A couple of years ago, I stopped holding Charlie’s hand on our regular walks around the neighborhood. He was starting to let go more and more, to pull away when he wanted to walk on the grass or stop to examine a crack in the pavement. At first, this seemed like not the best turn of events. How was I to stop Charlie when we came to an intersection? What if he started running away?

At first, I made a point of walking reallyclose and our walks were a bit nerve-wracking, for me at least. And I realized that, for me, the first thing I had to work on was my nerves: I had to stay calm and carry on. Charlie doesn’t talk a lot (in words, that is) but he certainly understands a great, great deal of what he hears, and picks up a lot of non-verbal communication; it’s long been evident that he can sense when we’re mad, or upset, or anxious, or obsessing. And if I broadcast “anxious vibes” when he was walking “hands free,” Charlie would, more often than not, start running.

So we slowly learned to walk together on the sidewalk. Jim and I made rather a big show of stopping when the sidewalk ended and tried to get Charlie to look both ways to see cars coming. It was hard to gauge how much Charlie was understanding when we explained the dangers of cars (and of running into the street). His teachers have worked on crossing the street but the many bike rides that Jim has taken Charlie on in the streets (yes, it’s been hair-raising, on occasion) have been how Charlie, slowly and over time, has learned to watch for cars and to stop at the intersections.

In fact, when Charlie sees a car in the street, he stops, even if the car is not moving.

(If we’re at a busy intersection, we still hold Charlie’s arm or the back of his coat—-you just never know.)

I hadn’t thought of it those many afternoons that Charlie and I walked together up and down suburban New Jersey streets, and that Jim held Charlie’s shoulder and directed him to “squeeze brakes” at the stop signs—-but teaching Charlie to walk beside us, “hands free,” has been an essential skill and has made possible one of our favorite things to do altogether as a threesome, long walks.

It was super freezing cold Sunday afternoon. We all donned various layers (Charlie has taken to wearing a blue fleece-lined hoodie and a parka over it) and went to see the tree at Rockefeller Plaza. That meant walking down Kennedy Boulevard in Jersey City to get to the Journal Square PATH train and a long ride all the way to 33rd Street in Manhattan (it was warm, and there was time to half-snooze) and then down 5th Avenue to the tree. It was less mobbed than it has been in previous years (it was that cold) and we even got a fast glance at the skaters. Charlie craned his neck to glance at some of the shop windows at Saks Fifth Avenue (one with snowflakes riding in the swings—-like the ones at an amusement park—-especially caught his eye). Then back on the subway to Hoboken and a walk up from the waterfront to Washington Street for a hamburger (for Charlie) and then, with Charlie running and singing happily, hurrying back to the PATH station, a Boreas-like wind at our backs. And then back down Kennedy Boulevard.

And you know—on the last two legs of the trip, Charlie held Jim’s hand or my arm and shoulder. Not too tightly, and with a smile.

And then he’d run ahead, both hands tucked under his two hoods, and over his ears, and I could see him up ahead when he stopped at the sidewalk’s edge, waiting.

Police officers in Freehold, New Jersey, rescued 6-year-old Jahmir Mayfield from biking into traffic. Jahmar has autism and ADHD and had just learned to ride a bike; today’s Asbury Park Press noted that he has a tendency to wander for home and wears a “global positioning tracking device around his wrist.” I have to keep knock on wood, but so far Charlie not been once inclined to take his bike out and strap on his helmet (yes, he always insists on wearing it) and head for the streets on his own. He seems to equate bike-riding with Jim going with him too and I think for now, best he keep thinking that. It’s the downside of freedom of movement.

So on Wednesday morning it was chaos in our house. Only for about 15 minutes, but any minutes of Not Fun is Not a Great Way to Start the Day. Charlie had woken early and got up and smiled and wanted a shirt; he was pulling it on backwards (it’s an Oakland A’s t-shirt with numbers on both sides) and I gestured wordlessly to turn it around and his eyes clouded and he made a low noise. I stepped away and then heard thump cry and the chaos ensued.

