“I know this is a stress-ful time of the semester, so this class is going to be a workshop. If you use your time wisely, you’ll have less to do over Spring Break.” For a few minutes my students looked at each other exhausted and started to stare off into space. I took a deep breath and realized that this time of year is hard on all of us. I’m exhausted because I have just graded midterms. I know my students have several papers and exams still to do. “I’m going to walk from table to table to talk with everyone. I just need to make sure you have a strong topic, and an outline started. I don’t want you to panic during Spring Break realizing that you do not understand the assignment. Remember, it’s due after Spring Break.” After some groans and eye rolling, the class grabbed their laptops and got to work.
About 20 minutes before the class was over, a student yelled, “Professor H, if we have our topic and an outline sketched out, do we have to stay here? I’ve got a huge midterm in a few hours, and I need to study!” Being the realist that I am, I said, “Ok everybody, if you’ve got an outline sketched, you can get out of here. Good luck on the rest of your midterms, and I’ll see you after break!” As I turned around to pack up my bag, I noticed a student still lingering behind, looking at me, “Do you still want to work on your outline? I can stay and help you through it.” I dropped my bag and walked over to her.
She was my quiet student. She was one that for the last few weeks I’ve been trying to figure out. I like to connect with as many students as I can in my classes, and I was still trying to connect with this one student. I stood by the table, “What do you have? How can I help?” She looked like she had pain in her eyes, and she was frowning. This wasn’t a time for me to be standing, I sensed that I needed to pull a chair up next to her and sit down. We were alone in the room, and I felt she needed to talk. She slowly looked at me with slumped shoulders, “Thank you for talking about your son. You don’t know this, but I have a brother with autism, and it’s hard. I feel alone and my parents feel guilty.”
I leaned in closer to her, “I didn’t know. You never told me.” She quietly responded, “I know. I haven’t told you, but I want you to know that it’s nice that you talk about your son, because I know it’s not just me.” I asked her how severe her brother was, and she responded, “It’s bad. He has hit me. I don’t know how I feel about going home for break.” As I listened to her, I could feel the pit in my stomach grow deeper. I wish I could take her pain away, because I had a sense of what she was feeling. How do you live with people who you love, but who you fear will hurt you?
I listened to her talk about her parents, and I told her to please tell her parents that it’s not their fault and they are doing the best that they can. Our children do not come with a manual, and it’s hard to find medical professionals who will listen and provide support. We spent some time together that day in class sharing stories. “You have my number. If you want to talk, I’m here. I promise you are not alone. There are more people who are experiencing living with a sibling with autism than you realize.” I kept repeating that she was not alone. Normalcy is a myth. What is normal? It doesn’t exist. We live our lives with what we are given.
She eventually looked down at her watch, “I have to go. I have another class in a few minutes.” I nodded and slid off the chair towards my bookbag. Before she left, I said, “You know, when my son is screaming or really upset, I have a place where I go so I can take a deep breath. My place is on my back porch.” I walked a few steps closer to her, “I want you to find a place that is special for you in the house. This will be your safe space. If your brother is getting upset and overwhelmed, I want you to go to that safe space because you need to create boundaries for yourself. You deserve that.” She nodded and walked out of the classroom.
This morning, she has been on my mind. I’m hoping that she has found that space in her home. I’m remembering all those moments I have spent with her in class as she sat there quietly. I had no idea what she had been experiencing. I guess we never know until someone has the courage to share their challenges.
Every semester I teach, I talk about my family. I always talk about Broden. I’m honest about his level of severity. It’s my way of showing vulnerability and sharing that I am human, just like them. My hope is that they quickly realize that I’m far from perfect, and I do not expect them to be perfect. Usually, I’ll look around the class and I’ll receive blank stares or uncomfortable looks, but that doesn’t stop me. I still talk about it every semester. I always think to myself, “There’s got to be one person in this class who gets it. There must be one person who’s thinking about becoming a special education teacher or wants to work with people with autism.” I will continue to talk about my son because of moments like last week. There was one that I could reach, a student who needed a safe place to talk, and I’m grateful I could provide it.
OUR JOURNEY IN CAMO
Shelly Huhtanen is an Army wife stationed at Fort Jackson, SC. She enjoys sharing her experiences of her day-to-day life caring for her son with autism. Shelly authored Giving a Voice to the Silent Many that encompasses many stories of raising a child with autism in the military. She also teaches Public Communication at the University of South Carolina and has contributed to EP Magazine for over 10 years.
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