Spinning Acorns

His label preceded him—screamer. So did the numerous stories that accompanied that label.

The label and the stories worried me, but all of the students I taught in my special education class had thick files full of labels, diagnoses, goals, and countless shattered dreams.

I learned to ignore the labels and focus on the child.

My new student’s world was different from mine, or at least my perspective. His world was harsh, uncomfortable, and overwhelming. My language confused him. He just wanted to be left alone. He didn’t scream when he was alone. He paced, talked to himself, and sometimes even laughed.

His mother wanted help—craved help. It was evident in our conversations. She had hopes and dreams for this little guy and somehow she believed I could help her.

I wanted to teach him in the traditional educational sense, of course, but I also knew he needed more than basic reading, writing, and arithmetic. What he needed, and what I wanted for him, could only happen through a relationship he wasn’t willing to give.

I was determined. I would gain access to this cute, little, toothless child’s world. He ignored me and sought out solitude. Even on the playground, he could always be found in the shade of the big oak tree collecting acorns. He paced, tossing the acorns in the air and talking to himself.

I knew that to get this child where I needed him educationally, I had to start where he was emotionally. So I collected a small basket of acorns and brought them back to my classroom. I placed myself beside him, the basket of acorns between us, and spun the acorns. He screamed, scrunching his face in protest. I shifted a safe distance away and continued spinning acorns. He eventually reached into the basket between us and spun acorns too. He wasn’t happy as he grumbled one of his phrases and fleetingly watched me, but I continued my spinning as if I didn’t notice his discomfort.

Every day, I spun acorns next to my student. I even tried reciting some of his lines, which I realized he was echoing from Toy Story. He protested, yelling at me. He even yelled “no” on occasion. I recognized this as success—communication in a form other than screaming.

Over time, my persistence began to waver. It seemed this child would never let me into his world. I began to fear that his education would consist only of task boxes and spinning acorns, but I tried one more time to slide next to him. He screamed. I echoed his scream in frustration. He looked at me surprised—then broke into hysterical laughter. I was shocked.

My shock quickly turned to fulfillment when he let me remain beside him spinning acorns.

That moment gained access to more sparkly-eyed toothless grins and one-on-one teaching sessions that accounted for so much more than basic task boxes.

My finest achievement, however, occurred outside the classroom. Even though I didn’t witness it, I felt joy from the small part I played in it. My acorn friend’s mother came to school bursting with pride one morning. Her child had said “Momma” for the first time in his eight years of life. He didn’t say it while echoing lines from a movie. He said it to her.

I celebrated with his mother that day, tears of joy and satisfaction. His mother was touched not because her child wrote his name on a paper, added two numbers together, or even read a line from a book, but because he communicated with her by speaking her maternal name. That is a moment every parent cherishes.

My work had a purpose and meaning that had brought a kind of happiness to someone else’s life I could never have foreseen. I wanted to give that sweet child the world, and for his mother the world was her child.

I miss my time in that autistic classroom. I learned a lot about life there. I gained perspective—broad, real-world perspective.

Our view of the world can be so limited to our own footsteps and the lives we lead. A bigger world exists beyond our narrow paths, and that world is filled with a variety of people and perspectives. We impact each of those people—and often their perspectives—with our actions, words, screams, and smiles.

Today, let’s broaden our view to include those around us, and allow their struggles to bring clarity to the grand journey we are all on together.