But I don’t mean the chaos of a crowd of a massive throng of humanity in a crowded space and someone yells “fire.” Chaos is from the ancient Greek word chaos, which means a “gaping [hole],” an emptiness, a vast void. Really, chaos is what I feel when Charlie has a tough moment: Things happen both quickly and slowly as someone darts for a pillow and someone stays with Charlie and there’s ice and crying. As a parent, you just want to help your child and things happen and you feel your can try your everything-est, and still something kaka—that’s ancient Greek for “bad things”—happens.

Wasn’t the end of it, either.

Charlie stayed with my parents—-as I’ve said too much, he starts school next Monday—-and I dropped off Jim at the train and headed to Jersey City where I was supposed to meet a student at 8.30am, which did not happen because, due to being distracted by the latest chaos, the string of back to back classes and appointments on my calendar, and being in the third day of, how shall I put it, losing most of my electrolytes whenever I attempted to eat anything, I missed my turn-off to Routes 1 & 9 North and the Pulaski Skyway and found myself heading towards the toll, and then signs that said “Lincoln Tunnel” and “George Washington Bridge.”

Believe me, I was in no state to find myself driving into midtown Manhattan Wednesday morning. (Quizzes tomorrow in both elementary Latin and Greek classes and we needed to get ready.)

Jim had shown me an alternate route that would take me over the Route 1 & 9 truck bridge but what exit off the Turnpike? 15B? The sign said Exits 15F-15H or some such, where was 15B…..

15F turned out to be correct, as indicated by the sign proclaiming Jersey City and the steel arches of the Skyway rising straight across from me across the reeds and steel containers and concrete roadways and cars (moving and rusting, and still) that populate the Meadowlands. Jim called me back as I was getting onto the truck bridge and I was only 15 minutes late to meet the student, and a beat-up yellow schoolbus was only partially blocking  where I park so I could get my car in.

The day spun off from there. We went over the present tense of verbs in Latin class and the I drilled the Greek alphabet in my Greek class, read Virgil with more advanced students, sorted out schedules for students panicking because the last day to drop/add classes draws nigh (it’s today), fielded phone calls and explained how to register for the GRE, had a really lovely talk with a student about things that are very important to me and (as I learned) to her, talked about how to write personal statements to a law school-bound student—-got into my car to go home early to have dinner with my parents and Charlie (who’s had a very nice day with a trip to the aquarium) while Jim worked late and learned about new plans for the student newspaper, backed my car out (the street is a one-way going down on a slope) with one student offering to keep an eye on traffic——stood behind Charlie to practice piano—-

Let chaos come; at least the idea of order returns again.

I was talking to two of my students yesterday about classes for next year, their majors, scholarships and fellowships. Both had looked at websites for scholarships, and read the biographies of the winners, of college students who, while maintaining the highest GPAs, playing varsity sports, and conducting research in molecular biology, create medical clinics in foreign countries, develop plans for peace between various warring nations, play first violin in the orchestra, write poetry, serve as the editor for the campus newspaper and win the prize for best thesis……

“How does anyone do all that, Dr. Chew?” my students asked me, pointing out that they could hardly go for a year to an “underdeveloped nation” and teach English in an orphanage: Most of my students have to work—to pay for college, to help out their families. They set up their schedules so they are able take care of younger relatives, or elderly grandparents, while their parents work the graveyard shift. If they go abroad, they have to work more to pay for it. Those who have gone to various places around the globe have deeply benefited from the experience. And yet, when I think of college students doing work to make a difference, it’s the many young women (mostly) and young men who have chosen to spend time with Charlie and autistic kids who I think about first.

There’s Charlie’s teacher. She had come over for a home visit on Wednesday and we talked about setting up an afterschool schedule for Charlie incorporating the use of his Language Master to prompt his speech. Charlie was running up and down the hallway—-thumping all over the wooden floor—out of excitement at his teacher’s visit and, in part to calm him, I had him practice cello, and his teacher offered suggestions and encouragement.

