Why I Began Home-Educating Simon

He wouldn't talk. He was two, then three. He pointed and got what he needed using one and two word utterances: ”Simon, juice.” He could repeat The Cat in the Hat word for word--book in hand, he would “read” it to his cousins . But he would rarely shape a sentence or a question, never a paragraph. He turned four.

We didn't worry too much at first. He was deeply connected to us. He wasn't one to make eye-contact with strangers, but if you lay on the floor with him, plastic lion in hand, roaring loudly, he would look at you, laugh wholeheartedly and say: “Mom--silly.”

On that same floor he built wondrous zoos attached to cities and roads, freely mixing all the toys he had, Lincoln Logs, Legos and Mobilos. And then, over and around all of that, he would lay down sophisticated train tracks that connected zoos and cities and roads. He wasn't like everybody else's kid, but he didn't seem lacking in creativity, intelligence, attachment or affection--as a matter of fact, he seemed more creative and attached than most. Sitting on the floor next to him, I knew no one had ever loved me that much. He rarely made eye-contact for all the trivial stuff—hellos, good-byes--but if you handed him the right hippo for his zoo, he looked at you and said: “Good Mom.” If you gave a dramatic rendition of a story he adored, his eyes were on you non-stop, smiling from ear to ear.

But he didn't talk--and talking was crucial. Simon knew the words for every toy, fruit, vegetable, and type of truck, but he did not use them. So we began the process of having him evaluated.

I don't know what I expected exactly . Back in my twenties, when I had lived in Boston, I had been in therapy off and on; I think I expected an older parental type of person, a therapist not unlike the ones I had had, someone bookish and wise and reassuring, someone who would walk into our lives, commend us on our amazing son and our parenting skills, and then make a couple of thoughtful suggestions.

What we got were two twenty-something-year-old speech therapists in training with an indifferent PhD supervising the evaluation. They put Simon in a room full of toys which included an old, washed out, barely pink plastic oven—I was allowed to watch through a two-way mirror.

Simon proceeded to open the oven door and make a house inside it for some of the stuffed animals—he had never seen or played with such a pink plastic oven. Inside the oven, he made a cozy bed for a bear out of a baby blanket. Then he placed other animals in the oven.

The three page typed evaluation included a full page about how Simon had “sociopathic” tendencies because he had attempted to “bake” the animals. Although they diagnosed a speech delay, they were more concerned about his anti-social tendencies. They suggested a psychiatric consult.

Other evaluations followed (speech, occupational therapy) and hours of therapy. The second speech evaluation involved a non-verbal I.Q. Test—Simon was given pieces of a plastic playground and asked to put them together after he looked at a picture. It took him seconds. “We have answered that question,” the speech therapist said, smiling.

But that nice therapist had no idea what to do with Simon. He kept presenting him with pictures of items and prompting him to name the item—all of which Simon knew; he just didn't use the words in day to day interactions. Moreover, that evaluation, like the previous one, was so poorly written and edited, it knocked the air right out of me. Simon's speech delay meant our lives were now ruled by very nice B and C students.

It's easy to be generous and non-judgmental when the nice and kind schlockmeisters of this world live in a parallel universe from your own. When you find yourself in their offices, listening to their directives, you suddenly discover that all your education and reading have made you incapable of doing anything but make judgments.

This is what we were advised to do: we were supposed to place him in a special school (cost: $23,000.00 per year); we were supposed to then sue the town we lived in to get the money back (lawyer's retainer: $8,000.00)--we lived in Washington, D.C. at the time; we would also need to hire an educational consultant (retainer: $5,000.00). The words autism spectrum were bandied about. We were told of a great school one hour from our home. Little Simon could take the bus. Most of the kids there had severe autism and wore helmets and were completely non-verbal, but, not to worry, they had a class for high-functioning kids.

It really doesn't pay to keep your mouth shut. It doesn't. If you're a kid of very few words, the schlockmeisters will notice that about you, and only that.

I protested. He's so bright. He's so attached. He loves to pretend. He has a wonderful sense of humor. Autistic kids don't pretend or have a sense of humor. He has a speech delay and some atypical development, but that does not mean he needs to be educated in a remedial setting, and at such huge financial and personal cost. So that Simon could attend that school, we were supposed to sue the District of Columbia--sue.

I got very depressed. When the meds kicked in, I started making calls. I called the best pre-schools in Washington, D.C., and told them about Simon and asked about openings. A private Quaker school was willing to take a look at him that week. “Bring the evaluations and bring your son. We make decisions based on our own observations. Be prepared to stay the day.” They placed him in a classroom and watched. Simon didn't say much but he happily played with others and followed directions. He didn't “bake” anyone.

The pre-school had an immediate opening, and they offered Simon the spot. Six months later, the head teacher pulled me aside. He had wonderful abilities in art, she said. He was so smart, so out of the box, so easy to teach. “A man of few words but such a joy.” (The picture attached is one Simon did at age six. When the drawing didn't fit in the box I had pre-drawn, he busted right out of it.)

I stopped all the therapies and instead invited kids from the pre-school to our home two to three times a week. I picked them up at one and had them stay the afternoon. They helped Simon build zoos and cities. They pummeled him with questions and orders: “What's this? What's that? Can we build this? That? Do this. Do that.” If Simon didn't answer, they persevered: “Why are you ignoring me? I'm asking you a question! Why are you putting the bathtub in the elephant cage?”

“Not a bathtub. It's for food for the elephant,” Simon, eventually, replied.

It was exhausting and exhilarating. The kids played all afternoon while I pulled out more toys to add to the worlds they shaped. By sunset, our little apartment was invariably trashed. But every time a child came over, Simon talked a bit more. The ping pong of play—your turn, my turn—led to the ping pong of conversation—your turn, my turn. At the same time, I learned to get relentlessly in Simon's face. “Hey Buddy, what's it gonna be? Cheerios or a sandwich?”

Although he was talking so much more, I knew that in public school he would be placed in a remedial class. The army of Speech Therapists, Occupational Therapists and other Special Ed. Consultants would see to that. They would come up with an Individual Education Plan. The focus of the IEP would be speech and very basic literacy. He would never learn Latin, or European History, or a foreign language. He would never study art, or engineering, or architecture, so that he could build or paint cities and zoos. He would always be regarded as disabled, and he would be taught only the skills necessary to live out a small and limited life.

The summer Simon turned six we moved to Miami. I didn't bother to look for a school. I ordered $500.00 worth of educational materials. I set a room aside in the house we bought and called it the Learning Room. I got a library card. I joined a homeschooling group. When the summer came to an end, we began.