Difference

September 2, 2015May 24, 2016 / stephanielharper / 3 Comments

Artwork by Cameren Harper
@CamHarpArt

“I’m a Black Puerto Rican,
Yes I am,
Making some peanut butter and some jam…” (Composed by Marcus P., circa 1981, age 10)

My childhood was marked by our knowing moments
that brought us to our bedroom windows at night
to speak silently across the darkness
with our faces, various antics, flashlights,
and disappearing & reappearing acts.

I was eight years old
when his family moved in,
when the boy my age toed the weeds on my front lawn,
as I watched him from my bedroom window.

Because he was black,
my first memory of seeing Marcus
has been misshapen by a lifetime
spent enslaved by the vernacular
of the prevailing collective.

Subtexts of color for a child
are still primal, unchained.
Whatever difference signified
in that commuter tract neighborhood,
we forged a bond
that was soon cemented in familiarity.

I loved how his hair sprung back like a sponge,
& how his mother groomed him
with Johnson’s Baby Oil & Q-Tips.
I loved his height, his scent,
his lanky, strong, athletic arms,
catching his blazing pitches,
& how we proudly wore matching t-shirts
with our names and baseball jersey numbers
that our moms made with iron-on decals.

Even more, I loved his infectious laugh,
his smart, brow-raising impressions
of Mighty Mouse, Woody Woodpecker,
Speedy Gonzales, and Foghorn Leghorn’s failures
to thwart his young chicken hawk nemesis,
that routinely had us both in teary,
asthmatic hysterics,
sputtering milk out of our noses.

I know my mind’s eye
has since learned to see the conjured rift
between black & white;

I perceive a difference
that even my love
because it is love
won’t deny,
though my heart tries to remember
from a place beyond sight.

I was eight years old
when the boy my age scattered dandelion seeds
outside my bedroom window––
when unsullied, my roots trembled,
& love sprang up
& leaned toward his sun.

STEPHANIE L. HARPER

http://@stephanielharp1

An Offering of Hope

July 26, 2015July 26, 2015 / stephanielharper / Leave a comment

Matthew, age 6

Today, I received an email from a friend and fellow homeschooling parent, in which she asked me if I might have any resource recommendations for her friend’s nephew, who has just been diagnosed with autism at age 15. Wow.

My son’s diagnosis was “official” when he was 7 years old, but I had already had my suspicions from the time he was an infant, and I had been delving into all the seemingly applicable literature I could find and parenting Matthew “as if,” even though the public school system (including the district’s early intervention program) was remiss to carry out testing and potentially (more like obviously!) be bound by law to offer him accommodations.

I can’t even begin to imagine what it would feel like for a family to be effectively drowning for 15 years of their child’s life, and then suddenly one day find that they must learn to swim in shark-infested waters. So, after my heart was finished bursting into thirteen million pieces and I sopped up the blood, I wrote this message (below) in response to my friend’s inquiry. I have decided to post it on my blog in the hope that it might be helpful in some way to others facing similar challenges:

Though I don’t have any kind of straightforward recommendation, I can give you some general impressions from our experience:

The one thing I am positive about, is that the public school system was totally ineffectual for addressing/accommodating for Matthew’s needs, and no one I ever talked to who had kids on the spectrum who were also in public school reported being satisfied with the “help” they were receiving. I think this is truer for kids who are higher functioning and who can manage to “fall through the cracks” (because they don’t have the kinds of profound behavior issues that get noticed, etc.). Also, as far as I’m aware, there is no such thing as an “autism coach”* (at least not someone who would work directly with and advocate for the child according to his individual demonstrated needs). There are just so many variables involved. Especially since this boy’s issues have gone unrecognized for so long, it’s pretty much impossible to say where one should “start.” I know that there are autism and Asperger’s Syndrome support groups for families abounding and easy to access via the internet (public schools won’t supply any info about any services not directly related to what is offered by the school district, because if they indicate that they can’t/won’t give a student adequate accommodations within the school’s framework, it’s actually a violation of Federal IDEA law – though that is a whole other ball of wax). The fact that this poor kid slipped through the cracks for so long is a testament to the school system’s lack of ability to meet his needs, as far as I’m concerned. Does he live in the Portland area? If so, there is a very good resource center in NE Portland called the Swindells Center. They have volunteers (they might actually be paid nowadays) who are very friendly, knowledgeable, and will actually sit down with parents and give them an overview of information and a binder for organizing your child’s vital info, etc. If they are not in Oregon, the Swindells Center might be able to recommend similar entities in other states?

