Into the Medina

Mary had no trouble following the tour guide as the group descended from the coach and wound through the busy city streets of Fes. Even though her hat covered her eyes, just a bit, she could still see the red folder Stan held over his head. She followed his as best as she could from the rear of the group. She was always at the rear!  Last one to get off the bus, last one to cross the street, last one to see anything. It made her sad. She was an old woman; the oldest on the tour, but no one pushed her to the front or helped her when she was confused.

She trudged on, trying to keep her eyes focused on that folder, but there was so much to see! A variety of colorful goods bearing the country’s logo hung in doorway after doorway, beckoning her to enter. She so wanted to stop for just a minute…but Stan kept plowing forward.

Mary stumbled along on the cobblestone sidewalk, occasionally stepping into the street when the way was blocked by a parked car, truck or motorcycle. More motorcycles than anything. They were a nuisance. Not only did you have to step past the angled front wheel, but more treacherous where the kickstands that poked out, creating hazards for seniors like her.

It was hard to keep up. Mary had knee problems that plagued her. In fact, the more she walked on this lengthy tour, the slower she got despite doing her best to hurry. Even when by some strange bit of luck near the front, Mary fell behind until she was at the end of the twisting line of fellow travelers, especially when she stopped despite knowing that she shouldn’t, to peer inside a store.

She breathed a sigh of relief when she caught up with Stan who had halted before a large stone archway. He told everyone to turn on their “whispers”, cleverly designed boxes that allowed the group to hear whatever was being said, even from the back. Mary loved that link. It told her which way to turn, what to see, when to step carefully. But it didn’t make her legs go faster!

“It’s going to be crowded in here,” he said, “so we have to stick together. No stopping to shop. Keep your eyes pointed ahead. The crowds will jostle you. There are pickpockets that prey on tourists, so keep your hands on purses and wallets. Any questions?”

Mary put her purse strap over her head and clutched it firmly to her chest. She never carried all her money with her, leaving a good chunk behind in the safe in her hotel room, but she didn’t want to lose her ID and other important things zipped into pouches and pockets.

It was noisy and seemingly chaotic where they stood. Thousands of people milled about, coming and going and standing still. In groups of two or three or four. Sometimes alone. Children scampered around, taking off across the square before her or dashing up the narrow winding streets visible from where she stood.

Hundreds of voices filled the air. High-pitched women’s voices blended with the bass calls of store workers, all vying for her attention. And hordes of souvenir-totters were descending upon the group. Women in burqas holding out sparkling scarves. Men with browned teeth displaying colorful necklaces and silver bracelets.

Stan warned the group to ignore the beggars, to not look at them or nod or smile. To put all normal courtesies aside, for anything that seem like interest would encourage the beggars to follow, to harass to the point of misery. After one final look at the group, Stan took off into the square, skillfully winding his way this way and that, taking advantage of any opening large enough for the group of forty to pass through.

Mary worked hard to keep up because the hordes intimidated her. Even when she tried to dodge them, she was pushed from left to right, banged into from behind and shoved from the front. Each of the unwanted contacts throwing her a bit of kilter, making it harder for her to keep her eye on that red folder.

Stan led them down a narrow corridor. On each side were carts of limp-looking vegetables. Underneath and from above and from all around was the smell of rot. Maybe it was from the wood or maybe from the produce, but it was nauseating.

In the meat market slabs of raw meat hung from poles overhead or were layered on wooden tables. Flies buzzed landed on the meat. Mary pictured the eggs deposited and felt her stomach constrict. She stumbled over an uneven stone and looked down to right herself. Blood pooled below, so Mary moved aside in order to avoid stepping in it. The worst of all was when she spied a pair of live chickens being held by their necks as they were weighed on a metal scale. The poor things squawked and tried to flap their wings, but the vendor squeezed harder, immobilizing them. Mary knew they were going to be slaughtered. She hoped it was done humanely, but feared, because of what she’d witnessed, that they would not. She shivered with disgust.

