“The Mayflower landed at Plymouth Rock in December 1620.” As she read, she would stop to spell out certain words. In the video, his teacher began to read a lesson about Plymouth Rock. Among all his hand flapping, head shaking and unreasoned giggling, it was hard to tell if the slightly longer look in my direction was really anything at all. “He’s 7 on the outside but 2 on the inside.” “Well, he’s 9 on the outside but 2 on the inside.” When he was 9, I was 16 and I remember my father making a comment at dinner, “You know, I think Sam knows his name.” I would call Sam’s name to see if he would respond. As the years went on, however, the difference between the numbers kept increasing. “Sam looks 5 on the outside but he’s 2 on the inside,” I had learned to say. I remember as a kid explaining his disability to my friends who would ask about it. He had also never spoken an understandable word. He couldn’t use his hands to feed himself, get dressed or do anything that required the slightest dexterity.
He was always shaking or clapping them and grabbing things he shouldn’t. It reminded me how unreliable his hands are. I could also see in the video that his arms were folded across his chest, the hand on top was open and flat, placed delicately on his arm. When he did begin to walk at the age of 3, it was an unbalanced totter.
He had trouble holding himself up, his limbs flopped, and his head bobbled. I was told as a child that this was a symptom of his condition, his muscles are too loose. His legs were also crossed in a yoga-like pose, evidence of his extreme flexibility. His head shook back and forth, pivoting on his neck in a figure eight, a quick jab to the left then a slow return to look up to the right with his crossed eyes. Sam was sitting in his wheelchair fidgeting. I saw a woman sitting at a desk next to my brother. In reluctant support, I opened the video linked at the bottom of her message. My mom was always optimistic about Sam’s progress with autism, to the point where the rest of the family questioned her sense of reality. You’ll never believe what he spelled!” I rolled my eyes. “I just started Sam in a new therapy called Spelling to Communicate. My face became illuminated by the phone screen as I opened my messages. It was dark and I was ready to turn in for the night when I got a text from my mom.
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