What is a bully?

My fifteen-year-old son, Tate, is a freshman in High School. Tate has autism. To my knowledge Tate has never had to deal with peer who is a bully. I have a theory or two about the why(s) behind that and you can read about all of that here: A Successful Buddy Program

It is hard for some to believe that Tate does not have a problem with bullies. Many people have told me that bullying is just something their children with autism have to live with. I have had a few people suggest to me that Tate is likely being bullied for his differences, but is either unable to recognize it himself and complain, or that I am just too out-of-touch to know. It really is hard for some people to understand that we seem to have done what is considered "the impossible." There simply are no bullies in Tate's life.

Because the month of October is bullying prevention month, I decided to talk to my two special needs kids about bullying. I asked Tate if he knew what a bully is. He said, "a bully is someone who is mean to kids." I walked away and came back a bit later to ask him to go a bit more into depth about what a bully is. This time he said, "a bully picks on kids." So I asked him what a bully looks like. He told me a bully looks like a big kid who is really mean. I asked him if a little kid could ever be a bully and he said, "yes." I asked him if a grown up could be a bully. He again answered, "yes." So I asked him if he knew any bullies. He exclaimed, "no!" 

I wanted to explain some things about bullying to Tate and his younger sister, and that is best done with visuals for my two literal kids. The following is what I came up with... 

Let me know if I got it right. Are there things here you would change or add? Find me on Facebook at Quirks and Chaos. 

The Faces of Friendship

There you are in the grocery store, the face of kindness. My son is walking beside me as I push the cart and you walk quickly to catch up to us. You are shopping with your mom too. You call my son Tate by name and greet him enthusiastically. Tate mumbles a response, barely looking your direction and wanders on ahead. You tell me that you go to school with him and when I thank you for speaking to him so nicely and I try to make an excuse for his lack of interest in you, you say, “Oh I know. That’s just how he is.” You call, “See you at school Monday Tate!” and as you walk away, my heart sings knowing there are peers like you who genuinely like my son for who he is, autism and all.

There you are in the school auditorium, the face of consideration. My son and I are attending his sister’s school play. We find our seats in the school’s auditorium. You come, dragging your mom by the hand, and sit beside Tate. You speak to him and introduce him to your mom. I ask Tate to introduce me to his friend. He says he does not know your name. I cringe inside but smile, hoping you understand. I tell you that Tate has trouble matching faces and names. You tell me you already know that, assure me it’s okay, and you politely introduce yourself and your mother to me. You try your best to engage Tate in conversation and you make a little progress, while your mom and I listen and make a little small talk over the tops of your heads. I am very impressed and thankful my son is learning social skills from peers like you.

I am at the Junior High school, sitting in seventh grade Science class. I've been invited by your teacher to hear Tate give his presentation on the solar system. You are there, so many of you! You are the faces of encouragement. Tate stands in front of you proudly, a big smile on his face. It never occurs to him that you might not be impressed with his modified school work or the presentation his Paraprofessional helped him to put together. Your presentations were much more detailed and they were done independently but you show Tate the same courtesy you showed the peer that presented before him and the one who comes after. My heart melts knowing you respect my son and make him feel like a part of your class regardless of his abilities. I so appreciate you!

There you are in a department store, the face of compassion. I’m out shopping and feel eyes on me. I look over to see you smile and you ask, “Are you Tate’s mom?” I say that I am and you ask me where he is. I tell you he is home. You tell me you eat lunch with Tate sometimes. I tell you how much it means to Tate’s family to know the kids at school are so kind to him. You smile and tell me it is fun to eat lunch with Tate. You add that you have learned more from being Tate’s friend than he has learned from you. I ponder this, as I know Tate is not what most kids would consider “fun” or is he able to do the classwork that the rest of you can do. He is hard to converse with, sometimes seems rude, he does not understand social cues, and he performs below grade level in every subject. But you know that. You know how he struggles to understand friendship yet how much he needs friends. You know how he struggles to process language, especially when it is spoken quickly. You are willing to be the kind of friend a kid with autism needs, a friend who has to give more than they receive, a friend who has to slow down and give Tate time to process before he can respond. And you are okay with that. My heart swells with gratitude.

This evening I need to find the face of understanding. We have come to a music program. Tate is to sing with his classmates. I hoped you would be here at the entrance to the school and I see you walking in right ahead of us. I stop you and ask you if you know where Tate should go to find his group. You tell me you know exactly where to go and you say, “Come on Tate. Follow me.” I call to you as you disappear into the crowd, “Thank you!” I feel blessed and relieved to be a part of this community where I can find these willing faces all around us.

I see you at a school picnic, the faces of acceptance. Tate’s class voted and chose to go fishing at a lake as their end-of-the-year-event. We considered skipping it because Tate is not interested in fishing at all. He does not like to get dirty and I figure he will most likely spend the evening asking us how much longer we have to stay. We decided he should go and as our family pulls up to the lake, several of you approach our van, calling Tate’s name and asking him to hurry and join you. He says, “My friends are here.” He follows you to the gathering and we bring up the rear. My heart smiles at the knowledge that my son has friends. He has friends and he is accepted, autism and all.

