Ships #30A and B by GJ

A memory has been buzzing around in my “bank” (and no, it doesn’t qualify for a bailout,) about two students whom I’ll number as ships 30A and B. They were both in wheelchairs and were brought into freshman English at same time by two counselors. The chairs were positioned just to my right as I faced the front row of a lecture hall. I was in the middle of an exercise in pronunciation, whereby I would pass down the row, facing each student and calling out a word for each to pronounce. (These originated on a list they could study.) (Basic Track…lowest of three.)

When I reached the end of the row, and without thinking twice, or even once, I looked at the girl in the wheelchair and gave her the same word I had just given to the previous person. She blurted out the correct pronunciation, I said “Great,” (a favorite compliment) or something and went right on.

After class and everyone had left, I was picking up things and went into hall where I was met by one of the counselors. She said, “What did you do?” I said, “What do you mean?” She said, “To get the girl to answer.” I said, “Nothing.” She then told me it was the first time the girl had ever spoken in school. She was, among other things, thought to be autistic, and would respond only to her parents.

I often surmised that the girl got “caught up” in the exercise, and responded unvoluntarily. Maybe there was something in my appearance, or demeanor, or voice that compelled her to answer. I would see her in the hall from time to time and she’d flash a timid smile and then shyly look away. The counselor who was tending to her would nod approval and continue on.

Where are you, today, #30A? You would be 46 or 47 or so. I am sorry that our paths never crossed again.