Other than that, I would say that the absolute first consideration for your friend’s nephew at this juncture should be to address any potential mental health complications that he might be experiencing. Autism (especially if it’s been undiagnosed) can be associated with depression, anxiety, even PTSD (if he’s experienced bullying, etc.), and it is hard to make any progress toward or decisions about the future without first getting a handle on issues of the present. Also, I imagine his parents are likely experiencing a lot of grief and confusion. Even though autism is not a “terminal” condition, receiving news like this can feel like facing impending doom. It summarily dismantles all of your hopes, dreams, expectations, and assumptions about who your child is and who he might someday be (which is not necessarily bad, just totally different), and so I would recommend that the parents consider therapy for themselves to help them process their fears, grief, etc.

Finally, the one “service” that has made the hugest difference for Matthew as far as helping him develop skills in self-awareness and acceptance, modulating emotions, and problem-solving/flexibility has been Equine Assisted Psychotherapy. Matt was 15 when he started EAP, so your friend’s nephew might really be ripe for something like this – i.e., doing empowering work that is all about him (?). EAP practitioners are not state-licensed therapists (which, believe me, speaks more to the intractability of our government than to the effectiveness of such programs), so they won’t be covered by insurance. Some might charge on a sliding scale.

Wow. My heart really goes out to your friend’s nephew and his family. The days and years ahead for them may be really hard, but things also might finally start making sense for them, you know? They will be able to move from a place of mystery and darkness to a new kind of hope and light that they might never have imagined. The journey definitely has its rewards…

I hope my manifesto here has actually been helpful in some way.

My favorite authors for comprehensive, practical information are:

Tony Atwood (premiere authority on Asperger’s Syndrome)

Temple Grandin (describes her own challenges with HFA and advocates for kids on the spectrum)

Michelle Garcia Winner (her specialty is “social cognition”)

Let me know if you have any other questions!

Steph

*By God, there should be!

Commode & Consequence

July 16, 2015February 4, 2020 / stephanielharper / 1 Comment

Before I share my epic tale with you,
please be advised adversity’s in tow,
which might resemble miseries a’ brew
in feudal farm communities you know…

Beleaguered by the wretched blight of drought,
our crops once verdant withered in their beds;
our throats were parched; the wells had all dried out
below that unjust sun above our heads!

In hope’s last ditch, we pulled ourselves together
beneath the menace of that burning sun.
We schemed to overcome the nasty weather—
& I was chosen as the lucky one

who’d take on brutal aristocracy
inside the castle’s potent, stone defenses.
Though, how I’d get in was a mystery
quite disagreeable to my frail senses…

Somehow I’d scale that granite carapace
& like a burlap sack half-filled with flour,
I’d drop to certain death in pale disgrace—
not how I’d hoped to spend my final hour.

My neighbors pushed me up the steep façade—
a feat achieved with cold tenacity
& pitchforks poised to terrorize & prod
lest reason should discourage bravery.

It wasn’t long before I’d reached the top
& feebly slumped down to the pitch below.
A happy “humph” in answer to my “plop”
was all I heard from friends now all turned foe…

Alone, engulfed in stone, my knees felt weak
& quaked like autumn oak’s last clinging leaf.
I yearned to hide, yet knew I had to seek
a remedy to slake my kinsmen’s grief
(for well I knew they had a valid beef).

So there I stood, a little worse for wear,
with bumps & bruises forming by the tick;
my clothes were torn & leaves were in my hair
& knots inside my gut made me feel sick.

I scuttled ’round a pillar like a prawn
might claw its way along the ocean’s depths
until I reached the Kingdom’s royal lawn:
I lack for words (for nothing rhymes with “depths”)

to illustrate the wonder of that scene!
A massive span of fertile, rolling leas
with dewy, dappled hues of gold & green
that thrummed with buzz of busy honey bees,

who hovered over clover, grass & hay
(a beast of burdens’ grazing paradise!)
abounding with bright blooms in bold array
encircling the field for five miles thrice

on winding tendrils’ fierce vitality
entwined amongst the breezy willow trees.
Those flowers’ wafting scent arrested me,
for blooms by any name still make me sneeze…

In stealth, I made a masterful retreat
& ducked into a marble entry way
in time to fall in line with marching feet
of soldiers just returning for the day.

