady with the transcendent Audrey Hepburn. Miss M was riveted by the film, listening intently for most of the three hours - a little too much Shaw for me, but if you're Miss M, it's pure heaven.
Henry Higgins berated Eliza Doolittle for something - her diction, a spoilt diphthong - something. Miss M slammed down her pillow in protest. "Excuse me, but he is just a sexist pig," she proclaimed, pointing at the television. Usually, I ask questions about how characters are feeling, what their faces are saying - but this time, she told me. "You know, I was with him when he wanted to help her," she started, pausing the scene, "but this stuff of having her change who she is - why, that's just wrong. Ugh. And the way he talks down to her," she shuddered, snapping the remote for more torture.
We talked a bit about the film after it was over. Miss M was aghast that someone would have to change for someone else -to not be their "authentic self". Miss M shook her head, "You know, she was an original the way she was."
I imagine that it resonates with her on a subconscious level a bit, because, in a strange way, that is what her life has been. We, along with every other teacher, therapist, and doctor, have asked her to bend for us, to go against what is natural for her and to be more, well, like us.
We ask for appropriateness. We make bids for shared attention. We jump and run and exercise to quiet the body so that she can ground herself, and attend to the myriad things we need her to attend to.
I imagine that it must be a little like Pygmalion - being rebuilt into a new iteration of oneself.
Our intentions, of course, are good. We have helped her in innumerable ways to cope with the world she was born into, given her relief with those things that gnaw at her, that make every day chores difficult.
But I've always wondered about the words. Intervention. Intervening against what? More autism? Whew - better stop now before it gets worse? Remediation? The definiton says that it is the act of correcting a fault or evil.
Huh.
I don't wish to correct my daughter. I do wish to help her be able to nimbly cross between both worlds - mine and hers - so that the bigger, noisier one is a little less jarring each time she steps foot in it. The more time she spends in it, the easier it is for her to make the transitions.
She has friends. I suspect that most of them are on the spectrum, judging from my interactions with them, but I do not know for sure. I do know that Miss M is starting to notice things. She worries about her friend who passes gas in public and seems not to notice anything wrong with it. She worries about another friend who picks her nose, and well, sometimes, when she thinks no one is looking, munches on a booger or two. ("I don't think she realizes that I can see her do it," she says, eyes wide) Just today, her friend was over and the children were snacking at the kitchen table. Roxie asked the friend a question, and when she did not get an answer, repeated the question. The friend went on and on with her topic. Miss M shifted her eyes from Roxie to the friend. "Um, Friend? My sister is trying to get your attention, " Miss M said quietly and sweetly, trying to be helpful.
Over time, unbelievably, she has started to absorb all of the gentle and not-so-gentle cues and suggestions we've given her. I see it now; I see her seeing it in other people. It is her shared experience that makes it so sweetly acceptable; that she is helping others navigate this very, very confusing world of signals, connections, planes and trains.
My hope is that she does not feel, like Eliza Doolittle, condescended upon, dissected, or examined.
I do want her to feel glorious, to wear a gown and feel free, to want to dance all night, to make connections, and, frankly, when she needs to, hang out with the things and people that make her the most comfortable.
I just want the road between the two places to be less bumpy, and more easily accessible.
And you know?
By George, I think she's got it.