Next came textiles. Huge vats of blackish liquid stuck out into the narrow walkway making it even harder to pass through. Mary saw the workers pull out dyed fabrics, twist each section to remove as much dye as they could. It ran down the street, along narrow gutters that overflowed into smelly pools. Mary tried to avoid the pools, but it was hard because she had to focus on the group, which moved on steadily, not seeming to care whether or not she kept up.

Mary found much of this offensive.  Yes, it was their way of life, their culture, the way things had been done perhaps for thousands of years, but it was still disturbing. She felt her nose wrinkle, then thought that this might offend the residents, so willed her face to smile.

When they turned to the right, the goods being sold changed. Colorful, flowing garments which Stan said were called djellabas. Mary stopped to write it down. In just those few seconds, Stan must have moved on, because she no longer saw the red folder.

Looking ahead while standing on her tiptoes, she thought she saw one of the men from her group turn to the right, so she went that way, stepping into a corridor so narrow that she could reach out and touch the walls on both sides at the same time. But she didn’t see Stan’s folder.

What to do? There didn’t seem to be anything of interest here, so she turned around and backtracked to the street of goods. There were vendors displaying kaftans for women. Beautifully decorated gowns with sparkly trim running down the front and on billowing sleeves. What looked like handmade buttons. In each stall, at least one man sat sewing. This intrigued Mary. She had been taught that sewing was women’s work, but here sat virile men, holding tiny needles between thumb and fingers, stitching in and out, in and out.

It was so mesmerizing that she forgot about keeping up. Until she was shoved aside by a burqa-wearing woman holding a tightly wrapped baby to her chest. That’s when reality called Mary back to the here and now. She hustled up the street, searching for a familiar head of hair or sweater or the red folder.

She thought she recognized someone familiar on a street to the left, so she turned that way. Ah, ha! She was right! There stood Stan, a worried look creasing his brow. “Where have you been?” he practically screamed. “I told you to stay with the group. It’s not safe to get separated in here.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m at the rear and I can’t keep up.” Tears pooled in her eyes.

Stan moved her to the front. “Stay close to me,” he said. “No matter what.”

Mary nodded and fell into place as the group took off. The street became a steep incline. No longer selling clothes, now the venders displayed tourist crap that called her name. Oh, the postcards! The porcelain! The jewelry! The figurines! The scarves and so much more! Mary wished that Stan would stop and let them shop, but he didn’t. He plowed ahead, an unfriendly couple that she didn’t know well pushing her forward.

Stan turned left and right. He climbed higher and then followed a street that dropped at a steep decline. The vendors no longer sold souvenirs, but sweets. Breads covered with flies! Strange-looking flat cookies and pretzel-shaped pastries also covered with flies! Nuts of all kinds. Some glazed with sugar. Some roasted. Some still in shells.

At one place Stan stopped to allow the group to taste the sugar-coated almonds. Mary didn’t like them, but many in her group did. Several bought some to bring home.

Mary would never have bought any of the food she’d seen. For one, there was no one at home for her to give them to. For another, how could she gift someone food that flies had been sitting on right before being scooped up? It just wasn’t right.

They moved on. To the right. Up a series of steps. To the left. Under a wooden archway. Straight ahead where remnants of roofs almost touched in the center. Looking up, there was a confused mass of hastily nailed boards holding everything up. To a Californian like Mary who was sued to earthquakes that took down buildings, it didn’t look safe.

Finally they entered a low doorway. Even five-foot Mary had to bend to enter. Inside were bathrooms that they were told to use and then to sit on benches that lined the outer walls. Hanging everywhere were carpets of intricate designs and beautiful, rich colors. Shortly after the group was settled, the sales pitch began. Carpet after carpet was unrolled on the floor. They were incredibly beautiful. The salesmen promised that they could be washed. That they wouldn’t fade or shrink or bleed, but Mary wondered how that could be possible. Supposedly each was made by a woman working alone for months or years. Each was unique, he said.

