Randall is three. He can’t talk with you right now because the seam on the end of his sock is not completely straight. He can’t do anything, really, until he puts that seam right.
I’m not being entirely truthful. The truth is, even if Randall’s sock were perfectly straight, he won’t talk with you right now, and he won’t look at you. There are only four people Randall will look at, and about six people he’ll talk with, and chances are, you aren’t one of them.
Randall’s therapists describe him as being on the Autism Spectrum. He finds most of our social expectations and habits, thing like small talk and handshakes and random smiles, completely meaningless, and worse—emotionally overwhelming. Randall’s world is louder than yours probably is: the colors in his world shine brighter, textures are coarser. A breezy day sitting under trees and blowing grass completely send him to pieces. THERE ARE BUGS IN THE GRASSS. THE GRASS IS TOUCHING ME. I DON’T LIKE IT OUT HERE, he will inform one of his six talk-to-people. Randall manages his world by sticking to strict routines that help him feel calm. He likes to fix his socks. He likes the windows and doors to be closed in his room. From time to time, he likes to rock a little on the edge of the bed, with a pillow wrapped over his head, covering his ears. Please don’t interrupt him—-it won’t go well if you do. He will feel that he absolutely ha to explain to you that you are ruining everything, and he’ll explain this to you by ramming his hard little three—year-old head right into your stomach or…lower. This is painful.
Randall is also in foster care. He was removed from his home by the Department of Children and Families due to abuse and neglect. Foster care is not part of his routine. This, too, is painful.
Randall was given a scholarship to go to Carson’s Kamp for Kids this summer. It’s a summer camp for kids of all abilities, a place where they can play in the spray park, do arts and crafts or explore the expressive arts. They can play noncompetitive sports and learn social skills. When he arrived, Randall made sure everyone understood that Kamp for Kids was not part of his routine. He chose a group leader to give one word responses to, and the rest of the other Kamp counselors felt his little head give them the hard message that things were changing way too fast, so he would not be participating in activities.
Yet camp counselors knew how to slow things down. They knew how to break down the activity into small pieces, how to make the expectations manageable. How to meet Randall in that inner room of his, if just long enough to invite him out.
Randall’s foster mom stood with the Kamp counselor at the end of his summer sessions. They watched as Randall ran with a friend, laughing and talking. He stopped to greet a couple of the other counselors. He then told his friend he wanted to go get a drink of water and he had something to do—he would be right back.
Randall approached his foster mom and told her how they’d just finished the cardboard mice they’d been working on. Randall wanted to put his mouse in a safe spot he found for a rest, he explained. “It’s cool and quiet in there and he might just need a little break before he comes out. Everyone is different and we have to learn to take care of him so he can feel okay. “ His foster mom nodded.
So maybe I’m wrong —maybe when he’s done fixing his sock, Randall will look at you, and say “hello”. But if he doesn’t, you will understand about routines, and socks and mice and small people telling you in their own way that they are searching, wanting to be met by friends in places like Kamp for Kids.
