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Hopefully not creepy, just human

I washed the entire body of Bob, paralyzed from the waist down, I took his clothes off, I put him in the fancy lift, I pushed him to the shower, I placed him back in the chair, I washed his long hair, I used two squirts of body wash the way he wanted, hung the washcloth on the bar he indicated, Washed his feet, washed his legs, washed his thighs and private creases, Washed his back, washed his hair with two applications, applied conditioner, He washed his armpits and face, but I washed his beard with the shampoo. I dried his hair with the brush and hair dryer on high/hot the way he requested. A couple times he almost passed out and died, bleeding from orifices, while I stood horrified that managing life and death was paid at 15.00/hour and Bob said it was a good rate. He didn’t ASK ME if it was a good rate. He told me repeated that it was. And that me implying the commute was a considerable expense, 20-30 min time plus gas? In what year was 15/hour a good wage? Not this one, or last, or all the way back to 2015, at least. Bro, you’re being cheap, wtf. I’m a poet, I’m not trained for fitting a grown, tall ass man’s feet into pressure socks. i’ve never changed pee-bags before. And that’s how you got the good rate on me- no real experience. Bob took me out to the dinner the morning I performed the entire routine independently: getting him up, presentable, wearing glass and a watch, tolerating my extra-ness, and he drove the van that was fitted for a wheelchair. He told me once that one of his aides said, This aint social hour, upon arrival He liked that and he wished I would shut up, be less authentic, give less, share less, do more. do your job for 15/hour, that great rate. I remember his feet, heavy and blue blood cold, as I handled them, taking them off and putting them back on the feet-plates of the wheelchair. Changing the potty under the wheelchair. Dump the mess in the toilet, yeah, bob this was worth 40/hour minimum. That’s why I can’t totally love you. You tried to rip me off, use my humanity. Get a good enough deal. But stupid me, I still loved Bob. I tried to follow him into some virtual reality game, and I totally forgot the name, but I Remember his wide display of two large monitors, high class desktop computers, acorn trees asleep in their pots, You’re a full man here, and he said, you wouldn’t recongize me. We can’t be friends. I’m not nice there, like here. I sprayed his glasses 2-3 times with the tiny bottle of glasses-cleaner, getting them perfect. Thinking about that old erotica movie, Secretary. I felt some type of way for him. Of course, it helped me that he was impotent, no feeling, no control. I pulled the urine condom off and rolled it back on the soft snail. Blood came out, and blood in the urine bag attached to the leg. Bob wanted me to adjust things just as he would have, if he could use the lower half of his body. But the lower half was dead weight for him. He shared with me the one poem he ever wrote, and I put it on the momento shelf I have that supports the box holding the ashes of Tatiana, beloved first cat, and pictures Mary took, the program bulletin from her funeral, a lock of hair that’s yellow and various other magic things, things to keep the love forever spell. So I don’t know if Bob is still alive. He probalby is. When he started peeing blood, I was getting another job that paid closer to a “living wage.” I think Bob knew 15/hour isn’t a living wage anymore. An I think his virtual alter ego was closer to the surface than he realized. He was like Forest Gump’s friend Captain Dan. Too angry to befriend, too bitter, but still sexy. Also, I think he was a Trump-lover type guy. He had “wife-beater” tank tops with American Flags, and such. He lived in a nice neighborhood. That’s usually enough for Americans to side with Fascism, imho. Well, Dan I loved you though. I started wanting to be liked by you, to make you laugh, to change you. Sorry about that. I just thought if you smoked weed it would help. A loser-making-15/hour-type of idea. Especially if you’re gonna die, bro. But thank you for letting me handle your body, that vulnerability. Sometimes I wanna find out if you’re still alive, but what if you are, and you offer me 15/hour again, while I love you.