It was tiresome sitting there. The pitch didn’t end until someone decided to buy a small runner. That person was taken into a side room. Came out bearing a wrapped package. Two more bought carpets. Then they were allowed to leave.

Back into the winding streets. The crowd had thickened noticeably. Within a few blocks Stan was out of sight. Mary tried spotting the red folder, but not only couldn’t she see it, she couldn’t see a familiar face or jacket. She was alone. In a maze of narrow streets. Being jostled on all sides.

Before they got off the bus, Stan had cautioned the group that it would be easy to get lost. That the streets wound this way and that. That there was no logic that would allow a lost person to find their way out. He had cautioned them with the necessity of staying together. Mary hadn’t believed him. Until she entered the Medina. It was being in a war zone with sights and sounds surrounding her, confusing her.

Mary understood, from Stan’s dire warnings, that she could never find her way out on her own. At first she had tried to memorize what directions they had followed, how many rights and lefts and straight aheads, but in time, there were so many turns, so many streets, that she was totally confused.

She felt she was close to the carpet store. Maybe just a block away. And she believed that they could help her, so she turned around and went back the way she had just come. But at the next intersection, she paused. Had she come from the right? The left? Straight ahead? Mary didn’t know. Tears formed and began to drip down her cheeks. She pulled a tissue out of her coat pocket and wiped them off.

Mary peered down each direction hoping to find something familiar looking. To the right were carpets leaning against a wall. That must be it! So she hurried that way. But no, there was no low door. No step up. Just a stall like the hundreds she’d seen.

Thinking that this must be the right street because so far, all the goods being sold were clustered together, Mary continued that way. There were numerous carpet vendors. But still no doorway. She went on.

Carpets changed to shoes and leather bags. A stench filled the air. She thought it was from the leather being processed but she didn’t stop to ask. Mary knew her group had not passed this way, so she searched for a friendly face. Someone who might help her.

The men scared her even though she couldn’t those feelings. There was something about the determined way the vendors stared at her, as if she were a sandwich to be devoured. The women weren’t an option because they were all in too much of a hurry. She tried stopping one, but the woman shouted at her and slapped Mary’s hand away.

Mary stumbled forward, staring beseechingly at one face after another. She knew time had passed since she got separated from her group, but how much time? She didn’t know. Her one great fear was that she was so incredibly lost in the Medina that she’d never get out. That her group would board the bus and leave without her.

They almost did once. In Madrid they toured an amazingly beautiful monastery. Mary had been intrigued by the tapestries and stained glass windows. The gold figurines behind the altar. She knelt to pray. She closed her eyes and thought of her kids at home, hoping that her grandkids were doing okay. That her cat was well.

When she opened her eyes, her group was gone. Mary hustled down the center aisle and out the huge double doors. Followed the sidewalk to where they had disembarked from the bus. Just as she arrived, the doors closed. Mary screamed and walked as fast as she could. Fortunately someone must have heard her or seen her because the doors opened!

What if the bus had driven off? She didn’t know the name of the hotel. Didn’t speak Spanish. Didn’t know how to hail a taxi. Thank goodness she was saved.

But now she was in Morocco, a totally unfamiliar country, language, culture. She wasn’t in a big city where there might be police officers who could help. Or a store that beckoned lost travelers. Plus she was lost in a maze so confusing, so terrifying that even if she had a phone, she couldn’t tell anyone where she was.

Mary stumbled along, continuing to search for comfort. Tears streamed down her face and her arms and legs felt rubbery. Just as she was about to give up a boy wearing a soccer jersey appeared before her. He had a huge smile on his face. His eyes sparkled. Mary smiled back.

“Do you speak English?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. “I study English in school.”

Mary sighed. She understood him perfectly! “I am lost. Can you help me?”

The boy nodded. Her took her hand and led her in and out, down and up, left and right. Ahead appeared the huge square and the stone gate! “Thank you,” she said. “You saved me.”

