The Only Place I Ever Felt Normal

Growing up, many people wanted Alice without Wonderland.
When I became mom of a child with autism and ADHD, I learned the truth I had suspected about my own atypical brain. To help my son and to sort through the mind shifts that do not come naturally to us, I read more about neurodiversity and watched shows like Netflix’s Atypical.
In the 1990s, we were waking up to the reality some of us were born with parts of our brain in Wonderland. It was not a place for daydreams. It was where deep ideas blossomed, but the day-to-day social realities were disconnected.
This is the reason why I flipped my switch in December 2018 when a family member, who I love very much, told my son to “act normal,” and the member’s adult child told me to “calm down … this is a safe space.” While we have moved on as a family, it is a reason I write my memoir. It is a reason why I write, so we can find the bridge between the neurotypical and those of us with a mind less common.
I was fascinated by the fact that others thought they understood the phrases “act normal” and “safe space” for those with minds in Wonderland. My fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Lowder, is the first teacher I remember offering me a safe space. She offered me the only place where I felt normal.
On National Teacher’s Appreciation Day, I remember the wonderful Mrs. Lowder. She was also my Sunday School teacher during that time. She was a touchstone for the last time I felt safe before I entered what would lead to an almost photographic memory of torture in middle school. She was the first one to help me polish the skill that would become my friend, saving grace, a career, a passion, and gave me a name.
Before fifth grade, I put together little stories. To show nothing is cast in complete black or white, the same family member who told my son to “act normal,” was one of the first to encourage my storytelling. She brought me the old school printer paper that you pulled the sides off of to make into books.
Mrs. Lowder pushed me to write constantly. We kept a notebook in her class. We wrote poetry, fiction, and I wrote my first short memoir about the night my baby brother nearly fell out of the side of the minivan when the door opened. I pulled him back in.
She was a beautiful woman. Mrs. Lowder kept her blonde hair curled out, and she dressed like a traditional English teacher in dresses, shawls, and scarves. She would not let kids slide when they misbehaved. The notebook was often her tool to get kids to journal.
When I was looking out the window, she did not tell me to pay attention. She put a notebook in front of me. Where I had an articulation issue, she had me write about what I read. We did a project about a book where we had to reproduce the story. I was supposed to have a partner, but I did the project on The Little Match Girl by myself. I took a cardboard box, and cut slits about the length of regular printer paper. I pulled the images I drew for my retelling of The Little Match Girl through the slits like a movie.
Mrs. Lowder did not try to put me in a box, or put me in a standardized test format. She gave me the opportunity to express the Wonderland inside my mind. She offered me what would become my safe space for years to come when all other windows and doors slammed shut. Mrs. Lowder gave me a notebook, and there I found the only place I ever felt normal.

Thank you, Mrs. Lowder!

By Rebecca T. Dickinson