FARZONA

One of my favorite, most memorable students was named Dammit, I forgot, but I had her for a year before she went to the Middle School Teacher. All the kids were Muslim; it was an international school. Fara- Far- What was her name? This was in 2019 when covid spread, and the next year she had Ms. Radic. Ms. Radic was my friend, but I thought she yelled too much at the kids. This child was angelic looking, Far-forgotten name, and she was from Turkey, Uzbekistan, or one of those countries that try to satiate Russia’s appetite Far-zona Her name, Farsona? She was one of the last students to join the 5th grade class that I taught that year, with those blessed, beloved people whom I miss forever. Far-zona She told me one day that she had dreamed that she laid AN EGG. I loved that. Just like a bird! She was concerned about her future as a woman.

Once she got to Ms. Radic, she had experienced a strange summer in a faraway country where a rich uncle bought her a full wardrobe of pink, sparkling items. She was perfectly beautiful. Everyone loved her. Damn, I forget all their names, But there was Serafina, there was Kayala, they were small and religious, and rebellious, and real.

Ms. Radic quit after she yelled at the principal for interrupting her class, and she was openly disrespectful (I thought) during PD meetings, doing silly things like braiding hair with other women. And once the principal (who I backed) confronted her about the disrespect, she quit.

After she quit, I remember I had Sarfina and her, Farzona, in my room for lunch, some special Girls Group to reinforce positive behavior/teach social skills. And the day I remember, I got into an argumetn with Farzona.

I said, Ms. Radic was too mean. She yelled too much. Of course, I also yelled, but it’s nice to point a finger at the teacher(s) who yell more than me. So, Farzona said, “She did NOT yell too much. The people, those boys deserved it.”

And I felt challenged. So I said, “Farzona, Ms. Radic DID yell too much, and it’s just not appropriate.” And I was thinking of being the child, try to comprehend the rage of an adult. But Farzona got mad and she countered, “No, Ms. Radic did nothing wrong.” And Farzona missed Ms. Radic. I did too, but I also thought she was disrespectful to the principal by braiding hair during the PD, and I was in snitch mode, so I thought these kids would benefit to be free of an adult yelling at them.

But now, here I am. I got fired for yelling to much at the kids, and using profanity. I wish I could send a message to Farzona telling her that she was right. Teachers are allowed to “yell too much.” It fucking shows they care, and it betrays how much of themselves they’ve sacrificed to the job. I think Farzona would have had my back at my most recent job. “He IS a brat,” she would say, “You just told the truth.”

The enemy was moving in the night, and so were we. I led a small group around the periphery of a house just like the one on 39th and 10th, where we grew up, and the sand pit on the side was still there, and we fell into it. Dead deer! My sister yelled right as I felt it, below, struggling at my legs. It was hidden, mortally wounded, struggling beneath the shubbery rubbish that covers the sand pit. Not dead, but dying alone. Oh my god, Oh my god, I yelled, get me out of this, climbing out of the pit. And it wasn’t the only dead animal. I hit a wall of bushes a bit later and she yelled from the other side, You don’t even want to see what’s over here! And I didn’t. Just another grosteque display of life that got mangled and smashed by something unknown. As usual, I was trying to find a small weapon that I’d dropped out the window, but outside, the yard became the corner of 38th and Chicago in Minneapolis And a bunch of street folks, including killers and enemies, was hanging out there, so my partner said, fuck it, Let’s not worry about trying to get it back right now. It’s just a tiny pill, right? But I did find it, and I tried to light it. With this weapon (like a magical molotov cocktail) you have to light it around the enemy and then throw it at them, and it vaporizes them like witches melting into a puddle. But the fire just flamed and fizzled. It wouldn’t stay lit. I couldn’t throw it. Then we were walking along a highway, trying to walk on the shoulder. But the cars were unmanned, and they lurched for us like robot sharks. The last stressful things that happened were with my pets. I saw my puppy trotting after a group of big dogs, and I screamed her name to come back. I screamed so loudly my throat was hoarse. All she wanted to do was smell the bigger black poodle’s butt, but the moment was loaded with dread. She came back finally, no bloody dog fight. All’s well that ends well.