“Let me walk you to where your bus will stop,” he said. “I will wait there with you until your group appears.”

He led Mary to a low wall and indicated that she should sit. It felt good to be in the sun, out of the dark maze. Here the crowds were further away, giving her a chance to breathe, to relax.

The boy stayed with her, as he said he would, until Stan appeared, the blessed red folder over his head. Mary cried out, held her hands in front, beseechingly. “You left me behind,” she cried. “I was scared.”

Stan glowered at her. “Mary, this is not the first time you’ve fallen behind. Why didn’t you stay near me?”

“When you left the carpet store I was the last one out. You left me,” she said. “This nice young man helped me. If not for him, I’d still be inside, lost.”

Stan smiled at the boy. “Thanks for your help,” he said as he handed the boy a coin. “Mary, follow me to the bus. Don’t look inside any stores. Stare at the folder. Only the folder. Understand?”

Mary nodded and did as she was told.

Back in the hotel she reflected on her narrow escape. Who was at fault? Herself? Surely not. She had tried to keep up. She had told Stan at the beginning of the tour that she was slow. It must be his fault, right?

Whoever was to blame, Mary swore to herself that from now on, she’d stay with Stan. The scare of being left behind was too frightening to contemplate.

 

 

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Spring woes

Rain drops pound on the streets

below ny hotel room, reminding

me of how lucky I am to be dry.

Winds buffet the windows:

throwing bits of dirt against the screens.

Gusts exceeding fifty miles an hour

blow vehicles into neighboring lanes.

I sit here thinking of home.

My heart reaches out to my cat,

Home alone in possibly a similar storm.

Does he cry for me as I do for him?

I want to go home.

As I stare out my windows I think

Of how far away I am.

I am sad inside yet enjoying

Being inside and warm.

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Relativity

If I tell you I’m cold

you’ll die laughing,

for the temp is just

above fifty.

The nights drop down

to the high twenties,

and I shiver and shake

like Santa’s belly.

Thermals are my new

day time friends,

trapping body heat and

keeping me warm.

No-burn nights I hate,

for no crackling fire

toasts my toes, or

warms my buns.

Winter comes even here.

California’s sunny skies

are bright blue, crystal clear

beacons, dotted with clouds.

It’s all relative, you see.

While I moan about the cold,

You’re trapped in a deep-freeze,

with slick roads and piles of snow.

If I tell you I’m cold,

You’ll die laughing,

for the temp is just

above fifty.

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The Gift

there are days when I

yearn for silence

no revving of motors or

screeching of tires

no planes lowering their

landing gear

as they begin their descent

 

no loud rap music

vibrating my windows with

its repetitive bass beats

no leaf-blower roar

or vacuum cleaner whine

 

I revel in each precious moment

of stolen time

as if the world stopped its

persistent revolution

simply for my enjoyment

 

when those seconds tick away

and the silence suddenly ends,

I feel as if I witnessed

a miracle

a rebirth

 

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Ninth Grade Dreams

I wanted to be popular. The type of girl that guys drool over and that girlfriends cling to while giggling hysterically about some life-changing event. One of those guys, preferably someone tall, dark, and not too handsome would ask me on a date. Not just any date, but a late night movie where you tremble in fear when a serial killer sneaks up on a defenseless little kid, and the boyfriend squeezes your hand to show that he’s there to support you. Or maybe he’d take me bowling. No, that’s no good as my dad just might show up and send poisoned arrows our way. Definitely not to a school dance as I have no sense of rhythm.

The guy, probably named Stan, would ask me to go steady after that first date. He’d tell me how much he liked my hazel eyes and slightly off-center smile. I’d smell the shaving lotion on his chin and nod, speechless in the classic sense. I’d wrap my arms around his muscular shoulders, nestle my tear-filled face against his neck and feel his Adam’s apple move up and down as he swallowed back his own tears. He’d pull back a bit, slip off his school ring, and offer it to me as a token of his “like.” I’d smile stupidly and admire it in the fluorescent lights of the theater lobby. Then I’d stick it in the deep pocket of my overcoat so as to not lose it.

