L is one of those, although he is no longer a kid. He's an adult now, somewhere in his early 20's, like so many of the young people who are my teachers these days. I have made many, many mistakes over the years, but thanks to some very special earlier teachers, I think I got it right this time.
I meet with L about once a week for an hour, with the purpose of helping him find a voice through typing. We struggle almost every time - he can't (or won't) sit; he chews on just about anything; he resists most of my attempts to interest him in the iPad; and many times he just lies on the floor and falls asleep. He has no spoken language, and has had virtually no academic instruction during his years of special education.
But in those moments before sleep, while his eyes might be closed and an arm flung over his head, I know he is aware of my presence and I know he is listening as I read to him from one of the many, many stories of people just like him who have learned to type (using either Facilitated Communication or Rapid Prompting Method) and then dared to tell their story.
I also know that when he is feeling safe and able to focus, he has typed some rather amazing thoughts. I wait patiently each time we meet for things to be just right, so I can learn more from him and about him.
On this particular day, L was unusually interested in a plastic bin of magnetic alphabet letters, so we started with that, both of us happily seated at a table in a quiet, comfortable room with few other distractions. He carefully fingered each letter he picked up, turning it around in his hand (NOT putting it in his mouth!) and then setting it down. I quietly spelled out a greeting using his name and pointed it out to him - no visible sign of interest on his part. I talked a little about Louis Braille and the importance of touch to those who are blind. Again, no sign of interest, and no sign of a pattern to his investigation of the letters.
Until I woke up and saw a very distinct line-up: ABCD sat there on the edge of the table just waiting for the next in line. But I was immediately puzzled by his hesitation because there were several "E"s close by. I was just about to say something when he changed from calm to his more usual state of agitation and he started flinging letters across the room. When the table had been cleared and all letters were resting on the floor, L got up and headed to the floor himself; but he sat rather than lying down, so I calmly took the plastic bin and sat down next to him. I suggested we work together to pick them up and started the process myself by tossing a couple letters into the container. With an ever-so-brief glance in my direction, L immediately started throwing letters to the opposite corner of the room, and wasn't satisfied until they were all in a new area of the floor. At about this point, he added in some floor-pounding and loud yelling just for emphasis to be sure I was paying attention. I was!
This time I waited until he was settled among the letters in their new location and sat myself down on a chair in close proximity, but without the plastic bin. I waited a while and then stated in a calm, clear voice that I really didn't care if he ever picked up the letters. In open defiance of what just about every professional or parent I have ever known would suggest to me at that point ("There must be consequences;" "He must pick up those letters before the session ends;" etc), I told L that what I really wanted was for him to help me understand why the letters are important to him and what the message is in the act of throwing them. I made the assumption that something was making him mad and there might be something he wants people in his life to know. Reaching for the iPad, I typed a sentence starter: I GET SO MAD BECAUSE. . . . I used the voice output on the device to speak these words several times, and I waited.
It seemed to take forever, but was probably less than five minutes until he got up from the floor and sat on a chair. I moved close to him, held out the iPad and extended my hand to provide support whenever he was ready. He rested his hand in mine and finished the sentence . . . people think i dont know anything.
We finished our session on the iPad, with him eagerly giving me permission to share the story. He left the room quietly with his staff worker for the day, and I picked up the letters with a smile in my heart. Just minutes later, L entered the office area where I was sharing the story with two of his other workers and I let him know what we are discussing. L's huge grin confirmed the message to all of us.
Yes, L knows much more than we might have ever guessed, and so do many, many other non-speaking individuals who have been underestimated and misunderstood all their lives. Try a different way and you might begin to see what they've been trying so desperately to tell us all this time.
