Chicken Soup for the Soul: Children with Special Needs by Jack Canfield Page A
Authors: Jack Canfield
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Ward from New Jersey. Sam, who had memorized the show, mimicked the trainers. He knew what to do, and he knew the act. The trainers got such a kick out of it! Sam was not afraid in the least to be in front of a huge crowd, and directed the whales to do their tricks. I will be eternally grateful to Nicholas, who had the insight, and to Sean, Mike, and Kendra, who had the hearts, to give this special boy a very special day.
Michelle Ward
Michelle Ward began her career in architecture, but has been a working artist for ten years. She is a regular contributor to Somerset Studio magazine and serves on their editorial advisory board. Michelle and her husband, Graham, live in New Jersey with their three children. And Thursday, August 16, 2007? You know where they’ll be!
Sam enjoying a good read with a new friend.
Reprinted by permission of Michelle Marie Kelly Ward. ©2006 Michelle Marie Kelly Ward.
Talking to Strangers
B etter keep yourself clean and bright; you are the window through which you must see the world.
George Bernard Shaw
My nine-year-old daughter, Jessica, is a friendly soul. From the time she was tiny, she would march right up to strangers on the street and say, “Hello!” Her brown eyes would twinkle, and she’d be sporting a big grin on her face. I wish she weren’t so gregarious, because she’s vulnerable. Not only is she young and female, but she also has a disability: she has a cognitive disability, with a debilitating brain disorder that causes autistic and obsessive-compulsive behavior. But that’s also why I’ve done my best to curb my nervousness. Children with autism don’t relate well to others, and I don’t want to discourage her attempts. I worry, though, that people will snub her or be cruel to her, or that she will trust the wrong person.
Happily, in our small town, when Jessica strikes up a conversation with someone, that person almost always responds kindly to her. She never expects to be rebuffed, but I am always waiting, tense, and ready to collect the pieces if it happens. “What’s your name?” she asks total strangers. “Do you have a dog? How old are you?” It always surprises me that people patiently answer her queries. They must sense something about Jessica, that she’s a little bit different. They never seem to expect me to stop her, although I’ve tried.
“We don’t ask adults that,” I say. “That’s a rude question, sweetie,” I tell her, to no avail. She asks anyway, and people tell her. When she is done with her inquisition, she will turn to me and say, “We know Michelle now,” or “That was Mrs. Crawford.” She moves them easily from one category to another: people we don’t know, people we do know. Strangers are merely people she hasn’t yet asked for their names. I’m less sure that finding out their names means we know them. But it’s a small, easygoing town, and I don’t fret too much. It’s not as if she goes about unsupervised or that she tells them anything too personal.
But talking to strangers in our small town is one thing. In New York City, where we visited last year, it’s another. I wasn’t surprised to hear her saying “Hello!” to every single person we saw as we walked the streets of midtown Manhattan, but I certainly wasn’t comfortable. On the first day, I decided not to try to stop her. This will be a good lesson for her, I thought. People will snub her—these are New Yorkers, after all—and then when we get back to the hotel room tonight, she and I will talk about the difference between people in big cities and small towns. And maybe she will learn not to talk to strangers.
But I never got a chance to have my discussion with Jessica. Every single person she said “hello” to said “hello” right back—the businessmen in their somber suits, scurrying from one place to the other; the gawking tourists with their cameras at the ready; the doormen standing at attention in their uniforms. She
Michelle Ward
Michelle Ward began her career in architecture, but has been a working artist for ten years. She is a regular contributor to Somerset Studio magazine and serves on their editorial advisory board. Michelle and her husband, Graham, live in New Jersey with their three children. And Thursday, August 16, 2007? You know where they’ll be!
Sam enjoying a good read with a new friend.
Reprinted by permission of Michelle Marie Kelly Ward. ©2006 Michelle Marie Kelly Ward.
Talking to Strangers
B etter keep yourself clean and bright; you are the window through which you must see the world.
George Bernard Shaw
My nine-year-old daughter, Jessica, is a friendly soul. From the time she was tiny, she would march right up to strangers on the street and say, “Hello!” Her brown eyes would twinkle, and she’d be sporting a big grin on her face. I wish she weren’t so gregarious, because she’s vulnerable. Not only is she young and female, but she also has a disability: she has a cognitive disability, with a debilitating brain disorder that causes autistic and obsessive-compulsive behavior. But that’s also why I’ve done my best to curb my nervousness. Children with autism don’t relate well to others, and I don’t want to discourage her attempts. I worry, though, that people will snub her or be cruel to her, or that she will trust the wrong person.
Happily, in our small town, when Jessica strikes up a conversation with someone, that person almost always responds kindly to her. She never expects to be rebuffed, but I am always waiting, tense, and ready to collect the pieces if it happens. “What’s your name?” she asks total strangers. “Do you have a dog? How old are you?” It always surprises me that people patiently answer her queries. They must sense something about Jessica, that she’s a little bit different. They never seem to expect me to stop her, although I’ve tried.
“We don’t ask adults that,” I say. “That’s a rude question, sweetie,” I tell her, to no avail. She asks anyway, and people tell her. When she is done with her inquisition, she will turn to me and say, “We know Michelle now,” or “That was Mrs. Crawford.” She moves them easily from one category to another: people we don’t know, people we do know. Strangers are merely people she hasn’t yet asked for their names. I’m less sure that finding out their names means we know them. But it’s a small, easygoing town, and I don’t fret too much. It’s not as if she goes about unsupervised or that she tells them anything too personal.
But talking to strangers in our small town is one thing. In New York City, where we visited last year, it’s another. I wasn’t surprised to hear her saying “Hello!” to every single person we saw as we walked the streets of midtown Manhattan, but I certainly wasn’t comfortable. On the first day, I decided not to try to stop her. This will be a good lesson for her, I thought. People will snub her—these are New Yorkers, after all—and then when we get back to the hotel room tonight, she and I will talk about the difference between people in big cities and small towns. And maybe she will learn not to talk to strangers.
But I never got a chance to have my discussion with Jessica. Every single person she said “hello” to said “hello” right back—the businessmen in their somber suits, scurrying from one place to the other; the gawking tourists with their cameras at the ready; the doormen standing at attention in their uniforms. She
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