The next day I’d beg my mom to take me to Woolworth’s. While she meandered the aisles gathering miscellaneous junk, I’d rush to the yarn section. My eyes would light up at the rainbow of colors awaiting my careful selection. Like every other girl in my school, I’d choose alpaca wool. A sky blue color, the color of his eyes. At home I’d wrap the yarn around and around the ring until it fit snuggly on my ring finger and plan how I was going to show it off at school.

Those were my dreams. There’s a song that tells you to reach for the impossible. It would take a miracle to make any of these things happen, as I was an overweight, painfully shy teenager. I had no friends and was clearly toward the bottom of the social pecking order. Unless I could be reinvented through plastic surgery, fat removal from over 90% of my body, and a hefty dose of makeup, applied liberally to disguise my puppy-dog sad face, the impossible would remain impossible.

So, what did I do? Smiled a lot and changed my hairstyle to a ratted-out bouffant. Dabbed on cheap, yet tasteful cologne and asked my mom to sew more contemporarily styled clothing. Practiced the “cool” walk and the “I-don’t-give-a –darn” egotistical look that the school’s cheerleaders displayed naturally. In a rather foolhardy moment, I submitted my name to run for Student Body Treasurer, thinking that if I plastered my posters all over the campus, that I would rise in social stature.

When you’re unpopular, you are as invisible as Glad Wrap. The odds of ever experiencing that first date decreased daily. Boys weren’t interested in the homely-looking girl who wore glasses that sported wings sparkling with fake diamonds. Or the smart girl who got the best grades in math and who spoke Latin like the ancients. And who could throw further than many of the boys who hung out at the neighborhood park.

No matter how longingly I looked at the athletes and cheerleaders, they uniformly never saw me. In the teenage world, you are who you hang out with, and what popular kid would want someone like me tagging along? Let alone as a girlfriend who hung on your muscular arm and leaned against your chest as you walked her about the campus. Wasn’t going to happen.

Geoffrey, the high school punching bag for pranks and tasteless jokes, stepped up one lunch break and asked me on a date. I put on a plastic smile and attempted to move far away, as the cheerleaders had repeatedly done to others like me. Geoffrey, however, was persistent. He pushed his thick-lensed glasses up his acne-covered nose and smiled. His favorite ratty sweatshirt, dirty slacks, and scuffed black dress shoes stunk almost as bad as his unwashed hair, but not quite.

His belly hung over his belt and his hairy wrists stuck out from his too-short sleeves. Talk about nerd. Geoffrey was beneath me on the social scale, not worthy of a platonic nod hello. The idea of going to the upcoming school dance was no more attractive than sitting in a darkened theater where his body odor would overpower the entire audience. Even so I said yes, despite the interior warning lights that blinked crimson, just to experience that first date.

What a couple we made. Me in my homemade pretend-silk, A-frame, square-necked dress that was in style five years earlier, while Geoffrey wore a black suit two sizes too big accompanied by a stiffly starched white shirt that crinkled audibly when he moved. He placed his left hand on my waist, while gripping my hand in his sweaty right. We stumbled around the dance floor, stepping on each other’s feet accompanied by loud guffaws and barely stifled snickers.

If Geoffrey had thought about asking me to go steady, he must have erased that thought from his mind after a rather emotionless and sloppy kiss while standing on my front porch. All evening I’d thought about what excuse I could offer. The best was that my dad would kill Geoffrey, a likely scenario. After drying the slobber off my lips, Geoffrey simply walked away.

So, I didn’t have to decline the going steady offer. Part of me was disappointed, as it meant that I wasn’t worthy of even his “like,” but the other part of me rejoiced.

