Updated: Aug. 6, 2020
Originally Published: Feb. 7, 2018
The sight of vibrant lockers lining the hallways brought a wave of unease to my heart as a parent.
Reflecting on my own middle school days, I remember them as some of the most enjoyable years of my life. My biggest concerns revolved around collecting plush toys or perfecting my hairstyle for school photos. I played the clarinet, savored French fries every day, and exchanged notes folded into clever shapes with friends in between classes. I was relatively popular, surrounded by a close-knit group of friends.
This year, however, my son, who is on the autism spectrum, began junior high. I knew his experience would be vastly different from mine. For months, the anticipation of that first day filled me with dread. I worried about how he would manage navigating the bustling halls filled with energetic kids, adjusting to multiple teachers who would need to understand his unique needs. What if he got lost? Would anyone come to his aid? What if he had an emotional outburst? Would the other kids mock him?
At his elementary school, he had been quite the star. His teachers adored him, and he had a solid circle of friends who shared his passion for Minecraft and Legos. I was overwhelmed with pride at his sixth-grade graduation when his classmates cheered for him. But as he transitioned into junior high, he faced the reality of no longer having a single caring teacher throughout the day, and many of his buddies were assigned to a different school due to district lines.
As summer drew to a close, we registered him at the new school. The process felt like an assembly line: step into one classroom, then move to the next. Before we could even exit the first room, he broke down in tears. He attempted to log into his school profile but was devastated to discover he couldn’t access his Google Drive from the previous year. His cries echoed as we became the center of attention, receiving “The Look” from other parents.
At twelve years old, my son stands taller than me, with a strong voice and wild hair. I understand how this might look to those unfamiliar with autism. Over the years, I’ve encountered “The Look” — a mixture of pity and misunderstanding.
Just before classes began, we attended a back-to-school night where we met the teachers. I was anxious to see if they understood he was autistic. Should I mention it? Would they notice? We received the combination to his locker, and I immediately feared he wouldn’t be able to operate the lock. I encouraged him to try anyway, hoping I was mistaken. With a school policy against backpacks, mastering the locker was essential.
He spun the dial but couldn’t lift the latch. I tried, again and again, to no avail. Frustration mounted, and to prevent an impending meltdown, I suggested we find an alternative. No backpacks allowed? No problem. A large binder with a strap would do. After all, he’s autistic; he deserves some accommodations.
Now, halfway through the school year, he still hasn’t found any solid friends. The kids around him use inappropriate language and dismiss his interests, like Minecraft, as outdated. Ironically, he struggles most in his social skills class — which includes other autistic students. The teacher mentioned two boys clashed with him, and he humorously remarked, “And I’m the oil because I’m highly flammable.” It was comical and perfectly encapsulated his brilliant sense of humor.
During one lunch, a mishap occurred when he dropped his cookie on the floor. When he asked for a replacement, the lunch staff refused (I won’t even get started on that). In a fit of disappointment, he tossed his lunch in the trash, sat against a wall, and sobbed. Why couldn’t someone have just given him a cookie?
Every time I step into the school, the lockers seem to taunt me, representing the barriers my son faces. He’s a seventh grader who reads at an eleventh-grade level; his mind is exceptionally bright, yet few will recognize that if no one tries to connect with him. A child who makes every effort to solve the puzzle of life but struggles to open the locker door.
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