Culturally approved. Broken. Inside. Outside. outsider. The thought that somewhere there is a world where everyone is like me, appreciates — relates, understands without reading the latest literature. That normal really is relative, no matter how hard I try to think otherwise. In the end, it is our culture, and society that dictate how we must be and how we should act — What we can or must wear say think do. Don’t go squawking down the street like a chicken — that’s crazy! But then I think of the social obvliviousness, that humans have evolved with. It’d be like a dog not “getting” that it’s supposed to sniff the butt of another dog, or whatever. We create our own norms, our own rules — are there cultures without rules? “difficulty with rule-based behavior”. How is it not a disorder? An inability to deal with the situation. Though I suppose some can’t do math, the rules too convoluted or abstract or whatever……….
“Neurology offers a biological explanation which distinguishes between the ‘maladjusted’ child and the AD/HD child.” (Rafalovich, 411)
flashback: ms. whiteside
I remember those afternoons in strange detail. A soft knock on the doorframe punctuated the murmur of learningvoices, Ms. whiteside’s dark brown face smiling slightly, but warmly in the doorway. I rose to leave while she quietly asked our teacher if she could borrow me for a little while. We made our way down the dimly lit hallway, lined by pegs and cubbies and construction paper and into her office, hidden away in a corner of the main lobby.
I must have spent hours in that office with Ms. Whiteside — hours that I enjoyed, as she would put me to a task and then silently watch, observing details I could not fathom,. She would give me colored blocks, and ask me to assemble certain shapes, or tell a story about a picture. I was intrigued, and maybe confused at times by the simplicity of the tasks, but I completed them with no less fervor. Ms. Whiteside’s measured gaze never hostile or intimidating… I vaguely remember her checking a timepiece, perhaps recording all the times. She probably had a file. Come to think of it, she must have written everything down… Yes, she was always writing, in pencil in even measured hand on yellow legal paper, it seemed she wrote far more than what could possibly be taken from my simple tasks…
Then there was Dr. A. We would sit in his office playing games — he’d casually ask how everything was going, and I’d quickly dismiss the question without lifting my focus from the game. I’d tell him everything was fine, and we’d finish our game. Sometimes we played Stratego.