Divergent Learning Diaries

[My autistic daughter has been out of school on and off for a year now.  On and off because she’s had difficulty accepting that things aren’t working.  It’s not that they never will.  But for now school isn’t right.  

At home she finds it hard to engage with anything.  She has rejected tutoring, as ‘school is where you learn.’   She is starting to feel more stuck.  

It is October half term break.  We went away, just us, for a couple of days by the sea.  I took her there because it got her away. Out of home surroundings that risked becoming oppressive.  Less safe.  I took  her alone so we could talk.  I realised quickly that she didn’t want to talk.  Not about the choices she kept being offered.  Not about school and learning and doctors and therapists.  

I diarised our time together and how I observed her evolve in this new place, even if we were only together there for a little while.] 

…

You were waiting for me in the car before I had finished packing.  You didn’t say goodbye to the others.  You asked me if I would do that for you.  I laughed.  And so did they.  

We drove.  You chose the music. You sang.  I didn’t know the words.  You did.  You sang loud and joyfully.

We stayed at a big white hotel, perched on top of a cliff, looking down on the town and beach below.  It was pretty and came from another era.  One where things were probably simpler.

The air was cool and moist and different to what we were used to.  We knew we came for this air so we breathed as much in as we could.  Big belly fulls.

We ate (lots) walked up and down hills (too many times you said.  Walking hurts you).  We watched penguins waddle and dive and drank hot chocolate which was sweet, and creamy and gave us energy to do more.

I wanted to talk to you so much.  About how I’m trying to understand.   About how I’m listening, About how none of this is your fault.  That it’s the system.  The rigid environments everywhere.  And I want to say how pissed off I am about it.  How angry it makes me.  And how I will always defend your right to find the right space that works for you.

But I don’t. 

This precious time is for us.  To just be.  And we’ll just let whatever comes, come.  Go into the flow and let it carry us to wherever it is that we should be.

You talk about reading.  I’d love to go to a book shop to get a new book, you say.  You want to read a classic novel.  So we go.

And we find a shelf with lots of classic novels beautifully bound to make them look old.  From another era.

And you ask me about the books.  Gulliver’s Travels.  Oliver Twist.  Jane Eyre.  The Great Gatsby.  Animal Farm.  Around The World in 80 Days.

But you really want to read Jane Austen (but you call her ‘Jane Orstin’)

You pick Emma.  Everyone talks about ‘Pride and Prejudice’, you say.  So you pick Emma.  To be different. And it’s an aesthetic choice.  A sea-green cover with little white chairs on it.   Just like the chairs in the morning room in our hotel.  From another era.

I pick a new notebook.

Later, at the hotel we find a table.  You place your book in front of you.  You touch it carefully.  I can see you looking at it.  Your eyes narrow.  Something invisible, yet tangible, exists between you and your new book.  Fear, probably.  It’s often fear.

You talk about reading.  How you can’t concentrate for long.  

I suggest writing notes as you go.  To help you focus.  You say you’ll try.

You read.  

Your eyes flicker intensely.  Brow furrowed. You read two pages.

The sentences are hard.  They are long.  The words are different.

Yes, I say.  They are from another era.

We read together.  Our arms touch as we connect with words.  We talk about what happened.  We agree this book is a challenge.  Should we pick something else?

You say no.  You want to read Austen (‘Orstin’).  That this is something you can do.  You say that your sister couldn’t read a classic novel.  This is true.  She hates reading. You are elevated by the ambition of the moment.

And we are both elevated by this connection.  And the spark in you is wondrous.

I feel my way around this moment.  Are these green shoots?  Are these more signs of recovery and a readiness to reconnect in some way?  Will you read the book?  Does that matter?

No.  It doesn’t.  Because this is a spark.  You made a move.  On your own terms.  A noble success. You were fearless.

You ask if all girls in ‘Orstin’s’ era had to go to school.

I tell you it was different then.  Not better.  Certainly not better.  But it was different.