My Youngest Boy

         My oldest son is a colorful, creative 17 year old, who has been acting on film, television, and the stage since he was five years old. He doesn’t drink, smoke, or do drugs, and he’s made the transition from child actor, with few battle scars. He’s creative, compulsive, and sweet, with the narcissistic tendencies of any working creative artist. I’m glad he’s my first born, because my second son is quiet, retrospective, and difficult to read.

          At 13 years old, my second born is constantly shooting and editing films, which he has done since he was six. At 12, he was asked to edit some videos for a foreign magazine company, and when he got paid for the job, decided that was a great way to make money. He plays both acoustic and electric guitar, and picked up on the drums after years of watching his father make a living at it.  My two boys are best friends... as best as one can be at four and a half years apart, and my oldest can light up his brother's face like no one else. My first has worked with moody directors, actors, and authoritative figures his whole life, and speaks to all with a soothing voice beyond his

years. He can draw my youngest out of his shell, and understand where he's coming from when my husband and I are at a loss.

          My youngest has a learning disability known as a processing problem. We could tell something was different when he was in the third grade, and his comprehension of things began to wane. When you spoke to him, he began to "zone out", and at times his response to something would be delayed. VERY delayed. Once when we were on the freeway, my oldest made a comment about a billboard. We all saw it, and laughed. No less than five minutes later, my youngest said, "What billboard?" We laughed because we thought he was trying to be funny. He wasn't, and he became hurt and withdrawn, not knowing why his reaction would cause us to laugh.

   The fourth grade was by far the most difficult for our entire family. My oldest had lost his mentor, and first theater director to diabetes. It was devastating for him, and he wore black for several years.

         My youngest was attending a very small, private school meant to bring out the best in every student, allowing him to achieve greatness at his own pace. However, this was not the case, and instead it gave him many sleepless nights; many humiliating moments made public by a teacher who deemed him her target; and too many hours tutored by people who had no idea what he really needed. It was frustrating, and excruciating for us all. “He’s just not trying hard enough”, his teacher would remark, as if he was trying to make her look bad among her teacher compadres.

          My youngest son had stomach issues, and seemed to do nothing but school, homework, studying, tutoring, and worrying. He never slept. He worried constantly about being made an example of, and wondered why he was so stupid. I assured him he wasn’t, and finally my husband and I borrowed money from our parents, and had him tested by a professional educational therapist.  

          After weeks of testing, she came back to say that he had the “King of all Disabilities”. He had processing issues. The information that was coming into his brain was jumbled, and he was having difficulty figuring out what it all meant. He also had auditory dyslexia. If he heard things too quickly, he couldn’t disseminate what was being said, and as a defensive move, his brain would shut down. That’s where the “zoning out” came in. He also had an IQ that was extremely high, so if you spoke to him in a demeaning fashion, he felt ridiculed.

          We felt relieved to hear all of this, and thought we were on the road to recovery. The therapist suggested a new tutor to help him learn how to categorize the information his brain was receiving, and an eye doctor who specialized in “light therapy”. This “therapy” would train his eyes and brain to work together.

          The eye doctor said he had a slight stigmatism, and prescribed glasses, then gave us a “light box” for our son’s therapy. The glasses didn’t seem to make a difference for him, he read just fine without them, and never had a problem with reading things close or far away. As for the therapy, he had to sit in a completely darkened room for half an hour, staring at a black box with a little colored light shining out of a small circular hole. He couldn’t look away, or be distracted, but he could talk on the phone. So we’d call his best friend up, and they’d sit chatting while my son was staring at his green light. (That was the color he needed, the doctor said). Diligently, my little guy sat, watching that light every night for two months without whining, or complaining… convinced this was the cure. Everyone would finally see how smart he really was. Most of all, his teacher would stop criticizing him.

          Armed with all this information from the specialists, we set up a meeting between his teacher, the principal and owner of his school, and his educational therapist. She explained how his brain functioned, and what would work best for him. We were all in agreement as to how he should be taught; how his tests should be designed; and what his homework should consist of. His therapist explained he was extremely intelligent, he simply had processing issues, which could easily be gotten around with proper teaching for his disability. We all walked away from that meeting satisfied that tomorrow would be a new day for all.

          Tomorrow came and went, just like all the other days. At first the teacher

spoke kindly, and attempted to adjust her teaching of him, but after a week or so, she quickly tired of that, and returned to her old ways. Soon, she informed me that it looked like my son would have to repeat the fourth grade. A few days after receiving this news, the day for statewide testing came, and she called me in the morning to ask if I wouldn't mind keeping my son home for the next few days because they didn't want him to lower their testing results. I can't say I wasn't relieved that he wouldn't have to endure another day at the hands of her abuse, but I was angry that they would consider him a liability.

               The final straw was on the day my son came home in tears, and asked me if it was true he wouldn't get to be a film director. He went on to explain that the teacher had asked all the kids in class what they wanted to be when they grew up, and he proudly said he wanted to direct. Hearing this, she promptly dashed his dreams by telling him directors had to be clear when speaking to actors, and he just didn’t seem to have that ability. He asked me if that was true, and I told him, “No, your teacher is wrong.”
          The next day I contacted his therapist, and she told me she would recommend transferring him to another school, but it was too late in the year. Still, she told me of a school that taught kids just like him. Kids who were autistic; who had processing problems; who had high IQ’s; who were creative; and who, if they had the desire, could attend college. After taking a campus tour, and speaking with the administrator, I set up an appointment for my son to be evaluated. 
 
On the day of his evaluation, my son was nervous, and kept asking what would happen if he wasn’t accepted. I told him there’d be no way they wouldn’t accept him. At the end of a very gentle, and loving evaluation, the administrator asked him why he’d like to attend their school. After a long pause he said, “Because I’m smart, and I want to go where other kids are like me, and the teachers are nice.” A week later we received a letter welcoming him to their school saying, "Welcome to the 5th grade".