The Greatest Memories The memories I’ll take with me from 2025 with my class that I had until last month are musical. I’ll think about us all belting out Toto, “I bless the rains down in Africa! Gonna take the time to do the things we never diiiiiiid,” doom da doom doom doom!”

And getting down to Shaboozey’s big hit, Tipsy, “One, here comes the two to the three to the four… Say it’s last call and they kick us out the door. It’s gettin’ kinda late but the ladies want some more! Oh my, good lord! ///My baby wanna Birkin. She been telling me all night long.”

And Morgan Wallen’s sexy banger, “Last Night, we let the liquor talk, we can’t remember everything we said but we said it all. You told me that you wish I was somebody you never met! Well baby, baby, something’s tellin’ me this aint over yet. No way it was our last night!”

Then me and the other aides (middle aged gals) exchange a look that means how much WE LIKE Morgan Wallen, with his tight white jeans struttin’ around on stage. Some things go over the kids’ heads.

Then we play the song, Aint Got a Guy for That, by Post Malone feat. Luke Combs. I overthought this lyrics way too much. But at the end, I’m singing with my students,

“Know a V.I.P. up at M.I.T. And he still won't let me fly the time machine Someone to turn back the hands on my new AP But, buddy, what I really need

Is someone to put her tires back in the drive And if they don't, then I just might Lose what's left of my never-lovin' mind I'm damn near down to my last dime!”

Damn. I was a better choir director than academic teacher in some ways. But we had fun! If only their wasn’t an armed society of administration pointing bazookas at it, demanding the data that shows a likely profit for the nonprofit based on meeting standards designed to produce production and profit.

facts, I STILL aint got a guy for that.

Funny tangent— Last night while I was bar and club hopping in my dream life, somebody said, “We CAN’T go home yet! The Post Malone show just got out, so many dudes out there!”

It’s a persuasive argument. I DO wanna go where the dudes are at, but are they really there? Or is Post Malone’s concerts full of teenage white girls?

I like the combo of R&B with country, it’s an easy mix. Throw a little soft rap in there, sure, why not?

The song my class REALLY got into (especially the one I loved the most, Chance) was Tears for Fears, SHOUT… SHOUT… LET IT ALL OUT! These are the things I can do without! Come on! I’m talking to you… come on.

I’m completely unwilling to grieve the loss of this class, these students, ugh, too sad to comprehend. The lost boys. They go on without me now. Their hell never ends. They’re locked up. The environment elicits the worst behaviors possible, which means they don’t get to “earn” going back home, maybe never. Best case scenario, a group home will take them. For that, I write a report that makes them look attractive. they were always attractive humans in my book. Talented, funny, particular, intelligent, and brave. Truly tough survivors.

It’s impossible to keep track of anyone. We all go our separate ways.

We also loved to sing these other songs:

-Everybody wants to rule the world (as featured in the Minions movie) -a long list of kids educational type songs about planets, dinosaurs, etc. -That love song where the video is a mirror image of drawings in pencil, and the lover comes to life, what’s it called… Take on Me, by Aha.

That’s how we made school in a moldy basement room surrounded by chaos and broken hardware— that’s how we made it fun.

But I burned out. And it sucks for them. But it rocks for me. Because I’m never teaching for a non-profit again, or for the state. I refuse to use the degree I worked hard for years and years. I get to keep the knowledge. But my cover was blown, and they don’t want me back.

You are not eligible for re-hire. And I’m not interested in it, either. But the kids, with our music, our joy, that’s ours.

Since I was 10 or so, I’d critique myself the way a good American girl should be critiqued… Am I on track? Am I pretty enough? Will they love me? Do they love me? What can I change, what can I learn to be loved more, to be safer, to be more bulletproof, to provide a higher profit? How much will they pay me for my neutrality or even endorsement? Am I going to heaven or hell? And which one I deserve.

