Specialists have told me my youngest son will never speak. He is different in that way, and others, from his older brothers. His differences cement my certainty that like Peter Parker’s alter ego, my youngest possesses a marvelous secret superpower.
Like those sundry specialists, people in public spaces have brief encounters with his world of physical contortions and the sensory filters he uses by twisting himself to engage with sight, sound and taste.
One Saturday, he and I traveled to a big box store to pick up prescriptions and our staple foods. While at check-out I spied another boy, around my son's pre-teen age. The boy had scarlet hair and athletic sportswear. My older boys played Little League baseball and had worn the same kind of gear. I guessed from his bulky frame, that he was a catcher. His mother, who shared his red hair, was busily tasked with their purchases. They were big boxing after a Saturday morning of fielding and batting drills.
The Stare, as I call it, is as familiar to me as baseball. The red-headed boy was giving us one of the variants. I call this variant The Big Stare, constant and deliberate. His mother was occupied checking out, while the red head continued to stare at my son's odd, topsy-turvy pseudo-yoga pose. The crimson-headed boy did not look at me. He was locked on my contorted son.
My instinct was to stare right back. I am uncertain what I expected. Embarrassment? Being busted while staring at a child with limitations? Perhaps a quick look away? Some hasty retreat to the safety of his busy mother? An apology? Instead this red headed boy never missed a beat. He looked at us, at me, lifting a sincere right arm and in a single gesture waved while without speaking mouthing a single word: “Hi.”
Embarrassment now washed over me with the sting of an unexpected cold shower. My son made a guttural sound in what I recognized as approval. As for me, I raised my right hand mimicking this boy’s simple gesture and mouthed the same word back to him. Insight sometimes closes in fast. This red-headed boy was not the bully I thought him to be. He had recognized the superpower of difference, and honored it.
My youngest son had closed the sensory differences between them. As I stepped up to the cashier station I watched the red-head toward the store exit. Looking up at his mother, he took the bags from her as they disappeared through the sliding doors.
The cashier looked at me and smiled. “How’s your day going?” I smiled right back. “Better now, thank you.”
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Lane Thibodeaux can be found on Twitter at @lanethibodeaux1