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traumas, large or small, seem to have affected my schoolwork. I was an overly serious student. I did my homework on time and got good grades. Someone once interviewed a few of my teachers at the Lawrence School, the small public school in Brookline that I attended. According to my fifth-grade teacher, Miss (Mildred) Gillis, I was “a very serious pupil.” She had given me an A, though she said she was usually “stingy” with her As. She also said that I was “delightful” and a “good writer.” (Where are you now that I need you, Miss Gillis?)
    More revealing, perhaps, was her observation that she couldn’t recall my having any playmates. “I don’t remember Barbara as being social,” Miss Gillis said. “School was a place of business for her.”
    I disagree with that last pronouncement. I desperately wanted playmates, to have friends over to my house, to belong instead of always feeling like an outsider. When I was about seven years old, the school put on a little performance for adoring parents. It featured a robin redbreast as the lead and a chorus of little brown-costumed chirpers. I was assigned the leading role of the robin. But here’s the thing: I didn’t want to be the star. I wanted to be in the chorus, to be like all the other kids. So to this day I recall going home and watching my mother, who sewed very well, cheerfully making my robin costume. I tried it on, with its big, gorgeous red belly, spread my wings, and burst into tears. When I told my mother why, she came to school with me the next day and explained the situation to the bewildered teacher. My mother and I went home, tore up the costume, and I became a chirper in the chorus like everyone else.
    My sister also went to the Lawrence School, but only briefly. And she didn’t get to chirp at all. According to another interview, this with Elizabeth McGuire, the school nurse, Jackie was placed in the “ungraded group,” a euphemism for children with developmental disabilities. Jackie evidently had to repeat first grade at least once, and there is no record of her achieving second. My poor parents. My poor Jackie.
    Also interesting to me was Miss McGuire’s diagnosis of Jackie’s condition as something usually caused by a birth injury. Years later, when my mother and I did talk about Jackie’s condition, my mother thought that Jackie had been delivered by forceps, so Miss McGuire may have been right. Miss McGuire cited Jackie’s lack of coordination, her “unsteady gait,” and her stuttering. “Perhaps,” she offered, “Jackie suffered from a mild form of cerebral palsy.” Later Jackie was tested for this, but it didn’t seem to be the case. We never did know what caused her condition.
    Now I wonder if it wasn’t genetic. Would Jackie today be diagnosed as “autistic”? Two of my cousin’s children have some form of “developmental disabilities,” but live relatively normal lives. They are considered to be autistic. The word “autism” didn’t exist when Jackie was young. Today there are special treatments, diagnosticians, workshops, support groups. Most of all there is understanding. But then there was no place for my sister or my parents to go. Seeking guidance, my mother was often told to “just send her away to an institution.” That was never a consideration.
    For a short time Jackie was enrolled in another public school called Devotion, which also had a program for the “ungraded,” but she didn’t last long there either. She then stayed at home and had tutors who taught her to read and write, although I’m not sure at what level, as I never remember her being tested. (I would guess third-or fourth-grade level.) Nor do I know her IQ. She was home, always.
    My mother did her best not to make Jackie feel different. It usually didn’t work. Once there was a neighborhood talent show. Jackie and I were taking tap-dancing lessons, and my mother allowed us to enter the contest. She made us matching costumes, and off we