In dusk’s disguise, I tiptoed through the door,
then turned a corner leading to a room
with marble, thatch & porcelain décor—
when lowing rumbles harkened certain doom

as royalty approached my hiding place!
I understood those bellows as a sign
that it was nigh time to obscure my face
from frightful sounds uncommonly bovine!

With bland & dull brass clanking of a bell,
Her Majesty’s arrival was announced
by sentries who obeyed that deathly knell
& cleared a path, avoiding getting trounced.

Her shadow darkly filled the room’s ingress—
it was the very last thing I did see,
for my reaction to the acridness
took me headlong behind a porcelain scree.

The queen did then ascend her huge structure
behind which I had scrambled in my fear.
Against my better sense to conjecture,
deciphering, I learned some facts quite queer:

The luckless vantage point I had assumed
was probably the worst I could have chosen,
for suddenly the room became perfumed:
Suffice to say, the stench was not ambrosian.

From her stout, four-hooved figure there did gush
a foul, brown, sticky liquid, and a moan…
What followed was an eerie-sounding flush
broadcast from somewhere deep inside her throne!

That sound inspired a shocking calculation—
a reckoning I would not soon forget:
Our greedy queen had scorned our trepidation
& built herself a shiny, new toilet!

(‘Twas bad enough that founts no longer spurted
from natural springs that ere sustained crop-yields—
but now I knew their flow had been diverted,
that drought alone had not destroyed the fields…!)

How rage then filled me, I can’t quite express.
Royal or not, that beast above my head
released a demon I could not suppress—
the queen was on that throne, but I saw red!

I can’t account for just what happened next
(the kind of thing, perhaps, when one feels vexed?),
but from prodigious muscles that I flexed
Her Highness found herself somewhat perplexed!

Apparently, I’d lifted up that throne
& heaved it like a bundled bale of hay!
The blaring “Moo!” the queen did then intone
was indication that she rued the day!

There then arose an uproarious cheer
from far & wide through stony vestibules.
A grateful sentry offered me a beer
& furnished for my cause a pair of mules

to tow away my handsome hero’s pay
in a cart that just could scarcely hold her.
Discovering I’d somehow saved the day,
if not wiser, surely, I felt older…

As I approached our township with my haul,
my family rejoiced & shouted, “Wow!”
From this day forward I’ll be known by all:
The farmer who dispatched that dreadful cow…

Though my remaining days will yet accrue,
tonight, it’s safe to say that I’m a winner…
The coals are glowing in my barbecue,
Because Chateaubriand is what’s for dinner!

3-DAY-QUOTE CHALLENGE

July 8, 2015July 10, 2015 / stephanielharper / Leave a comment

I decided to post this “Challenge” (also located on my About/Challenges page) as a single blog entry on my Home page, since I am quite pleased with how it all turned out. The quotations are from among my favorite literary influences (one representative each from poetry, fiction, and non-fiction), and the artwork is my own. Enjoy! 🙂

3-DAY-QUOTE CHALLENGE

4yearoldadult has very graciously taken it upon himself to give me a much needed swift kick in the pants, to get myself into the habit of “blogging” more regularly. I know that this medicine will be good for me, so I thank him from the bottom of my heart for his encouragement and enthusiasm, and for his efforts to connect with people through cyber-space, to make the world a little bit better!

Day 3: From Women Who Run With the Wolves, by Clarissa Pinkola Estes

When a woman pretends to press her life down into a nice, tidy little package, all she accomplishes is spring-loading all her vital energy down into shadow. ‘Fine. I’m fine,’ such a woman says… Then one day, we hear she has taken up with a piccolo player and has run off to Tippicanoe to be a pool hall queen…

This is about how it happens.
One day, we decide that we are DONE being everything but who we are. Unfortunately, we usually have to learn the hard way that we are really not all that into piccolo players… We owe it to ourselves to remember who we are and what we do want to be doing, and then we have to start doing it, at all costs — because the alternative, which is existential death, is a far, far cry from a substitute for life.

Day 2: Excerpt from Douglas Adams’ The Hitchhikers’ Guide to the Galaxy

Vogon poetry is of course the third worst in the Universe. The second worst is that of the Azgoths of Kria. During a recitation by their Poet Master Grunthos the Flatulent of his poem “Ode to a Small Lump of Green Putty I Found in My Armpit One Midsummer Morning” four of his audience died of internal hemorrhaging, and the President of the Mid-Galactic Arts Nobbling Council survived by gnawing one of his own legs off. Grunthos is reported to have been “disappointed” by the poem’s reception, and was about to embark on a reading of his twelve-book epic My Favorite Bathtime Gurgles when his own major intestine, in a desperate attempt to save life and civilization, leaped straight up through his neck and throttled his brain.
The very worst poetry of all perished along with its creator, Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings of Greenbridge, Essex, England, in the destruction of the planet Earth.

