Extraordinary story from http://www.valerieparadiz.com/journal/kindred-spirits-on-the-subway#comments

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Kindred spirits on the Subway The other day, as I was on my way to work in the subway, I encountered two “kindred spirits.” It was rush hour in New York City, and even though the day had hardly begun, I was already exhausted. I have been adjusting to my new life as Director of Education at the Asperger Institute, where I’m working with a team of wonderful educators and therapists in New York University’s Child Study Center. Together we are designing and offering a model educational program for children with Asperger’s syndrome. When I entered the subway heading downtown, I had pressed myself into a crowded car, glad that on this morning I was not feeling overly sensitive to all the bodies sandwiched together

and touching mine. Finding no available seat, I held myself steady, grabbing onto the overhead railing above my head, gingerly placing my hand somewhere in the puzzle of other hands and arms that were also clutching for support. Just then, I saw my two “kindred spirits” enter the subway car, a mother and a small child of 5 or 6 years. “STAND CLEAR OF THE CLOSING DOORS,” a prerecorded subway voice piped in, resounding through our car. In that moment, everyone in the space seemed to compress themselves into even smaller beings, filling up every nook you could find. Once the doors had closed, the train lurched forward and out of the station, gaining speed, hurtling south toward Times Square. As the subway barreled along, the mother and her small boy were still scrambling to find a secure place to stand. Spotting a slice of open bench where her son could sit down, she pointed at it and

said, “You can sit there.” The boy moved toward the narrow spot meant for him, but then he balked. “NO! I won’t sit there,” he shrieked. “I need to get out of here!” Clearly, he was panicking, and his outburst sent a heavy wave of emotion through all the people standing in the car. Their adult bodies grew taut. Some of their faces squeezed up into expressions of distaste. Others remained flat, seeming not to care. Since my move to New York City, I have observed that during rush hour, few, if any, people talk on the train. It seems to be an unspoken social rule, part of the “hidden curriculum” for subway riding when the car is packed full like a can of sardines. So, you can imagine what a shrieking child meant in that kind of environment. The boy’s mother was scorned by many of those silent faces. They grimaced at her, then at her child, then back at her again. The whole scene happened so quickly it took me a while to realize that, in spite of the child’s obvious fear, and in spite of his mother’s efforts to console him and bring him through his anguish, no one got up to offer them a seat. What did stand out for me, however, was that the boy had a comic book clutched beneath his small arm, and in between his screaming and panicky fits, he’d open the book up, boring his eyes into the colorful pictures on the pages, closing out the difficult scene around him. His mom spoke gently with him, breaking the silence of the train to do so. This meant that all eyes were on her. Having nothing to hold onto to steady herself, she fumbled to keep her son standing upright each time the subway bucked or braked. Then, he’d screech again, trying to break free from her grasp. “Don’t touch me!” he yelled. This caused a woman sitting near them to shoot a most derisive glare in the child’s direction. “He is not offending you,” the mother defended him, almost in a whisper. “He is not harming you in any way.” The crowds around, including me, watched and said nothing. The little boy wrested his arm away from her again, “No touching!” he screamed. “Honey,” she replied, very softly yet clear with her words, “I’m doing this to keep you from falling down.” Upon hearing this, the boy immediately allowed his mom to take hold of him again. Then he telescoped his gaze into the comic book once more. Yet, each time he was distracted from those images in his book, he’d send out another loud protest for all to hear. He even lashed out at his mother once, his little body tensing up from the over-stimulation of the loud train careening along its metal rails. “You may not

treat me that way or talk to me that way,” the woman responded. She did so calmly and without judgment, which caused his little body to soften. His eyes pored over the comic characters. When the subway pulled into Times Square, it was time for me to get off. The doors opened, and like a burst balloon, crowds of people in our car began pouring out, hurrying off to work in all directions. Others filed in, yet the car had certainly thinned out. I was relieved to see that the mother and her small boy had captured two seats for themselves. She looked depleted to me. I knew that together they had had many days of situations such as these, and I knew that there were more to come. They would happen in that familiar and unremitting stream of menacing uncertainty that demanded every ounce of their combined energy. I also saw their isolation. How could I not? I am on the autism spectrum, and I have parented an autistic son, who is now 16 years old, through many similar and lonely incidents. “STAND CLEAR OF THE CLOSING DOORS,” the prerecorded voice blared out once more. That’s when I decided not to get off the train. I wanted to say something to this woman, yet I was terrified of breaking the code of silence in the subway. I managed to position myself to stand just in front of her and her son. Although there was no longer a crush of bodies in the subway car, it was nonetheless crowded. I gathered up my gumption, gripped the overhead railing tightly, and bent down toward the woman to speak. “You are an extraordinary mother,” I

said, “and he is a trooper.” The woman looked up at me, and for a brief moment, our gazes matched up with one another. Then tears began streaming down her cheeks. She shook her head “no.” “Truly, truly, you are,” I quietly insisted, finding that I myself had begun to cry, too. What a sight we must have looked: two strangers on a rush hour train, weeping, with scores of people all around us watching. “NEXT STOP, 34TH STREET, PENN STATION,” the conductor announced through the raspy PA system. The little boy was calmer now, his mom holding him close beside her. When the subway doors opened, I stepped out. I didn’t know how to say goodbye to them. I knew that had I said anything more, it might have disrupted the boy’s small moment of ease, cycling them both

back into the panic he had felt before. The subway doors closed behind me, and I struggled to find my way through the myriad of scurrying commuters. I walked, as if in a dream, through the filthy subway station, up a narrow, cavernous stairway with mysterious liquids dripping down from the ceiling above, and emerged into the loud and teeming streets of New York City. I was still crying, thinking of my son, and grateful to have had the chance to say to a mother the words that would have lifted us up when Elijah and I were still very new to our life with autism. — Paradiz Entered 13 days ago

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