Saving Ben: A Father's Story of Autism

Ben At School

113 Ben At School On the home front, Ben was making good progress in his discrete trial program. He’d mastered catch and throw ball, flush toilet, hang up coat, stack dominoes, chain paper clips, blow up balloon, fold wash cloth, pour water, nod yes and no, spin quarter, empty trash, hang up picture, kick ball, and zip pants. He’d also learned to imitate the vowel sounds in saw, see, and up, and the consonant sounds M, S, F, Wh, B, and P. My student therapists were rehabilitating him like a polio victim, restoring his atrophied neurological system. Best of all, he had learned to imitate. I could show Ben what I wanted him to do—make a fist, stick out his tongue, cover his head with a blanket—and he would do it. He no longer needed food as a reward: “Good job, Ben!” was reinforcement enough for him. I was confident that he could learn anything we had the patience to teach him. At age eight, he was ready, I thought, for school. But I was apprehensive about the Dallas Independent School District. They’d fired the only teacher who’d made a breakthrough with Ben. When I picked him up or dropped him off, I often stayed for a few minutes to observe and to chat with the pupils. Jason, a bright, attractive boy, about a year older than Ben, was bouncing on a foot trampoline. 114 ❧ saving ben: a father's story of autism “Jason, sit still,” the teacher said. “No no no no no!” he replied, wiggling away. Wow, the kid could talk. “Jason, say ‘Cookie,’” I prompted. “Cookie!” “Good talking, Jason,” I said, reinforcing. “Oh, don’t tell him that,” the teacher snapped. “He doesn’t know what he’s saying. He’s echolalic.” She pronounced the technical term as if explaining nuclear fission to a layperson. In her mind, “echolalic”—meaning he echoed words without understanding them—was a verdict that sealed Jason’s fate. She was proud of her master’s degree in special education. I thought Jason’s echolalia was a gift. It provided a huge repertoire of sounds that could be shaped into meaningful speech. Jason looked at me with eager eyes. “Save me,” his eyes seemed to beg. “Teach me.” I taught him to raise arms and clap hands. Ben had needed several lessons to learn those behaviors; Jason learned instantly. His teacher was alarmed. “Extended School Year is for maintenance only,” she said. “We’re not supposed to teach anything new.” The speech therapist trundled in, late, hauling a heavy institutional tape player that looked like it had been trolled from the back of a storage shed. She arranged five children in a semicircle, fumbled with the tape player, found the right button. “If you’re happy and you know it, pat your knees,” instructed the lyrics. Nobody was patting knees. She turned up the volume. Alex hit himself in the face. Jason spun a truck wheel. Ben put his fingers in his ears. Kendall tried to escape. The therapist ignored the kids, chatting with Ben’s homeroom teacher. “Pat your knee, Ben,” I said. I mimed a knee pat for him, and he followed the example. “Great!” This was a triple play for Ben: imitation, following instructions, participation. He looked pleased with himself. I expected the therapist to say, “Good patting knee,” but she ignored him. Kendall scooted to the tape recorder and pushed a button. “No, leave it alone,” the therapist commanded. “No no no no,” said Ja- Ben At School ❧ 115 son. Kendall pushed another button. The therapist gave up, let him have his way with it. “Don’t break it,” she ordered. Jason decided to push buttons, too. Here was an opportunity, I thought, to teach the kids “push button .” But the therapist was explaining to the homeroom teacher how long ago she had requisitioned the tape player, how surprised she was when she actually got it, and how sternly she had been instructed to return the ancient, dusty contraption in the same condition that it had been received. So passed the weekly fifteen-minute speech therapy session. It must have been agony for the hapless therapist. It was for me. Next day I saw Jason’s mother at Bachman Recreation Center, where she had come to pick him up. I was excited about the imitation set I’d taught him...