As a part of the autism community I often hear of prejudice, intolerance, hate and bullying. We’ve seen very few of those things in my son’s life. Perhaps it is because we have been open about his autism diagnosis since kindergarten. Perhaps it is because we made sure his classmates were educated about autism. Perhaps it is because of the lunch buddy program and the other social coaching programs his peers have participated in with him. Perhaps it is because we live in a small town and a close-knit community. Perhaps we just got lucky and my son has a class of exceptionally caring peers whose parents have taught them about friendship, kindness, consideration, encouragement, respect, compassion, understanding and acceptance. Perhaps it is a combination of all of these things. 

If you liked this post, you might like to read Building Tate's Friendships.

To the girls who mocked my son in the mall

Tate and Sydney at the mall 12-19-14

Last evening as I walked through the nearly empty mall with my two youngest, you five girls were behind us by several yards. We had just seen a movie and were in great spirits. We were walking to meet up with four of my older children. We stopped to take a photo, at one of those cutout scenes where you stick your faces through the holes. I caught sight of you as we took our photo, walking and giggling and having a good time. I have had teenaged girls and know how much fun they can have together in a mall. I noted to myself that you were a lively group but certainly not threatening in any way. You were walking faster than we were and the gap between us was closing. I turned from snapping our photo and we continued down the hall. My son fell behind a few steps as he was adjusting his earbuds. He was listening to his music like a typically developing 13-year-old boy might do in a mall. Though if you could have seen his playlist you would have realized he is not a typically developing 13-year-old boy. He was probably listening to Disney tunes, the muppets, or a preschool sensation called The Fresh Beat Band. You probably did not notice he was “different” until you saw him run a few steps to catch up to me. He always runs on his toes with a very awkward gait; and I’m sure that a 6’3” young man running on his toes looked pretty ridiculous to you. The mall was empty enough for me to hear your innocent girlish giggling turn to that of a contemptuous kind of laughter. I knew before I turned; but I could not stop myself. I turned to look and saw one of you mocking my son. You were running on your toes and flailing your arms. My son and his little sister kept walking, not noticing that I had turned to look behind us. They both have special needs and were oblivious to the change in my demeanor. I took about three steps back toward you, and your forward pace slowed. I must have looked very intimidating all of the sudden. I had gone from happy and quietly content to irate in a fraction of a second. I can only imagine the look I had on my face as I took those few steps toward you. I did see the looks on your faces. Your laughter stopped. I saw guilt and I saw your faces redden with embarrassment. You were caught. You thought you’d have your laugh at my son’s expense and we would not notice. Or perhaps you did not care if we noticed, but you certainly did not expect me to turn and call you out. I cannot remember my exact words but I believe they were, “My son has autism. I sure hope you are not making fun of him.” Your stuttering and stammering out, “We’re not. We’re not making fun of anyone.” caused me to doubt myself for a split second; but then I remembered I had seen one of you, the girl on the far left, copying my son’s movements while all five of you laughed. I said no more, and turned back toward my kids and caught up to them, thankful that my son had his headphones in and thankful that he probably would not have understood much of our exchange if he had been listening anyway. As we all continued down the hall I had to remind myself that all five of you are just kids, probably very nice girls most of the time. One of you were impulsive enough to make fun of the differences you saw in my son and the other four were weak enough to go along with the joke. I had to remind myself that you all five had families that love you as much as I love my children and you all five may have issues of your own to deal with. And perhaps you really did believe that making fun of someone else is just innocent fun and we would have no idea it had even happened.

Perhaps you go to a school where the kids with special needs are kept separate from you or perhaps it is acceptable amongst your peers to laugh at their differences. We are from a small town and my son Tate goes to a small school. He has peers who accept him and do not make fun of the way he moves or talks. They know he is different and help him to fit in. They do not laugh at him or belittle him. As a matter of fact, had some of them been with him last night, they would have probably said more to you about your behavior than I did. 

I have to admit that I have no idea if turning and calling you out was the right thing to do or not. I did not know how to react. You see I have never seen anyone mock my son before. In fact, in thirteen years I cannot remember him once being made fun of. Perhaps there have been times and I have just not caught on like I did last night but I like to think that you are the first. How does that make you feel? You broke a thirteen-year streak for us.

If statistics prove true and all five of you grow up to become mothers, chances are that one of you will have a child or a grandchild with a disability. I do not wish that on your child or grandchild, but if it happens, I actually hope that you get a thirteen-year streak without bullying. As a matter of fact, I hope you have an even longer one. And even more importantly I hope that if your son or daughter, grandson or granddaughter, are ever bullied that you will not be able to think back and remember the time that you yourself laughed at a child with a disability and caused a mother pain. The burden might be too heavy for you to bear.

If you would like to read more, try this post: Baldwin Bulldogs class of 2020

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Tate age 12, Sydney age 10