Page 9 of When I Thug You Like That

“Yes, please,” Mr. Sullivan replied.

“Okay.”

I waited a few seconds before asking. “Is it hard to redirect him when he’s excited?”

His eyes stayed on Jamison as he replied. “It’s hard to redirect any kid when they’re excited.”

“True,” I agreed.

“But I only talk twice. The first time is correction. The second is redirection. If we get to a third time, then I know he’s testing my gangsta. We almost never get to a third though.”

I chose not to respond to the last part of his statement although it made me laugh inwardly because I understood. “You pay close attention.”

“I got to.”

“Yeah, but you also make a conscious choice to do so knowing his diagnosis. It’s still hard for some parents to fully grasp the needs of a child with autism and to be able to fully support them.”

He turned his head slowly until his eyes met mine. For the first time since the tour started, he didn’t have an immediate joke waiting.

“When God made me his father, he gave me that responsibility. He ain’t ask for autism. It’s my job to show up and support him in every way possible.”

“You’d be surprised how many parents don’t see it that way.”

His jaw shifted. “I wouldn’t.”

There was something in his tone that let me know that there was more to that answer, but I didn’t pry. I changed the subject instead.

“Is there any area you’d like us to focus on when he’s here? Anything you’ve been working on at home that we can continue?”

“Yeah. I’m big on spotting signs before shit about to go left. So, at home, I can tell when he’s about to get angry, sad, or overwhelmed. He might pull at his thumb, press his index finger into his hand, rock, or start stimming bad. At his last school, everything was a reaction. He had to already be frustrated before anybody did something or already struggling and tearing shit up before somebody called me.”

“Okay, you’ve gotta stop cussin’ before I put you in timeout,” I scolded playfully. “I done let you slide about three times.”

“My bad.” He chuckled.

“Mmhmm. Anyway, I get it. And I get what you’re saying. Our dedicated sensory stations help with that.” I pointed to each one around the room. “When I notice any of my little ones are on the verge of becoming overwhelmed, anxious, etc., I bring them right in here to regroup. Sometimes, I’ll put on music, and we’ll just vibe until they’re regulated.”

“That works for me.”

I glanced over to see Jamison had slowed the swing on his own, eventually bringing himself to a stop and hopping off it. Making his way back over to his father’s side, Mr. Sullivan put his arm around his neck.

“I ain’t expecting nobody to know my kid the way I know him by day one or even within the first week. I’m just looking for a school with people who want to.”

My expression softened. This wasn’t just a father speaking. He was advocating for his child.

“Then you’ve come to the right place,” I assured him.

“I hope so.”

“Ready to see my class, Jamison?”

He nodded.

“Alright, let’s head to the last stop on this tour.”

We left the gym, finishing the tour in my classroom where I introduced Jamison to his potential classmates who were overly excited about showing off their desks and cubbies. Again, Mr. Sullivan stood back, giving his son space to explore. The paperwork had told me Jamison Sullivan Jr. was autistic. His father was showing me Baby Jay. And there was a difference, a big one.

After explaining the next steps to Mr. Sullivan, as well as our enrollment process, I answered a few more of his questions that were within my scope of support then walked the duo out. I assumed I did a good job with the tour because I earned myself another hug from Jamison.