And I created this bottom line in the mid-air, in the sky that could boom like thunder, BUT ARE YOU WRITING POETRY

yes, my drunk and sad reply. yeah. I can’t stop doing that, that’s the only thing we really like, so yeah, no matter.

Then you’re fine, says the lightening. You’re doing your job. Really can’t do much more. The gods love you, and can’t wait to snuggle with you like a pile of kittens or puppies.

Nightly spirit’s journey toward home Is no one going that way?
No one else wants to go home yet Kind stranger, can you tell me where the subway is, It looks like East New York, or Broadway in Brooklyn, in Bedford Stuyvesant and there’s gotta be a subway entrance around here somewhere searching all four corners, calculating the city grid I never pay, I always slip the stall like a ghost and it’s crowded on the 2/3/4/5/G train platform It’s so crowded I end up hanging off the scaffolding from an above ground train platform, maybe in Long Island City I’m holding on tight, dangling above dark water I think that if my shoes fall off, even one of them, the rest of my walking journey will be hard. My feet will hurt badly At least one of my high heeled shoes is sliding off my foot dangling as if from a barbie doll, as if it isn’t real I’ll have to pull myself back up to get on that train Fling myself right back up, like a bat When I enter the car, everyone is running out, as if from a bad situation or an intolerable smell (or both), and there’s one, crazy homeless person sitting there by the pole, amid all her bright trash but it doesn’t stink (because I’m a spirit, we don’t smell) I’m fine riding in this car but I don’t think I made it home I got in walkable distance but it was so tiring All I wanted was to go out for a couple hours Be the Cinderella of the ball, then come back on the metro Thinking, Maybe I’ll go to college in the Canadian province Get another Masters degree or something Maybe there are more lives to be lived

Of course her name was Diane. The more I think about getting fired from my last job, the more I wish I had a good lawyer, to sue the fuck outta them. (Who? The nonprofit, of course).

But their punishment will be the closure of their program. I’d have to get in a line to sue them. I wish I could see my supervisor’s face when they tell her even though she tried to save the school, (“I was hired to SAVE the school!” And we can become one of the BEST schools—red flag, unrealistic), it will still get shut down.

Diane was a dumb ass bitch—but nothing unusual. To say it without cuss words, an unevolved, immature, cocky white woman with white women’s weaknesses. (see: all administration in every single school).

I’m a white woman, but I’m direct. I don’t play political games. I apologize when I fuck up. I don’t need sympathy. I don’t cry when I’m asked to take responsibility for shit. I’ll get mad, but I’ll process it. I know I get mad. I’m not in denial about it. I like confrontations and smile just writing the word. I hate passive aggression. I hate entitlement. Mid-wealthy people who toot their own horns. So, I hated her. So fake and always lying. And i never got to tell her, so sad.

So Diane, here you go: I hate you. Not in a way that you’re more important than other teachers who become supervisors because kids don’t like them. But in an average, horribly boring way. Like how the first question you asked me, when you took me out to STARBUCKS (i would never go to starbucks, but you’re the boss), was, So what do you love about your job?

I should’ve said NOT HAVING A SUPERVISOR. Going under the radar. Doing what’s right. Not having to talk to Starbucks Moms like you.

Applied Behavioral Analysis is a dangerous body of knowledge It grew out of studies of abuse that weren’t intended to study abuse They just used abuse to achieve experiement goals They beat dogs, they electrocuted people, they gave people diseases They made them salivate, they made them wretch, they broke them for the ends justified their means, and the means were abuse So out of decades of abuse, people learned that you can train fellow humans You can get what you want out of them with just a little bit of torture

And when I trained to be a Registered behavioral Technician, people said, that’s a dangerous field, and they were right, and Autism Speaks is atrocious because they’re a wealthy blob at the end of the experiments, promising people a cure from something uncurable but natural, from something naturally imperfect From nature, they derived the program to reverse nature to make it convenient no matter what people in their clutches thought of felt about it

