Poetry from Julie Jordan Scott

Notorious: Educational Failings - Written on World Autism Day 2018

It is a blur.

Smudged in my eyes and ears by my then five-year-old son’s crying.

Shrieking. No attempts at shielding his fear and horror as he stood in a corner.

Surrounded by men, towering over him, keeping him there.

I reached between them and relieved my son of their imprisonment.

Another day, another time, called to school because of his behavior.

Shrieking. No attempts at shielding his fear and horror as he stood in a corner.

My heart beat now, stuttering, rising still in my chest, ten years later.

“He insisted on swinging” someone said as I held his quivering, still

Crying self on my lap. Intuitively I rocked him, held his ear to my heart.

Smudged in my eyes and ears by the cause of his being held prisoner

In a corner with a school psychologist and an administrator as jailers

Was his desire to swing? A roar, again, in my ears.

Wait his desire to swing? On that swing, to the north of the slide?

My daughter reported seeing him dragged across campus.

(later I would learn swinging calms the vestibular sense for spectrum kids)

It is a blur. I question my accuracy but I remember quite clearly.

Another day, another time, called to school because of his behavior.

This was all because he wanted to swing.

“He insisted on swinging” someone said as I held his quivering, still

And he wanted routine.

He begged his teacher to let him stay with the other children.

Another day, another time, called to school because of his behavior.

Sent home, again. Not educated, again. My fault they inferred, again.

And he needed to feel safe. “I like him” his teacher said

“He doesn’t behave like this at home.” I said.

Silent glares. My then five-year-old son’s crying.

Crying self on my lap. Intuitively I rocked him, held his ear to my heart.

Smudged in my eyes and ears by my then five-year-old son’s crying.

And he was punished. He begged his teacher -

For something kindergarten educators.

Shrieking. No attempts at shielding his -

Another day, another time, called to school because of his behavior.

Should have recognized. It is a blur.

My heart beat now, stuttering, rising still in my chest, ten years later.

School psychologist. Notorious. Don’t tell me he couldn’t see what this was.

Must have recognized

For Maire and Diane: Poem 1 of 30 for National Poetry Month/ 2018

Last night I sat here, in my recliner, like I am sitting here now

Comfortably watching time evaporate when I lifted my chin and noted

The light to my daughter. “Look, Emma, the light…”

and continued reading, aiming for the completion of my endless to-do list

I almost didn’t translate

almost missed the invitation - the curling come hither finger of dusk, the finite time of blessed transition

reconnecting me to my

Four-year-old fear of lightning bugs

My willful thirteen-year-old insistence it was

Perfectly acceptable to try out my mother’s Virginia slims in the upstairs bathroom

My grieving twenty-eight-year-old walking into the light,

praying please god for something to change this outcome

It never occurred to me to care about

The inner workings of what makes the cereal bowl

being released from the bowels of the dishwasher sparkling clean

or why when I turn the key to my almost sentient Mazda the

engine rises up, singing, without complaint.

Why is it at 3:44 am I awaken and decide to google “worm holes” so I might come to understand the unfathomable nature of the depths of space even the most brilliant minds can’t deciper?

Neither outer space nor inner abyssal are tangible to me.

Both need artificial light and tools to touch them.

If I was honest, I would confess I really don’t care until

I hear… well, the mist of the question floods the crest of my shoulders in solicitation –

In the looping intersection between the highest note of the mourning dove’s song and the middle of the universe’s wormhole, the miles away train whistle abrupts the still ocean waters of the unreachable aqua pits and the gentle force of the sun saying her daily goodbye  pushes me to lift my body from its resting position into this revelatory moment -

This is where it taps my heartbeat,

Oh yes, my God

My abba

My infinite

We are all connected