Somebody Somewhere Read Online Free PDF Page B

interpretation of the advice seemed to be to overdose her on experiences that they, in their infinite “the world” wisdom, would bring to her. I got the feeling that if they could have used a tire jack to pry open her soul and pour “the world” in they would have done so and would never have noticed that their patient had died on the operating table. The little girl screamed and rocked, her arms up against her ears to keep their noise out and her eyes crossed to block out the bombardment of visual noise. I watched these people and wished they knew what sensory hell was. I was watching a torture where the victim had no ability to fight back in any comprehensible language. I stood almost numb with shock. She had no words to put to what was happening, to analyze or adjust to it as they did. As far as introducing her to a safe, peaceful, consistent, and controllable place in “the world,” it looked like a shattering first impression. It was medieval. These people had been told to use something that might work but no one had told them why or how. No one had given them the set-up instructions or rule book. They were surgeons operating with garden tools and no anesthetic.
    I felt shattered. The logic of the situation seemed so self-evident. Yet it was the child’s behavior that was termed “bizarre.” I stood there full of dread, knowing I would hardly be able to get two words out before being forced to argue my case. Verbal argument was a stored skill, but one I knew I couldn’t use consciously as myself. It could be triggered but not used consciously. I could have trusted thatthe words coming from my mouth would have made sense, even if I couldn’t hear them with meaning, but the feelings were too true, too “self” to be sold out by something on automatic pilot. It would be five times removed from what I’d have said with conscious effort. So I said nothing.
    I thought about the war zone of my own environment. Every strategy had been met with counterstrategies. I felt stunned by the impression of what things might have been like if I’d grown up somewhere else.
    —
    Jenny was ten with big, round eyes and a forced smile upon her freckled face. “Severely retarded with autistic tendencies,” said the teacher accompanying me. “Hello, sweetie,” said the freckle-faced kid. Carol’s “adoptable image” came to mind.
    Jenny had been with the “school” for some time. They had been teaching her every day to do a sorting task with plastic knives and forks and spoons that might one day get her employment in a sheltered workshop. Jenny busied herself by rocking across the room.
    There was an “education” plan for Jenny. As the assistant there, it was my job to follow it. When Jenny misbehaved she was to be firmly put into a chair in the corner of the room facing the wall.
    Like a gun going off, Jenny’s hand flew out, suddenly striking one of the staff sharply across the back. It was too fast to be other than an automatic response and looked more like a nervous tic than naughtiness. Jenny seemed to have no idea of what she had done wrong or that she had done anything wrong at all. Into the corner she was sat again and again and again.
    —
    I stood in the rubbish bin of my third-grade classroom being pelted with chalk to the sound of laughter. This was the price to be paid for trying to save some dignity. The punishments made no sense. They weren’t logically connected to the actions they were meant to address.
    I had had no idea of what I had done wrong. The best thing I could do was try to work out what “good girls” were like and try to make myself one of them. There were enough examples around to mirror, examples that were forever shoved in my face but had too many bits and moved too fast to makesense of. The “bad” behavior continued but I smiled more and more. I studied TV sitcoms compulsively and watched TV people like their TV children for doing dishes and giving gifts. I polished Carol’s