I attended Sunday school from kindergarten until 8th grade. I always hated Sunday school, because religion never sat right with me. I can vividly remember arguing with my 3rd grade Sunday school teacher about why Noah’s Ark never could have actually happened. I dreaded every Sunday morning, so when my 8th grade school year came to a close, I was ready to unchain myself from the shackles of reformed Judaism and happily become the atheist I always wanted to be.
Not so fast…
A lot of high school kids served as teaching assistants to one of the Sunday school classes. My mom thought it would be a good idea for me to become a TA. I strenuously objected, but to no avail. The shackles were back on.
A few weeks before school began, the Sunday school director called me and said that she assigned me to a “special project”. She filled me in on the details: In the 4th grade, there was an autistic boy named Max. His parents wanted him to have normal experiences, which included Sunday school. However, Max needed one-on-one attention, and she told me that I was the only person who she felt could handle it. I wasn’t sure why I was the only person who could handle it, but it sounded intriguing and I accepted the position.
Now, this was 1994, I just turned 15, and the only experience with autism that I had was with the movie Rainman. In my naivety, I believed that Max would be some sort of walking encyclopedia, with advanced math skills and could do cool tricks. I actually considered the possibility of bringing my math homework in every week for Max to complete. I started looking forward to the job. Then I met Max.
Actually, I met Max and his mother, and I could immediately tell that she was using the ‘I want him to have normal experiences’ line to get a few hours of peace. A few things about Max: He could talk, but only in nonsensical phrases he learned from TV, and you still could barely understand him; He could not communicate with you, although he seemed to understand what you were saying; He did not like being touched, at all; He could not sit still for more than five minutes; He was prone to scream, any place, any time. I learned all these things first hand on the first day of Sunday school. My dreams of perfectly solved algebra equations vanished into thin air.
School started at 9:30 and went until 12:00. Our typical day went like this:
9:30 Meet in 4th grade classroom
9:40 Max throws a fit
9:41 Max and I leave the room
9:42-12:00 Max and I wander around the complex, alternating between the art room, the playground, or any other place that struck his fancy.
Max did do a few cool things. One time, he was drawing in his notebook. He would write a number on the page, draw a picture, and turn to the next page. He would then write the next number, draw another picture, and so on. He did this 45 times. When he was done, he handed it to me, and I looked at his drawings. He had been writing the channel number and logo for each of the cable channels, in order, and he was really accurate.
Another time, Max was very talkative all morning, and he was much more coherent than usual. He wasn’t talking to me, but he was talking a lot. What he was saying sounded vaguely familiar, but I wasn’t sure why. Eventually I realized that he had been reciting the dialogue, line by line, from the Addams Family movie. I figured this out when he said “Uncle Fester”, and started laughing maniacally.
But more often than not, Max was a pain. Like I said, he threw fits, and I had to calm him down. Usually it takes an experienced special education teacher to handle a child like Max. But, in a pinch, an awkward 15 year old will do. He threw so many fits that they all seem to run together. Usually his fit would start because I wouldn't let him go into a certain room, like a classroom with a class in session, or the women's bathroom. He would scream, thrash at the air, take off his shoes, and sometimes, run away. Since he hated being touched, I really couldn't restrain him. Usually I would offer him some candy to calm down, and often he did. But, if he ran away, I had to chase him and usually keep him from going someplace he shouldn't. Nobody ever told me how to restrain him if I had to, so I just used a good old bear hug. He hated it, but it worked.
The final time he threw a fit was the most memorable. It was in the spring, close to the end of the year. When his mom dropped him off, she told me that he was in a bad mood. Predictably, we didn't last long in the classroom, so we went off to wander around. He was doing okay on the playground when something set him off. I don't know what, but he bolted. He could run pretty fast, so I had to chase him. Our temple was a huge complex, so he had lots of places to go. I finally caught up with him in a quad-like area outside the entrance to the actual synagogue. He stopped running and sat down on the ground. I sat down next to him. He sat there for a few minutes, before freaking out again. He took off his shoes and threw them into the fountain in the quad. I went to fish his shoes out of the fountain when he took off running again. As soon as he took off, I knew exactly where he was headed.
In the synagogue, the entire Sunday school, along with various other people, had gathered to listen to a somewhat distinguished author and holocaust survivor. The place was packed. Max took off into the building. The doors he went through were right across from the synagogue doors, which were open. He had a head start, since I was on my knees reaching into the fountain. He ran straight into the synagogue, screaming down the center aisle. I followed in hot pursuit, holding his dripping shoes. He ran up onto the alter and laid down. I ran up after him. With the guest speaker, the Rabbis, the Sunday school director, and hundreds of people in the crowd looking at us in stunned silence, I said the only thing that I could say. "Uh, little help?" The director and the assistant Rabbi both came over and helped me get Max to stand up. We got him to walk down the steps from alter and into the main aisle. But then, he laid down again. The director, who knew how to handle him, I guess, said loudly, "Max, stand up!" He did, and I wanted to get him out of there as quickly as possible. I put my arm around his shoulders and I started to walk out. However, as soon as we started, he stopped again and tried to lie down. Since I had my arm around him (and since he only weighed about 65 pounds) I didn't let him do it. He just went limp in my arms. I was holding him at my side in my right arm with his soaked shoes in my left hand. I then started down the aisle, carrying him with me, his feet dragging along the ground. And, oh yes, he was singing some gibberish in a loud falsetto.
After that, there was only one day of Sunday school left, and his mom told me he wouldn't be there. Near the beginning of the next school year, they called and left me a message, asking if I wanted to take care of Max again. I never called back.
Postscript: Three years later, when I was 18, I was dispatched to pick up my sister from Sunday school one day. As I sat in my car in the parking lot, I saw a set of doors fly open. Max ran out in a full sprint. A few seconds later, a gangly young teenager followed, shouting for him to stop. The circle of life continues.
