Aaron began playing the piano at the age of two. He was drawn to it like summertime insects are drawn to light. Again and again, we’d find our little boy sitting there on his diapered bottom, fingering the keys in the same pattern, over and over, day after day. It wasn’t until he was two and a half that it slowly began to dawn on us that he was playing actual tunes, first one stanza, then two, then more. The first song I remember recognizing was “Three Blind Mice.” Nobody had taught it to him. By the time he was three I had a list of over forty songs that I’d heard him play in their entirety at least twice.
Needless to say, as his unusual gifts revealed themselves to us, we were shocked, delighted, excited, and maybe even a little bit frightened. And I remember saying laughingly, as visions of Carnegie Hall danced in my head, “well, as long as he doesn’t turn out to be the weird kid.”
You remember the weird kid, right?
When I was in third grade, there was a kid in my class named JP. JP sat in the back of the room, about three or four rows behind me, and during lessons he would make noise. He would hum, he would cluck his tongue, he would smack his lips. JP wriggled in his seat almost constantly. JP would raise his hand at inappropriate times and ask irrelevant questions in a loud voice. And during the Pledge of Allegiance, JP would deliver his recitation so thunderously and with such conviction that the kids standing around him couldn’t help but giggle.
I didn’t like JP. I thought he was annoying, and I thought he was stupid, and I thought he was best avoided. Other kids teased him, but I just stayed as far away from him as possible and rolled my eyes when he came near. But JP didn’t seem to mind, or even notice, how differently he was treated. I never saw him again after the third grade.
Of course, JP isn’t the only “weird kid” I remember from my childhood. There was that short blond kid with the messy hair who was always slightly unwashed and untucked and seemed to be in constant perpetual motion. There was the very overweight kid whose pants sagged low and who never looked anyone in the eye. There was that tall, graceful, vaguely effeminate boy whose hair was cut too short and whom the other kids referred to as “Gaylord.”
So as long as Aaron didn’t stand out, I reasoned, as long as he wasn’t ostracized, as long as he fit in seamlessly, then he could have his unbelievably amazing musical talent. I was cool with that. But that fantasy ended in relatively short order. In fact, I chuckle at myself as I think of it. And now Aaron is most definitely a weird kid. Even in his self-contained class of special needs children, Aaron is a standout. Because he doesn’t engage with other kids, even as they try to interact with him again and again. Because he doesn’t respond to them when they call his name. Because he doesn’t share his focus with them when they’re listening to a story or watching a movie. He wriggles in his seat. He hums. And if Aaron’s treated differently by the other children? Well, he doesn’t seem to notice.
But we notice, my husband and I. We notice at birthday parties, and we notice at playgrounds, and we notice at class picnics. We wince when other kids roll their eyes at him or laugh behind his back. We’re pained when we see him rebuff the friendly advances of a child he knows well. It hurts us when all the kids are doing one thing and he’s doing another. We ache when we see others disturbed or inconvenienced by his impulsive behavior.
You see, most of the time, safe within the confines of our own walls, we’re quite comfortable with who Aaron is and how he fits into our family. And we’re so proud of how he’s grown. We’re excited and enthused about his talents and his new skills and his prospects for the future. But then, sometimes, out in the world, we come face to face with a reality we’d like to forget completely. Which is that, in the bigger world, Aaron doesn’t fit in at all. Others don’t see him for his talents and his progress and his prospects. And we think, “Our son’s the weird kid.”
I often wonder now how many of those “weird kids” I remember from my own childhood actually had clinical symptoms of pathological, medically defined entities, like ADHD or autism or PDD or sensory integration disorder. I wonder if their parents ached for them, or if they were angry, or exasperated, or just plain confused. Because when you’re the parent of a weird kid, it’s almost as if, after years of growing up, of trying and failing and learning from your mistakes, of finding a place for yourself at the adult table, all of a sudden you’re back in grade school, and this time you’re the weird kid yourself. All of a sudden, you’re the one who’s being teased, or tolerated, or avoided, or ignored. And, let me tell you, it hurts. A lot.
But I am a grownup. I’m a grownup who’s seen “weird” from both sides. So, now, when I’m at the bookstore and the checkout person doesn’t look me in the eye, I don’t assume she’s rude. And when the guy standing behind me in line is mumbling to himself incessantly and standing a little too close, I don’t stiffen and try to move as far away as I can. And when I see other people look at Aaron in a quizzical, disturbed way, I try to be patient with them.
I do get mad, of course. And when I get mad at the world for not trying harder to understand Aaron, or for dismissing him, or for rolling its eyes at him, it’s not just because I love my sweet, talented, growing little boy to the very ends of this earth, it’s also because I used to be the eye-roller, the dismissive one. Because I see the irony in wanting the world to be kinder and more accepting than I myself was capable of being. Before I loved the weird kid.
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