Dancing to a Different Tune: Autism :: Personal Narrative Writing

Dancing to a Different Tune: Autism I’m sitting in Mrs. Morton’s kindergarten class at 9:37 watching her dark tan leather shoes move back and forth as she recites the alphabet. Unconsciously avoiding eyed contact, as she turns down the row and slowly moves towards my desk (Sperry 22). As Mrs. Morton approaches me, I cower back in fear, unable to deal with the unpredictable and inconsistent nature of human beings (Dawson 112). â€Å"Kenny, why are you not listening to me?† Feeling vulnerable I remain silent, unable to cope with this social situation (Williams 159). So again Mrs. Morton asks, â€Å"Kenny†¦why are you not listening to me?† Responding with echolalia, I pervasively mutter back her words in a monotone voice, â€Å"Not listening to me.† I Reply in a desperate attempt to convey meaning, but in the end only produce meaningless jargon (Sperry 45). When Mrs. Morton hears my reaction she throws her hands up in frustration and returns to reciting the alphabet as she softly mutters, â€Å"This kid must be deaf or something!† (DSM IV 68) Loosing interest in Mrs. Morton and her alphabet I begin to tap my pencil on my desk, unable to stop moving my hands. Repetitive behavior such as this provides an escape from the constant state of arousal that assaults me at this moment (Dawson 67). I twist around in my desk, fidgeting as I try to expel some of my energy (DSM IV 71). Hyperactivity eventually gets the best of me, as I start meandering up and down the isle in my own â€Å"Idiosyncratic fantasy world† as though Mrs. Morton does not exist (Sperry 52). That night as my mom cooks dinner I am drawn by fascination to the sparkling blue flame of our gas stove. Without fear I slowly reach my hands up towards the burner and touch this dangerous flickering light. My mother returns from the bathroom and catches a glimpse of me with my little hands in the flame of the stove. â€Å"No Kenny! The stove is hot. Very hot, do not touch the stove.† She screams at me as I withdraw my hand and look at her with a blank face. I didn’t even feel the burn, until the heat of the flame began scalding away layers of my skin because my threshold for pain is so great (DSM IV 68). Trying to comfort me from injury in which I am unable to express any emotion, my mother and I take a trip to James Beach which is just minutes away from my house in Rhode Island.