Such a simple thing, yes.
For me, it was 15 years coming.
We went to a Halloween party being sponsored by the community mental health agency in our area about an hour or so away. Costumes were encouraged but not required. Men and women of varying ages, backgrounds, walks of life gathered for an evening of lighthearted, spooky fun.
Matthew had been more than eager to attend and reminded Dad and me on the regular for the three weeks prior to said party. "Bumblebee costume Friday! Fun!" It made me smile remembering how once upon a time and not so very long ago events like this were nonexistent because of the overload they put on Matthew's system and consequently us. We had taken him to the local Halloween store where he himself picked out his costume (Bumblebee three years running). He eagerly and happily let us know each day when this night of fun was going to be.
Friday came and the family picked me up from work. The drive there was beautiful with the myriad of color in the autumn leaves. Matthew was in the seat behind me, rocking back and forth to the music of the Newsboys while his sister belted out the lyrics at the top of her 8-year-old lungs. His smile beamed, his eyes lit up.
When we arrived at the township hall, we each went our way to change into our costumes. Jordan was a scurvy pirate. Kenny was a firefighter. Matthew, of course, was Bumblebee. Cheyenne a "Forsaken Soul," I an Egyptian queen and Ira was, well, Ira. We found ourselves a table and settled in to relax and enjoy some refreshments. Everyone was relaxed with each other, or at least they certainly gave the appearance of being so.
Somewhere between the worms in the dirt dessert and the lime Kool-Aid the music started. Matthew started tapping his feet and moving back and forth. I looked at him. "What do you want, Mattie?"
Matthew looked at the dance floor, pointed, and said, "Dance."
I took his hand. "Let's go, Mattie."
I like dancing. The only problem is, I suck at it. For one, I hate being watched. And when I wasn't being watched I always felt like I was being watched and I hated that feeling. The other thing is when I dance I look like I'm looking for my keys. None of this mattered at that moment. I was dancing with my son. The same son who would pull away from me, running down the hall screaming if I went to hug him or tell him I loved him. My son, who would spit in my face, bite his arm, or hit himself in the head, took my hand and walked with me out to the dance floor!! MY SON!!
As I looked around I saw a group of people who appeared to be comfortable within their own skin, who just didn't seem to care what this one, that one,or the other thought. This wonderful group of people accepted each other and did not hesitate to reach out to the people around them. Meanwhile here we are, the "normals," the "straights," the "neurotypicals,"trying to cut them down to fit into boxes we as a society have deemed for them. How sad is this!
