A Different Kind of Normal, Part 2
Written By Charlotte Meryman
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"Speech is civilization itself," as the novelist Thomas Mann once said, grandly. And right now in one tiny corner of civilization — the Blueberry Hill preschool in Longmeadow, MA — a dozen fidgety children are chattering away. It's snack time. Ten boys and girls slip into blue plastic chairs around two low tables. Munching apple spirals and sipping juice, they get silly, issue various news flashes, and compare their plans for recess. The afternoon sun lights up their faces, spilling over a riot of brightly colored toys, games, blocks, easels, and books.
At one table, 4-year-old Jimmy Foard climbs wordlessly into his special chair. It's a sleek Scandinavian number with an adjustable seat and footrest to boost his braced ankles and keep him from slumping. He chews his apple pieces silently, poker-faced. To his right a little live wire named Ashley, with blond pigtails and chipped pink nail polish, watches him with interest. She turns to his ever-present aide, Amy Farmer ("Miss Farmer" to the kids), and considers the pair for a moment. Then, with vintage preschooler bluntness, she blurts: "Why can't Jimmy talk?"
Farmer doesn't miss a beat. "He can say 'mama,'" she counters breezily. "He can say 'daddy.'"
"But that's the only thing he can say," Ashley persists.
"He can use his signs to tell us things," Farmer says. She means his very rough American Sign Language, understood only by a close few. "He can say 'more.'" She pointedly offers Jimmy the platter of apples and asks if he'd like another serving. This is the sort of dance they perform countless times a day, all in the name of engaging, demonstrating, practicing.
