Book One: Wilson Elementary School
They say one of the most important rules of storytelling is show don’t tell. I disagree. I think telling is a form of showing and showing is a form of telling. Anyway, this is the story of how I wrote a book called Rags to Witches. Please note that this isn’t a rags to riches tale. I’m not one of Charles Dickens’ orphans.
It all began with Harriet the Spy. I watched it when I was five years old, and it had a major impact on me ever since. I tried to be like her. I wrote stuff on paper. Not anything original, though. I just wrote quotes from the movie:
Boy with Ringlets.
Man with tattoos.
Girl on a leash?
While writing the quotes down, I tried sounding like Harriet the Spy, pretending to narrate my life as if it were a movie.
One day when my mom took me to class, I “narrated” to myself, “Sixth grade.”
“You’re not in sixth grade, you’re in kindergarten,” my mom said.
Obviously, I knew that. Harriet was in sixth grade.
During recess, I often ran around the playground and field quoting not only Harriet the Spy, but other movies too. I was a big fan of Pixar movies. While running, I often pretended I was on a mission to “save the world” with the characters from Pixar movies and other movies and TV shows. For example, I’d say something like: “Woody, Buzz, we must save SpongeBob and Patrick on the moon!” I wasn’t really that social when I was little. I mean, I had acquaintances, but not many “close friends.”
At Wilson Elementary School, I had two teachers. I had my regular teacher, and a one-on-one aide. In first grade, my main teacher was Mrs. Samson, and my aide was Mrs. Hart. I remember when I got off the bus and first saw Mrs. Hart. She was tall dark curly haired woman with olive skin and brown eyes. When she gently took my hand and helped me off the bus, she already seemed motivated to work with me.
Why am I making a time jump from kindergarten to first grade? It was not until first grade when I started writing original notes on paper. But I modeled after Harriet the Spy’s narration style. In the movie, Harriet says, “That’s my teacher Miss Elson. She’s nice.” Most protagonists recall their FIRST DAY of school, but obviously, no one can remember EVERYTHING from when they were six years old. Anyway, on one of the earlier days of first grade, I wrote in my notebook:
Thats my teecher Mrs. Samson. Shes nice. And that’s my 1 on 1 Mrs. Hart. She’s nice too.
“What are you doing Miss Harriet the Spy?” Mrs. Hart asked.
I blushed with embarrassment. Was that a good thing or a bad thing?
I brought toys to school every day. I remember when I brought my Winnie the Pooh doll in my Blue’s Clue’s backpack.
“Time to put Winnie the Pooh away,” Mrs. Hart said. “It’s time for schoolwork.”
“No!” I said.
“You can play with Winnie the Pooh at recess.”
“I believe in my toys!”
“What do your toys tell you?”
When I was younger, I used to think that believe meant thinking something fantastical like fairies or mermaids were real because that was how the word was used in animated movies. Now I know the word means so much more than that.
“I must play with my toys! Not playing with them is against the rules of my life!”
“What does the school sign read” Mrs. Samson asked. “Francis F. Wilson Elementary School. Not The Renee Chiavi Elementary School.”
Sometimes even when I put my toys in my backpack, I would try to sneak taking them out. But Mrs. Hart and Mrs. Samson would catch me. A deal was made that I had to keep the toys away until recess or home.
Despite my inevitable six-year old temper-tantrums, Mrs. Hart and I had a lot of fun times together. She liked watching me pretend I was a hero in a Pixar movie. She also liked watching me pretend I was Harriet the Spy by writing down what I saw.
Trees
Squirelies
Kids Playing
Balls
Swings
Grass
My brain was not mature enough to write detailed descriptions of nature like Wordsworth, but at least I was writing.
In gym class, the teacher Mrs. Gibson always played funny games with us. She was relatively short but seemed tall because we were little kids. She had curly hair, but not the kind where you’d put a comb in it like a basketball player. She had curly gold hair like an adult Goldie Lox. My favorite game in gym class was “Dead Mary.” The class would go under a parachute and Mrs. Gibson would tell the story of a Mary, a student who loved Wilson Elementary School so much that she went there for the rest of her life. After she died, her ghost haunted the school. When Mrs. Gibson finished the story, Mrs. Samson or one of the other teaching assistants would get a fake monster hand from the toy box and touch the parachute. We would scream, even though we knew it was fake. It was more of laughter-screaming.
I always wondered why the kids on the TV shows did not have aides. One day when I was watching Hey Arnold with My Mom, I asked her, “Why don’t they have aides on the cartoons.”
My Mom was hesitant. “Maybe they have the aides, but they don’t show them.”
Now I understand that it was because it was not not appropriate for kids shows to talk about autism at the time.
In elementary and middle school, I received Occupational Therapy, or OT. My OT teacher was Miss Barbara. I worked on my cognitive motor skills through exercises such as ball lifting, puzzles, and even learning songs in American Sign Language.
One day, I was working on a really challenging puzzle sheet.
“Do you need help?” Mrs. Hart asked.
“Go away!” I said.
“That was rude,” Miss Barbara said. “Instead say no thank you.”
“No thank you,” I repeated after her.
“That’s better,” said Miss Barbara as Mrs. Hart nodded next to her in agreement.
The worksheet was really difficult. I put my fists on my forehead in distress.
“I really think you could use me and Miss Barbara’s help,” said Mrs. Hart.
“Go away! I hate you!” I retorted, hitting Mrs. Hart.
“That was not nice,” said Miss Barbara. “Say you’re sorry.”
“Why do I have an aide?” I asked.
“Because you are special,” Mrs. Hart said.
“Special?” I asked.
“It means different in a good way.”
“Why do I have an aide? The other kids don’t have aides.”
“Well you’re not the other kids.”
“The kids in the cartoons don’t have aides.”
“That’s TV, we live in real life,” Miss Barbara added. “Now apologize to Miss Hart.”
“No!” I cried, banging on the table.
“Do not throw a sissy Mary fit!” Miss Barbara said firmly.
“No!” I cried, throwing pencils.
Book One Journal Entry One:
I hit Missuz Hart in OT today and told her I hate her. I threw a Sissy Mary fit. Missuz Hart and Missuz Samsin gave me a time-out from recess and took my Winnie the Pooh toy from me. Mommy sayz I cant have Winnie the Pooh back until I behave good.
Book One Journal Three:
Missuz Samsin is showing us a map of the world. I like maps. I see Australia but theres a little island on the corner that’s not New Zeeland. I don’t know what it is called. Ive hurd of New Zeeland becuz it was on a Rocket Power episode. I wonder what that little island is called.
Book One Journal Entry Three:
Today in class I had to draw a picture and write a story. I drew a picture of a secret agent and a giraffe. Missuz Hart lvved it.
Book One Journal Entry Four:
Today in OT Me and Miss Barbera practised the song from The Land Before Time in sign langwij. It was fun. I love that movie. It makes me cry.
Obviously, my journal entries weren’t that complex yet. I think what perplexed Mrs. Hart about me was my constant drive to be creative.
In the long run, I got my Winnie the Pooh toy back, but what was more rewarding was the connections I was forming with my teachers.