I very much share the view with the late, great Douglas Adams that there are some very particular offenses that one can perpetrate on the universal device of communication/language, which without exception, result in the phenomenon known as bad poetry… For instance, I am sure that some of my renderings from my early high school days could have competed handily with the ignominious works of the Azgoths of Kria — and just for the record (in case anyone is taking notes), they have all been dispatched in flame…

Day 1: “On Pain”
From Kahlil Gibran’s The Prophet

   Your pain is the breaking of the shell
that encloses your understanding.
   Even as the stone of the fruit must break,
that its heart may stand in the sun, so must
you know pain.
   And could you keep your heart in wonder at the daily
miracles of your life, your pain would not seem less wondrous
than your joy;
   And you would accept the seasons of your heart, even as you have always accepted the seasons that pass over your
fields.
And you would watch with serenity through the winters
of your grief.

••

   Much of your pain is self-chosen.
   It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you
heals your sick self.
   Therefore trust the physician, and drink his remedy in silence
and tranquility:
   For his hand, though heavy and hard, is guided by the
tender hand of the Unseen,
   And the cup he brings, though it burn your lips, has been
fashioned of the clay which the Potter has moistened with
His own sacred tears.

Kahlil Gibran has been and continues to be one of my favorite literary influences. If he had been our contemporary, today’s theorists in psychology might have made him the poster child for the “Highly Sensitive” personality type. To me, he is a timeless and ageless genius, whose wise insights into both the seen and the Unseen have enriched my development as a writer, artist, and “Highly Sensitive” human being. I can’t imagine anyone could read his works, particularly The Prophet, and not come away with something life-changing, every time.

Dreams Depths

Autism Turned Inside Out

March 25, 2015July 10, 2015 / stephanielharper / Leave a comment

*See text blown up below

I recently created this mandala, which ended up becoming a cathartic, stream-of-consciousness way for me to express some of my current feelings about raising a bright and talented son who has autism.

Autism, in Matthew’s case, seems to function as a buffer between the outside world and his experiences of himself as a living, breathing, emotional being in the world. To that effect, his demeanor can sometimes seem abrasive, or obstinate, and because he is so very intelligent (and often amazingly sweet!), these less-desirable social behaviors are perceived by others to be deliberately off-putting, when, in fact, BECAUSE of his AUTISM, he can become too overwhelmed by others’ social expectations of him to be able to respond “appropriately.”

These days, we are facing the exquisite challenges involved in supporting a teen with autism’s transition into adulthood. While many of our son’s peers are preparing for their futures in typical, socially-proscribed ways (i.e., applying to colleges, and beefing up their portfolios with “desirable” skills and experiences), Matthew does not seem to identify at all with the processes typically involved in this phase of life. BECAUSE of his AUTISM, the usual protocols that most youths growing up in a privileged society just seem to be able to “get” innately, are inscrutable to Matthew. Yet, as nothing about our son is typical, it certainly follows that his path to adulthood will be every bit as unique as he is. He will be breaking new ground in unprecedented ways, for sure, but he will also need a lot of support, patience, and tolerance from others as he makes his way.

At this juncture, it is really difficult for me as a parent to envision how things will all pan out. What I do know for sure, is that we will not be able to provide Matthew with the resources and support he needs and deserves alone. These are some of the questions I’ve been considering in my attempt to achieve a bit of clarity:

How do we help Matthew navigate this new territory in a way that will be empowering for him?
How do we help him to find his “community” (not necessarily only others with autism, but any caring, genuine, enlightened people out there who have the capacity to appreciate and make room for difference)?
Where are those places and circumstances, where Matthew’s ways of seeing and being in the world will not just be tolerated with sighs and rolling eyes; but will actually be embraced, because they are optimal for developing ideas and creating exciting possibilities for the world?
Who will be bold enough to step into Matthew’s world — to meet him there, in his element, where he thrives, feels grounded, and responds innately and effortlessly to the minute mysteries and details that most of us would never even perceive — instead of always requiring him to step out of that world that sustains him?
Who will be brave enough to push themselves far enough beyond their own comfort zones, to begin to comprehend the manifest discomfort my son endures in every waking moment of unavoidably inhabiting a world that has always denied him approval for who he is?
Who will love and accept him enough to become his tether to the world, to be the solid rock of “YES!” in a raging sea of “NO!”?
Who will help us build Matthew’s house on that rock?

