By: Jenna Thompson
Updated: Aug. 6, 2020
Originally Published: Feb. 7, 2018
Colorfully painted lockers line the hallways, yet they evoke a sense of panic and anxiety within me as a protective mother. My own middle school experience was filled with joy—collecting stuffed animals, perfecting my hair for school pictures, and folding notes to share with friends between classes. I was academically inclined, enjoyed some popularity, and had a solid circle of friends.
However, my autistic son’s transition to junior high was bound to be a different story. For months, I felt a growing dread about his first day. How would he manage moving between classes amidst a sea of energetic kids? Would the teachers understand his unique needs? What if he got lost or experienced a meltdown? The thought of potential mockery from peers broke my heart.
In elementary school, he was quite the star. His teachers adored him, and he had friends who shared his passions for Minecraft and Legos. At his graduation, I was overwhelmed with pride as his classmates cheered his name. But now, in junior high, he faced a completely different environment. He no longer had a single caring teacher throughout the day, and his close friends were attending a different school due to district boundaries.
As summer drew to a close, we registered him at the new school. The setup felt like an assembly line, and by the time we reached the first classroom, he was in tears. Attempting to log into his online profile while grappling with the realization that he had lost access to last year’s materials was too much for him. The room was filled with onlooking families, and I felt the weight of their judgment as they gave us “The Look.”
At twelve years old, he towers over me, both in height and voice, with thick, unruly hair. I have become accustomed to “The Look” over the years—a mixture of pity, confusion, and sometimes understanding. But regardless of the intent behind it, it stings.
The week before school began, we attended a back-to-school night. I stood nervously as each teacher introduced themselves. Did they know he was autistic? Should I say something, or would they figure it out? They handed us the combination for his locker, and I immediately doubted his ability to use it. Despite my hopes, when he attempted to open the lock, it wouldn’t budge. Frustration bubbled up, and I suggested we find an alternative, like using a large binder with a strap. After all, he’s autistic; he deserves a break.
Now, halfway through the year, he struggles to form friendships. Classmates use inappropriate language and dismiss his love for Minecraft, claiming it’s outdated—how could they not see the beauty in it? Ironically, the class designed to enhance social skills has been a challenge for him due to clashes with other autistic kids. When confronted with a disagreement, he quipped that he was “the oil because I’m highly flammable.” It was a moment of humor I couldn’t help but appreciate.
One day during lunch, he dropped his cookie on the floor and asked the lunch staff for a replacement, but they refused. In a fit of disappointment, he discarded his entire lunch and sat against the wall in tears. It was heartbreaking to see, and I couldn’t understand why no one would offer him a simple cookie.
I’ve visited the school a few times, each visit reminding me of the challenges my son faces. A seventh grader reading at an eleventh-grade level, with an extraordinary mind that goes unnoticed because others won’t take the time to understand him. All of this wrapped up in a struggle to unlock a simple locker door.
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In summary, the journey through middle school can be particularly daunting for children with autism. As a parent, the emotional rollercoaster is intense, but understanding, patience, and advocacy can make a world of difference.