There’s Charlie’s speech therapist whom we’ve known for five years and who is among the very (very few) people who I feel completely at ease for him to be with for long periods of time. After meeting Charlie’s bus, I had to go back to work to hear honors students defend their senior theses. I drove off with Charlie watching from the sidewalk beside the speech therapist, whom he matches now in height. “Take your time, don’t rush,” she assured me.

My drive back to Jersey City was slowed by a bad accident—-part of a tractor-trailer had fallen across three lanes of traffic in the local lane side of highway 78 and cars, yellow schoolbuses, and tractor trailers were crossing the concrete median and driving on the shoulder thisclose to my car in the express lane—-and by another big rig carrying an OVERSIZED LOAD that had, very mistakenly, gone up the entrance ramp of the no-trucks-allowed Pulaski Skyway. Nonetheless, I was just in time to hear the third student speak about the change to a market economy in Bulgaria and the resulting economic crisis. He was eloquent and passionate: This student is from Bulgaria on a full scholarship and, while far from home, it was clear that his research was motivated by something deeply personal.

The roads were clear as I drove west towards home. Charlie was smiling and called out “get socks!” and “bye, see you next time” to his therapist. He had gone for a ride on his scooter, did speech exercises, worked puzzles on the floor and clicked through more on his computer, played some board games; whatever the therapist had requested, Charlie had done, and happily.While Charlie packed his backpack and put a Capri Sun in his lunchbox, I graded a stack of quizzes. I was pulling on my coat so we could stop by the pharmacy when the thought hit me: I had forgotten to ask the therapist to return the housekey I had given her.

I quickly called her cell. “Oh, I left it right by the door, along with the garage door opener,” she said. And there indeed was the key.

What would I do without her, or Charlie’s teacher, or Jackie who works in my office and can decipher my handwritten notes to her……… What would I do without their help, and Charlie’s?

As I drove up the hill towards the pharmacy with Charlie singing in the backseat , I thought about how the work that we do for those close by us—for those who are part of our daily lives, close to heart if not to home—how that’s the work, the service, the achievements that makes a real difference to the world, and how it’s work that lasts and grows.

“My child does not understand about cars at all and once ran right into the street and almost got hit—-”: I’ve heard many parents of autistic children say this; in his book The Only Boy in the World: A Father Explores the Mysteries of Autism , Michael Blastland describes, in harrowing detail, his son Joe being hit by a car (and—to everyone’s relief—-walking away unhurt). How does one teach a child the dangers of traffic and cars?

My own son has trouble moving objects and even when told “look both ways,” it’s not clear what he is looking at, as it takes him some time to focus. He has been practicing how to cross the street (in the circular driveway in front of his school)—-researchers in the Department of Occupational Therapy at the University of Haifa have found that some autistic children have had some success learning to road safety skills after instruction with a special virtual reality system.

Six autistic children, ages 7-12, spent one month learning how to cross virtual streets, to wait for the virtual light at the crosswalk to change and to look left and right for virtual cars using a simulation programmed by Yuval Naveh. The children in the study showed substantial improvement throughout the learning process: at the beginning of the study, the average child was able to use the 2nd level of the software while by the end they mastered the 9th level, which is characterized by more vehicles traveling at a higher speed.

However, the research team was not looking to teach a virtual skill; they wanted to see if the children were able to transfer the skills they had mastered in a virtual environment to the real world. A local practice area with a street and crosswalk, complete with traffic signals, was used for this purpose. The children’s ability to cross the street safely was tested in this area evaluating, for example, whether they stopped to wait on the sidewalk or waited for a green light before crossing. The children were brought to the practice area before and after their virtual learning. Here too, the children exhibited an improvement in their skills, following the training on the virtual street, with three of the children showing considerable improvement.

One of the study participants, 16 years old, had participated in the past in a road safety program in the school, but he was not able to learn how to cross the street safely. Following learning the skill in a virtual environment, he learned how to stop on the sidewalk before stepping into the street, to look at the color of the traffic light, to cross only when the light was green and to cross without waiting too long.

It’s a small study but about a huge skill for my son, at least, to learn: When he can cross the street safely by himself, that will be one huge stride forward.

Photo courtesy of karl151k via Flickr