So when I used to care for William, deep down, I wanted to push him I wanted to train him and withold supports from him, because I believed he’d been trained the wrong way. I believed he could do the things he refused to do, and acted like he can’t do, like use his hands

His hands are very soft and white, like the hands of an aristocratic girl Who’s only job is to hold up the hand with the finger wearing a wedding band Hands aren’t for work. Hands aren’t for labor. Hands are for flapping. Hands are for flapping while rocking and holding onto an exciting idea Hands should rub the thighs and flap in the air while other people hands do the work of feeding, cleaning, picking up things, using remote controls, flushing the toilet, putting on clothes, opening doors, and closing them

For Will, THAT is what hands are for: mostly for flapping to the beat of the exciting idea. The idea has words, but sometimes Williams murmurs the words Sometimes he whispers them, or turns the words into a tight hum in fast forward speed, but most of the time, he wants you there with him, saying the thing. I know almost all the things that William likes to say, based on all the TV shows he watches, because I watched them all with him 100 times or more. Words are gestaults to William. Words represent things bigger than words, not like for most of us, but on a deeply emotional level. A group of words like, “Do you see a CLUE! Where? Right there! Oh right!” (Blues Clues) carries memories and if it’s invoked likely contains a tangental connection to something happening in the present moment. That’s why Autism so cool!

I love decoding languages, especially multi-faceted languages like Autism-script. To speak this with somebody, you have to mimic things exactly. That’s what they like. Say it exactly like the character in the show say it, make eye contact, and like it! Be there! Don’t look away first. Mirror their facial expression (unless it’s sad). If it’s sad, try to flip it to happy. Sad is a dark place for Autism-scripts. William often brings up moments that he characters are scared or they FALL DOWN. If william starts perseverating on FALLING DOWN (which happens on way more TV shows than you think), we’re in trouble.

William is like me, insofar as the underground of sadness isn’t comprehensible or tolerable. Shame is intolerable. Being misunderstood is intolerable. Being left out is intolerable. william hates when I chat with his family and he’s not included. He gets “mad.” One thing he learned is that he can get the attention back by hitting himself or falling down on the floor. But today he just watched us, sadly, and the words were flying to fast for him to catch any of them.

I know how to break down most messages into the tone and shortness he can understand. It’s so much repetition. You say certain things the same way every time. I mimic William and he mimics me.

Today we were getting him dressed to go see his dad, which is always a nightmare. His dad believes William would use his hands if people stopped helping him. From an ABA perspective, all BHTs and RBTs would agree. You can train him to use his hands with positive reinforcement. That’s their stance.

But what if you can’t? What if, like Will’s mom believes, the inability or refusal to use hands is a type of catatonia, or catatonic behavior? What if he really CANNOT? What if the signal doesn’t reach the arm from the brain? Can we really understand anything that’s going on in someone’s mind who won’t feed himself, given a plate of cut-up food? Who would start punching himself in the head instead, until you feed him by hand?

As a mother, how hard do you push and when? His mother doesn’t want me to push at all. She wants me to do exactly what I’m doing: be his anchor person. My hands and my body and my attention are for HIM while i’m there. I don’t even check my watch. I put all my attention into perceiving the signs and messages he sends about what he wants. even if he just whispers a few words from a TV show, I find that show and play it. Then if he immediately asks for a different show (which is the baseline I’m used to with him), I do it. I don’t choose the show. Every thing he does is from his own intention or words.

I feel so good about it, honestly. I wipe this kid’s butt, and I don’t mind. And man I wipe the booty well, because imagine not being able to do it for yourself? Mom says that when he tries, he just makes a mess. I used to think WELL TEACH HIM, HE’S ALMOST A MAN. But what if you can’t? How long should a kid sit around with a dirty, itchy ass because he hasn’t learned to wipe? And might not ever learn?

