The blacktop is wide open.
A glorious space for my little boy.
Plenty of room to run.
To twirl.
A most giving space for him to lie down.
It is a place where he can rest his hands under his head.
Squint at the clouds in the sky.
And smile.
And the older boys play kickball on the black top.
These third graders who are just a year older than my son.
They play for perfection.
Every kick.
Every throw.
Catch.
Run.
It counts.
And my Dawson.
His right arm is curled up so his hand is just in front of his eyes.
He forms his fingers like a shadow puppet alligator. He moves his hand close to his eyes, away from his eyes, close to his eyes, and away from his eyes.
And the sounds that come from his mouth, “Baby Caribou has a blue rocket. Jump. Yellow. Ice Cream.”
The rhythm of the words bring order to this open space that rings with dribbling balls, turning ropes, and laughing children.
And he wanders toward the game.
The red kickball calling his name.
The rolling.
The spinning.
An object that he cannot resist.
And as he walks.
He moves his hand to his eyes.
Away from his eyes.
To his eyes.
Away from his eyes.
And he recites his favorite colors, “Pink, purple, yellow.”
With every step he moves closer to the action.
To the 3rd graders’ kickball game.
And as he inches closer, he trips over his own feet.
His shoulders touching the shoulder of one of the older children.
“Hey, get out of the way!”
My Dawson, not moving.
“We are playing kickball! Come on, move!”
And my child.
Oblivious.
Their words falling on ears that are not deaf.
But ears that cannot hear.
“Hey, get out of the way!”
And then.
A boy from his 2nd grade class moves close to him.
This child, whose frame and height are much smaller than the rest of the players.
He comes in to protect my cub.
My Dawson.
“Hey, you can’t talk to him that way. He has autism. He doesn’t understand!”
And my Dawson, so unaware that he is standing in the middle of the perfect pitch, does not move.
Then a second sweet soul reaches out.
A child who was in Dawson’s class last year.
He steps forward.
And like a mama bear nudging her little one to safety.
This child takes my son by the shoulder and leads him to the grass.
“Come on Dawson, let’s play over this way. They are playing kickball. See.”
And those boys.
Their courage.
Kindness.
Strength.
They helped my child.
They used their powerful voices and gentle hands.
They guided him to a place that was safe.
And in that moment.
When I was not there.
I learned from those wise souls.
They taught me to trust.
To believe.
To have faith.
And they.
Yes, they.
Made the Hopemeter at our home inch up a little bit more.
And I thank them.
And to the parents of the two second grade boys.
I thank you.
You brought goodness into this world.
And the spirit that are your children touched our lives.
And I will always remember and celebrate their actions.
Yes, I will always remember your sweet boys and the kickball game.
Copyright Cheairs Graves May 18, 2012
Be sure to check out Heather EO Just Write!
This made me cry tears of utter joy, Cheairs. Those boys personify the best of an inclusion setting. I can only hope that here are more gentle souls like theirs who have learned how to step up when it isn’t easy. They and Dawson are all to be applauded!
I will forever remember and applaud the actions of those two second grade children.
I pray children like this find their way into my daughter’s world when she needs them the most.
Yes, thank God for kids who understand, care and see the best in our children. I wish we could always be there to protect our cubs, but thankfully God gives others the opportunity to learn and practice kindness. How did you hear about this, C? Did a teacher tell you?
Cheairs, just checking in to your blog and have cried even more tears then this past weekend at Uncle Sammy’s funeral. The power of family! I would love to share this story with my students with your permission. We are struggling with tolerance with this particular group and I think this story could really touch them…