Finally, I would like to express my deep gratitude for Matthew’s mentor and human being extraordinaire, Jenny Forrester, for teaching me the “mind map” exercise, which helped me to generate these questions.

~SLH, March 25, 2015

*Text from artwork above…

HERE ARE THE FACTS:

I knew there was something different about my baby boy the moment I gave birth to him almost seventeen years ago.
My world is richer, more complex, and more beautiful than I’d have ever known if not for seeing it through his eyes.
Matthew is so full of life and passion. He desires connections, and wants to share parts of himself with his family, his friends, and his pets, and he pours his soul into experiencing the earth’s beauty and majesty. He wants to love and be loved, but he feels alone. 😦
Matthew cannot understand the seemingly arbitrary rules, expectations, and emotions that neurotypicals take for granted. His brain is wired for different ways of thinking, observing, and feeling.
He realizes that others don’t care to understand his world — and he resents the double standard. Rightly so!
The pieces of Matthew’s world are shattered, scattered, compartmentalized, confused, and incongruous with what the world values as “normal” and “acceptable.” Misguided attempts to teach and integrate him have amounted to veiled threats of punitive consequences for refusal or inability to conform to a society that patently disapproves of his essential nature, and does not tolerate the outrage and frustration of those who must endure constant negation and neglect.
But my marvelous son is a survivor! He has not let the system utterly defeat him. He is learning, growing up, developing interests, and pursuing a tenable existence in a world that also needs to grow up!
Matthew is beautiful, brilliant, and precious. His differences are not faults. He deserves to be the perfect human being he is! It is not his duty to make himself “right” for the world. It is not his job to make the pieces fit. The WORLD better start making itself “right” for him!

Stephanie L. Harper, Proudest Mom in the World!

Meet Dalek Cas!

January 18, 2015 / stephanielharper / Leave a comment

My husband, Lord Davros, has been hatching his evil plan to wipe out humankind… Eighteen months and 8,000 beers later, the fruit of his labor and passion has emerged in the form of this handsome devil:

Can the love-child of a sentimentally artistic human and the coldly calculating super-genius and incarnation of evil thwart the demise of humanity with her limitless capacity for love?

YOU BE THE JUDGE!

Portland Comic-Con January 24, 2015…

Death by Colonoscopy

December 21, 2014May 1, 2017 / stephanielharper / 5 Comments

Gasoline is what it most resembles–
That high-octane concoction for your cleaning
Relies upon the basic fundamentals
Applied to pipes and valves in need of preening.
Like carburetors sputtering to life,
Upon consuming lubricants and fire,
Intestines active with vocations rife
Explode in songs of torrents they inspire!
Though chrome might shine when doused in caustic juices,
And pistons made of steel defy combustion,
Membranes of flesh are known for gentler uses,
Refined for tasks related to digestion!
I dutifully swallowed Satan’s nectar
And rode shit creek without a surge protector!

My Daughter is a Prodigy!

December 9, 2014December 9, 2014 / stephanielharper / 1 Comment

Proud mama moment… My daughter is 14. This is her latest masterpiece. I think the whole world should see it!

Check out more of her work at:

https://www.Earth-Girl-42.deviantart.com/

Hybrids and Shadows

November 21, 2014 / stephanielharper / Leave a comment

This young gentleman is changing the world RIGHT NOW! I am so privileged to have discovered his blog.

A Different Sort of Solitude

Autism, as it turns out, is not a black and white thing. There are people who have Asperger’s, and there are people who don’t have it, but.

That but is important.

There is a group of people I like to call hybrids. They are exceptionally warm, emotionally intelligent neurotypicals. Highly empathetic. Highly open-minded. And for whatever reason, they’ve spent a lot of time around one or more Aspies. Usually this is because they married an Aspie, or they have an Aspie in their immediate family (father, mother, sibling, whatever). Sometimes it happens with close friends. It can even happen with people who work professionally with a number of Aspies over a long period of time.

This is because Asperger’s is mildly contagious. If you spend enough time with us, you start to gain symptoms. I suspect that because hybrids are so empathetic, they’re especially susceptible. And so what happens is…

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