Still without a “steady,” I solved the dilemma by purchasing a cheap man’s ring which I wrapped in blue alpaca and wore proudly.  When asked, I wove a magical story of the perfect boyfriend that I’d met while visiting my aunt in Vandalia, more than fifty miles away. My face glowed with an imitated “in love” radiance. I stood taller and blessed the popular kids with an “I’m one of you” sophisticated smirk. I invented dates, details, and dialogue.

Ninth grade turned out to not be too bad. Popularity continued to evade me, but I put on a good show of “belonging.” I experienced a first date, even though it was with the nerdiest boy in school. Best of all, I went steady with my secret self.

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A Teacher’s Lament

I spoke with your teacher today,

And this is what she had to say:

Please tell Billy I like him a lot

But not when he licks each tiny spot

Of food off his plate.

It’s just plain gross.

 

It’s not polite to pick your nose

That’s why tissue’s good for blows

Putting snot between his teeth

Makes kids stare beyond belief.

You just don’t do it.

It’s just plain gross.

 

He needs to keep his shoes on his feet

The stench smells like rotten meat.

While in the playground yard

Children find it too hard

To forgive him.

It’s just plain gross.

 

People don’t put their hands on their butts

And scratch until they make big cuts

Blood through the clothes

And a stink up the nose.

It’s just plain gross.

 

 

As far as work, Billy’s losing out.

He wrinkles papers and runs about.

Seldom sits for more than a minute.

Pencils in places where they don’t fit.

He’s failing.

It’s just plain gross.

 

There’s not much more that I can say

Except that you should be on your way

To talk to Billy. tell him I care.

For him I’d go anywhere

To find him help.

He’s not that gross.

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No Excuses

This is me. I am nobody special. Just a guy. A teenager who likes things organized. Like my room. I like my blue bedspread and matching sheets. When Mom does laundry I can’t stand going in my room until the bed is made again, just the way I like it.

And my schedule. I have to follow it. When Mom messes things up by wanting to go somewhere different it upsets me. So she has to warn me way ahead of time. I keep a calendar on my wall above my computer. On it I write my activities.

Mondays and Wednesday I go to the Adult School where I take computer classes. I am learning to write code. My teacher says I am good enough to get a job, but I keep going to class anyway because there is more I can learn. Class begins at nine and ends at noon.

Tuesdays and Thursdays I go to the same gym my mom belongs to. She goes to a Zumba class that begins at nine-forty-five. It lasts for forty-five minutes. I swim laps. I can swim half a mile and then shower and be dressed by the time she’s finished.

Fridays we go shopping. I hate the grocery stores because there are too many colors, too much stuff to choose from, too much noise, but Mom makes me go because she says it’s good training for when I live on my own. Like that’s ever going to happen.

Saturdays we go to Lake Chabot and walk the trail. Down the hill, past the parking lot and one end of the lake, then up the hill and back to the car. It takes us almost an hour.

Sundays we go to church. Mom sings in the choir which means I have to sit by myself. I don’t like that, so I sit in a pew to her right, as close as I can get without being in the choir. You would think that I don’t like the singing because it is noise, but that’s not true. Because I’ve gone to church my entire life, I know the words and sounds of every song. I find it relaxing. And comforting like my favorite blanket.

I get up every day at six, even on weekends. I don’t need an alarm clock because I have an internal clock that regulates my day. The only time I have problems is when time changes because of Daylight Savings Time. It confuses me. I don’t understand why we have to move back an hour or jump forward an hour. I understand why it was so in the beginning when our country was based on agriculture, but that isn’t so anymore. I am not a farmer and so don’t need to change my clock. Mom says that next year I can vote and if a measure is on the ballet to stop Daylight Savings Time and I mark the box. I am looking forward to having my thoughts validated.

In the afternoons I walk around our neighborhood. I leave precisely at one. Even though I no longer attend school, I still walk the ten blocks to the high school, approximately 2,000 average-sized steps for someone six foot tall like myself. I have long legs, according to my mom, so my stride is longer than most people’s.

After passing the school I continue around the block. There is a little grocery store two blocks away which is where I buy a Milky Way candy bar, a bag of popcorn and a bottle of water. I wish I could turn back and go home but Mom says I can’t. She says I need tons of exercise now that I no longer take Physical Education at school.

