The Short Bus

An autistic reflection

Flaps

When I was a kid, I loved to flap my hands.    

I would move my forearms really fast and let my fingers relax so they would strike the palms of my hands over and over and over and over again. 

It felt natural. It felt good. It was a kinetic experience that definitely did not create an annoying sound for my teacher, my parents, or my fellow classmates. And it looked really cool. 

I flapped a lot. It was a gesture for any occasion, but mostly for whenever I was happy or excited. 

I don’t remember when or why I started flapping, but there is one memory that sticks out. It was one of many memories that were locked away and later reclaimed in what can only be described as a weed induced mind-palace-frenzy in a trailer in Raleigh, North Carolina. 

I was in the 4th grade. Cursed with a last name in the exact middle of the alphabet, I was forced to wait my turn for lunch whilst the privileged children  with A-names got to eat. Something made me laugh, so naturally I started to flap. At that moment I saw a small blonde boy ahead of me who was also flapping and laughing. We locked eyes, and we formed a connection that only flaps could properly communicate. I don’t remember his name or much of anything about him, but that year he was probably my best friend.

We spent most recesses and lunches together, just the two of us. We rarely spoke. We would just lay on that hill near the soccer field and feel the grass between our fingers and toes. We plucked the best blades and threw them into the air and watched them swim in the wind. Sometimes we would build big nests out of pine cones and dried up pine needles and pretend we were birds. He was really good at building nests. 

And between it all was joy and therefore - flaps.  

Sometimes other kids would laugh and mimic the way we flapped our hands… which was so fun! I tried to join them, but then their eyes would get a weird look and they’d walk away. 

Oh well, more flap time for me and my friend I guess. 

I was very good at school, but the blonde boy was not. Apparently, good nest building skills do not always translate into academic success. Our teacher, Mr. W, was often going to the small blonde boy’s desk to try and help, but the blonde boy wouldn’t talk to Mr. W, which made Mr. W quite frustrated. One time he walked away, fuming and breathing hard. 

And then someone came and took the blonde boy away to a different class. I wasn’t too surprised when this happened, but it was still sad. Sometimes I saw him at lunch with the quote unquote “special” kids, but he wasn’t allowed to feel the grass with me anymore. 

And then one day he was gone. 

I think he moved schools or something. 

I never got to say goodbye. 

Not long after that, my mom remarried. 

Why is it always about some man?

At first, he just watched as I flapped. Perhaps he thought it was something I would grow out of, but after a few months his patience wore thin. 

His first attempts at stomping out my flaps were quite subtle - “That looks weird, stop doing that”, “Why do you do that, just stop”, “Stop that right now!”, etc.  

Every time he reacted this way I was quite confused. Clearly, my stepfather did not like my flaps, but I liked my flaps, and they were not hurting anyone. So what was the big deal?  

When my stepfather realized that his gentle corrections were not going to work, his tactics grew more aggressive. He began to police my every movement. At the dinner table, a moment of flapping was quieted by utensils slamming into the table. And if I began to laugh (a sure sign that flapping was about to begin) I would feel his hard gaze linger over me, as if daring me to flap. 

I began to discover that my flaps were very difficult to control. Even when I knew that flapping would get me in trouble, I would do it anyways. And despite getting harsher and harsher corrections, I was never given a reason why flapping was so offensive. 

So a pattern developed. I would flap, he would get mad and I would stop for a bit, only for the cycle to begin again a few days later. This went on for two years. 

And then one day, we were talking at the dinner table  - my stepfather, my mother, and my siblings. I was thirteen years old.

Someone said something funny. I laughed, and naturally, I flapped.

“You have to stop doing that. You look like the kids on the short bus when you do that”.

Huh. I stopped flapping, and the energy in the room shifted. 

It didn’t help that he kind of mimicked me after he said it.  

And then they all moved on, pretending it didn’t happen (fairly habitual at that point).

But I was in a haze the rest of the day. I remember taking the stairs down to the basement to seek the solace of my room, dread growing with every step.

My stepfather joked about the “short bus” a lot (like, a worrying amount). I would usually pretend to laugh or that I didn’t hear when it came up, but the undertones were clear.

In short, being disabled, or even being perceived as disabled, was really really bad. I finally understood why he was so persistent. When I flapped he thought I looked stupid, insipid, less than. In his own fucked up kind of way, he was trying to protect me. 

I laid in my bed and recalled my stepfather’s eyes when he first saw me flap. I didn’t see it at the time, I refused to see it, but it was that same weird look that I had seen in the kids at school. I now could put a name to the look - revulsion, confusion, and dare I say it, fear. 

If being on the short bus was bad, and flapping made me look like I rode the short bus, then flapping must = bad. It was a sorrowful but logical conclusion. Despite the fact that flapping made me feel good, that flapping indicated only happiness and comfort, I needed to stop, if for no other reason than to stop being bullied by my own stepfather.

From that day onward I began to police my movements almost as scrupulously as he did. 

And then one day, I just stopped flapping, and I unknowingly killed a small part of myself. 

I’d like to say that I’ll never forget the moment when my stepfather saw me stop myself from flapping. The proud smug look that passed across his face.

I’d like to say that I won’t, but I’ve already forgotten it once. 

Perhaps, I would even like to forget it again.