Thorin started laughing.
“The thing is . . . Daddy and I always wish we were better parents, but we never wish you didn’t have your Down syndrome super powers.”
“Magic School Bus?” he asked, directing me with his waffle-crusted fork to turn the television back on.
“Of course!” I said, relieved. And I was. My anxiety was gone.
I emailed Ward to tell him what I had done. I included that Thorin was fine, and now Down syndrome would be a lifelong conversation. When Ward wrote back, he told me it was okay; I did good.
I published that conversation with Thorin on Huffington Post. I received emails from around the world thanking me; however, I also got some crap. People who objected did so on the grounds that disability is not a super power. I do see the validity in that argument, but if Thorin didn’t worship the Avengers, I wouldn’t have used that explanation. It worked for Thorin, and I never suggested this was the answer for anyone else.
The things I chose to denote his super power were things most people can do—love, take pictures, and fart—which told him he was like everybody else. I didn’t want Thorin to think Down syndrome is only what he cannot do. Later, I provided Thorin with a basic genetic explanation of Down syndrome. He told me to stop talking during my informational session.
At our next IEP meeting, we were accompanied by our advocate, Trisha. Aside from the usual crowd, a communication specialist and the behavioral specialist were also present. To the behavior specialist’s credit, she did talk about Thorin’s behavior as a response to not being understood and the class’s behavior as infantilizing. Still, the divide between “him” and “them” was hard to reconcile. She was there to reinforce appropriate behavior, not change the mind-set of the class about people with Down syndrome. It would be like addressing sexual harassment in the workplace without acknowledging such a thing exists and hurts people.
Craig Joyce, the communication specialist who had named his company after himself and was always referred to formally, came across as confident, experienced, and knowledgeable. He made a pitch for an application that would change the way Thorin could participate in the classroom. I had spoken with him the day before, and he had made a compelling case to request incorporating that particular device into the IEP. “If we do that, it will make it easier for me the next time—here or at another school—to get other students the help they need.” His presentation was so persuasive everyone in the room enthusiastically agreed to write that specific device into the IEP.
Next, we addressed a concern with Mrs. Dean, his special education case manager. Ward took the lead.
“We noticed on the communication log that Thorin leaves the classroom with you for forty-five minutes at a time, but it doesn’t indicate what you do.”
“Sometimes we walk around the school looking at things,” she replied.
“You look at things? What kind of things?” I asked. I could feel Ward tapping my shoe as I talked.
“I set up things for him to take photos of.”
“What?” asked Ward, alarmed.
“I took the flowers from the front office and put them in my room. I arranged them for him. He didn’t want to do it, but then he did.”
I wanted to say, “What a pedestrian composition, you fucking philistine!”
Ward was equally agitated. “We don’t tell Thorin what to take photos of. That’s his thing. Just his.”
“Oh, it was fun!” she exclaimed, completely oblivious.
Joan Croft was thankfully not able to attend the meeting, but a new face, Ms. Shay, was there from the district. She jumped in.
“Mrs. Dean, what I’m hearing is Thorin’s parents don’t want you do that again.”
Mrs. Dean made a pouty face but agreed. Next, she said Thorin didn’t know the alphabet.
“Okay, that’s not true,” I said keeping my voice neutral.
The principal jumped in, “Mrs. Dean, tell us why you think that.”
She pulled out a sheet of paper with the letters of the alphabet in no particular order on it.
“I said, ‘Thorin show me the W,’ and he couldn’t. He couldn’t show me any of the letters I asked for. He circled the wrong letters every time.” She was completely satisfied with her documented findings.
“Can I see that a minute?” Ward studied the paper quickly then said, “Okay, I see what happened. He circled T-H-O-R-I-N. He circled the letters in his name.”
The principal asked Ward for the sheet, “Mrs. Dean, he’s right. It’s his name.”
“Oh, I didn’t notice that,” Mrs. Dean said. “Still, they weren’t the right . . .”
Ms. Shay audibly sighed, “Okay, let’s move on.”
The school psychologist had joined the meeting late, missing the report from the behavior specialist.
“I have been checking in with Mrs. Mallory, the morning Ed Tech. Thorin continues to eat at the bad boy table.”
“The what table?” I asked.
Laughing, the school psychologist said, “It’s something I call it. It’s a table for boys who act up.”
Ward asked, “How long has he been there?”
“Weeks. There, it’s easier to control the situation.”
“What was he doing that he ended up there?” I asked.
Mrs. Mallory answered, “He takes kids’ food packages or touches their food trays . . .”
The principal interrupted, “First, I don’t ever want to hear the expression ‘bad boy table’ again. Second, Thorin can sit where he wants.”
The fact the school psychologist thought it was amusing to segregate a group of boys was beyond me. I could see Thorin taking a food package to see what it was. It would have been hard for him to say, “Can I see that?” and be understood. I could also see him touching someone’s tray to get a rise out of Mrs. Mallory. After all, that was expected behavior from Thorin; they were reinforcing negative attention.
The IEP meeting was a meeting of revelations. There were people in that room who had direct and profound impact on Thorin’s well-being