I get where his mom is coming from now. The more I resisted him (the way I used to sometimes) the more anxiety he shows. If I convince him energetically that I’m available to use, like a wheelchair, and I’m not distracted, and I can be his hands, his voice, his body. I can be his complete advocate.

This was always the core of what I do well, and why I became a teacher. It feels great to get back to it. To do the main thing I liked doing, interacting with kids with Autism, and not be worried about my academic pressures. I mean, that’s why I couldn’t keep up with the paperwork- there were always kids in my presence bidding for attention. That’s always the priority.

But not for administration. And that won’t change.

3 years ago, I was in better shape and so was my voice. I was worried that he wouldn’t recognize me. His recognition is occuring in slow motion. I know he grieved me when I disappeared 3 years ago and I always thought about him, too. I used some of his phrases and tones that I carried with me. Certain idiosyncracies that came up while working with other kids. I’d stop and think, “Oh, I got that from William.”

People with Autism are way worth the trouble. They are! Not because they’re like us, but because they’re not. They don’t “grow up” in the same way. They get big, yeah. But they don’t stop being authentic. Worst case, they shut down. I felt like William has shut down a lot since 3 years ago, and gained a lot of weight. But so have I.

We need people like this in the world. William is the person that makes me feel the most human right now. To hold hands, to let him lead me around his house, to stand closely, to hold eye contact. I barely have that with my family! My dog is the only other thing that comes close to how I feel about these kids, and Will, in particular. He’s 21 now. He’s not really a kid. But he’s not growing out of child TV shows. They don’t. They don’t grow out of them. They love Elmo, Caillou, Little Bear, Brother bear, Blue, Magenta— they love them forever. Spongebob, yo gabba gabba, this is how their brain is shaped now. Those are characters that give meaning to our language. They provide the scripts.

Before I left this morning I helped Will pick his outfit out and put it on. He chose a red hoodie, and I taught him a Russian word, “kraz-naya” for red. He instantly repeated it.

I have a tiny fantasy that one day their family will go on vacation to Europe and will take me along because I can manage their grown-up child and because I speak German and Russian (and if I learn Italian, which should be easy, that’s even better).

I love William and his family.

Do you know the house and has the house ever come to you in your dream Changing, changeling, loose change, loose pets, the old house in the old dream

This is a house we must leave, and it hurts, it’s our house it’s our dream, and we have to pack up and leave, despite everything that cannot fit into bags to be carried, there are too many books, too many personal knick knacks, too many shoes (without pairs), too much clothes, too much food and history. So I always wonder, can we please just keep our house? Or at least be able to come back? To leave the things we can’t carry now on their shelves and hanging on their hooks and come back for them?

Lately, nature has been assaulting the house with storms, fire and ice Last night, ice crept accross the intersections of walls, and I thought, this terrible frost, and what about how the rooms are literally coming apart at their seams, and the ocean and the fire engulfs from the front while enemies try to capture us and I try to get ahold of the magical weapon that can kill the leader, It’s something I’ll throw at him, at them, and they’ll be vaporized, forever. But I throw it and I may miss, so we have to find it again.

Fear of Missing Out is Real Because when you do miss out, it hurts Like how a few years after I graduated from Smith, They made it so somehow your debt is forgiven and someone pays for it. Someone rich, maybe, but they pay it off for you, so spring you highly unencumbered into your life of liberal achievement work, and then you can write to the Smith Quarterly for your class, saying “We’re doing great. John died in February, but I continue lecturing and working in the garden. I went to Spain to retrace our courtship after graduation from Smith with an American Studies degree, and my junior year abroad in France. Here’s a picture of us being nurses during WWII.” Yes, I made that up. These are the women who are laid to rest properly, in a grave that cost more than my apartment per month. And they had great lives, they obviously did. But I’m not having one. And I’m listening from the coat closet, with my 97 thousand dollar debt sending text messages about how much longer I can ignore them and how much it’ll cost.