PERSONAL NARRATIVE
Heaven Must Be a Little Like
My Dance Class
By Peter TRAN
I
enter the room late. My brother drives me to the
ballroom dance class on time, but I get stuck in
the car and can’t move. I have this pair of swim
goggles that I had just modified, having cut out
all the rubbery parts except for most of the strap.
I am enjoying the crisp rattle of the clear plastic
as I shake the goggles in my hand. Every so often
I give them a sharp tap with the other hand and feel
the rubbery reverberations as the goggles bounce
back and forth on the elastic strap. Most gratifying!
“Peter!” my brother’s voice breaks through my rev-
erie. “Let’s get going!”
I tell my legs to move, and slowly, they obey. I inch to
class, stopping every few seconds to get in another
tap on my goggles.
The studio of Sloan and Sloan is a grand building, but
very old-fashioned. You walk under rusted ornate cur-
vilinear ironwork—through heavy wooden double
doors into an enormous dance space. But the cost of
the high cathedral ceilings is no air conditioning.
I feel hot, and as someone with mild catatonia, heat
renders me immovable. I flop down into the nearest
chair and look around.
My classmates are paired and lined up in a row al-
ready on the dance floor. They are doing the tango.
Slow-slow-quick-quick-slow. My flamboyant friend,
Becca, immediately steps out of line, abandoning
her partner, Jose, and comes running over. “Oh no,
here she comes!” I cringe, bracing for the hit.
“Peter Pie! Peter Pie!” Becca swallows me in a huge
hug and squeezes tight. Dear Becca—she’s Italian. As
she runs around the room, hugging all the parents, I
notice quiet Jose standing patiently, waiting for her,
or someone, anyone, to reorient him. All the kids in
my ballroom dance class have nonverbal autism and
dyspraxia, but Jose is also blind.
Autism Parenting Magazine | Issue 87 |
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