So I keep going. I pass four houses where dogs charge the fence snarling and barking. Even though I know they are going to do that, I still get startled when it happens. Each time I step into the street, placing myself as far from them as possible in case there is a hole in the fence and one of them gets out. I’ve never been bitten, but there is always a first time.

Some of the neighbors want to engage me in conversation. I don’t like that either. I hate talking to strangers. Mom says that the neighbors aren’t strangers because I see them every day. I think she’s wrong because I’ve never been introduced to them. I don’t know their names and they don’t know mine. One of them, an old man who sits in a lawn chair in his front lawn, waves high every time. I wave back because Mom said it was the polite thing to do and I don’t want to be rude. I’ve never been rude. At least not since I was very small.

When I was a little kid I didn’t talk to anyone. Even my mom. She took me to a specialist who measured my hearing. I can hear just fine. In fact, my hearing is sharper than most. My mom doesn’t believe that, though. She says I am more sensitive to sound than the average person. I like that explanation because I prefer to think that there is something unique about me.

I am sorry that I graduated from high school in June. I miss the rules and regulations. And the schedule. I knew what to do, where to go, and how to satisfy my teachers. The problem was that I knew everything before my teachers presented the lesson. I am not a braggart. I read voraciously about a variety of things until I feel like I am an expert on any topic.

Many times I knew more than my teachers. I discovered this whenever I asked questions. My teachers would all turn red in the face, stammer, then change the subject. Mom explained that I embarrassed them and that I shouldn’t ask complicated questions, but I really wanted to know the answers. Who was I supposed to ask?

Mom says that when I go to college in September I won’t be such a pain as my professors will be experts in their field. I think she’s wrong. She signed me up for classes in May, so I’ve already been reading textbooks that I check out from the library and journal articles published by researchers because I want to know as much as I can about each of the classes that I will be taking. If my professors aren’t well read, then they shouldn’t be teaching. After all, a student should never know more that the teacher. At least that’s what I think.

Now you know a lot about me. What you don’t know, but maybe have guessed, is that I am a unique person. When I was little Mom worried about me because I obsessed over things. Such as dinosaurs. And John Wayne movies. I knew the name of every dinosaur and could recite the dialogue from every John Wayne movie after the first time I saw it. I have an excellent memory for detail. Mom says I have a photographic memory, which means that once I’ve read something I can quote passages in entirety and tell you on which page the phrase was printed.

I am also excellent at math. I passed all the math classes offered at my high school by my sophomore year, so I took classes at the local community college. I passed all those within four semesters. I have completed all the math requirements I need to get a Bachelor’s Degree in Computer Science, but I’d like to take more classes at California State University, East Bay.

I am terrible at making human connections. I have no friends. Throughout my education I participated in social skills exercises with the Speech Pathologist but nothing she told me changed the way I am. It’s not that I don’t want to have friends because I do. The problem is that no one wants to be friends with me.

I am autistic. Asperger’s Syndrome. Which means that academically I am advanced but years behind in social skills. Mom says I am like a two-year-old in that I can sit beside someone who is talking about sports while my mind is analyzing a complex mathematical problem and it doesn’t bother me that I am not talking about sports.

Why am I telling you these things? When I visited the campus I met with a counselor in the Disabled Student Services Office. Mrs. Meyers told me that to succeed in college I need to tell my professors about being autistic as soon as possible. She suggested writing a short paper that explained who I am. That’s what this is about.

I want you to know that although I am autistic there is nothing wrong with my brain. I think faster than most people, remember everything I read and hear, and desire to have excellent grades. I will complete every assignment as long as I understand what I am supposed to do. Because I am a linear thinker, I get confused when asked to formulate opinions. I don’t have opinions. I collect facts.

Thanks for taking the time to read this. If you have any questions, Mrs. Meyers said you can talk to her.

 

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