“Yesith! Yesith! Yesith!”
“Do you like . . .”
Thorin interrupted, “No. No. No.”
“Thorin wants to take photos, but he doesn’t want to talk about it,” my mom offered.
A couple days later, Thorin took his iPad to a doctor’s appointment. While I waited in the reception area, Ward went with him into the hall. Thorin took photos of stairs, hallways, windows, plants, furniture, and a skylight. None of his shots were straight on or centered, and he favored a right angle of partial images. We had gotten the iPad for Thorin to be able to communicate with the world, which he was doing through his photos.
As we were leaving for a walk a few days later, Thorin grabbed his iPad. I noticed he would take a photo then view it and reshoot, if necessary. He might do that three or four times until he was satisfied. On that walk, he took some little portrait shots of the dogs and one of Ward and me. The rest were more documentary images, such as trees and electrical poles bisected horizontally by a train moving through the scene or a car bisected vertically by an electrical pole. There was a beautiful shot of Ward walking from behind framed by electrical wires, the street, and curb.
Thorin was showing his photos to other people and enjoying the praise he got. He did not want to be asked to take photos. He had no interest in someone picking the subject to be photographed. It was clear Thorin had his own ideas and vision.
Even though Thorin enjoyed spending time with Bubba, summer school soon arrived. The school was in our old neighborhood, and Thorin had been at the playground countless times—both Ella and Evvy attended school there. When we walked in, there was general confusion with multiple programs starting at the same time as well as specific confusion about where his aide was.
Thorin and I stood in the reception area waiting for her. I wanted him to meet his aide before he got in the classroom. She arrived late, complaining the rain had made her trip from the suburbs longer than anticipated. She was in her fifties and wore a red slash of lipstick, a black turtleneck dress, and a belted trench coat. Instead of offering her name, she said, “My hair is a disaster!” I waited for her to sort herself out before I introduced Thorin and myself. When she finally looked at Thorin, she blanched. I instantly despised her.
Smoothing her hair she said, “I haven’t worked in years. I was a social worker. I’ve never worked with a . . .”
I decided to help her out for Thorin’s sake. “With such a young person? Is that what you were going to say?”
“Sure.”
I insisted on walking him to the classroom with her. I was shocked by the size of the other children. I realized Thorin was quite small, yet they looked like giants. When I finally got the teacher’s attention, I made introductions.
“Oh, hello! Excuse the first day chaos,” she responded.
“No prob. These kids are all in kindergarten or first grade?”
“No. They’re in second to fourth grade.”
I had a sinking feeling. “Where’s the inclusive classroom with the younger children?”
“I don’t know.”
I told Thorin we would have to go back downstairs. As we were leaving, a woman introduced herself to Thorin and me. She was from the special services department at the district.
“I wanted to make sure everything went well today.”
“Oh, thank you! I was just going downstairs to find out where the inclusive summer program meets.”
“Not necessary. This is Thorin’s classroom.”
“He’s six. He hasn’t been in first grade yet.”
“Don’t worry.”
I should have left with Thorin but I didn’t. I thought—as Tim Gunn had advised Project Runway designers for years—we could make it work. Also the act of leaving school was counterintuitive. Where would Thorin go?
When I came back a few hours later to pick up Thorin, I found out that none of the students did much of anything. Whatever this program was, it had been slapped together starting that day. I also found out that all the students in Thorin’s class knew each other because they attended the school year round. I was relieved to know Thorin’s speech therapist and occupational therapist from kindergarten were visiting almost every day to work with him.
The second day was somewhat better, but the teacher seemed overwhelmed, which I could understand. She had no time to plan for the session, hitting the ground running the day before. Thorin’s aide—whom I had privately christened Mrs. John Updike because of her 1960s mentality, her narcissistic ways, and the fact she was a boob—told me Thorin refused to go back to class following break. After twenty minutes, the speech therapist intervened and told him to get back to class, which he did. Mrs. Updike then told me that she was “hoping to get some magic words from the speech therapist,” so he would listen to her. I was hoping for some magic words to turn her into a toad.
It wasn’t like Thorin not to go back in to the classroom. A witness to the event told me Mrs. Updike was literally pulling at her hair in frustration. I knew Thorin would find that irresistible. The program was four weeks long; it had to get better quickly. I emailed Joan Croft, who I thought was my inclusion maven.
We are not happy with the summer program Thorin is in. It seems very unorganized. The children are grades older than Thorin, and it’s not inclusive. His aide is not up to the task. We need to get to the bottom of this soon. We look forward to hearing from you.
She wrote back. Ward and I read her email together.
I understand your frustration, and we will work to make sure that Thorin is appropriately supported in the program. This program is a “regular education” initiative, not a special education program. As you know, Thorin was scheduled to be in a special education, self-contained program for summer. Then, we
