I feel sick to my stomach reading about the death of the 8-year-old Martin William Richard in Boston. He was a third-grader just like my son. My heart hurts for his family. In a statement, Martin’s father asked for “patience and for privacy as we work to simultaneously grieve and recover.”

At the same time, my head hurts that I can’t simply read about what happened without trying to avoid shoddy, sensationalist journalism. CNN, after the Steubenville verdict… NOPE. ABC… nope.

Martin’s life was so short that news outlets keep turning to friends and family to paint a fuller portrait of this kid. His friend and frequent playmate was asked how she felt. She said she felt “scared” because she didn’t know where the bombers who did this could be, and so, in her mind they were everywhere.

I feel the same way about this that I felt after Newtown. Media outlets have forgotten what good journalism looks and sounds like. I don’t want soundbites and edited video clips that get recycled in an endless loop to fill airtime. I want real journalism– tell the story. Tell the news.

Today there is a photo that has gone viral in less than a few hours.  I have made a conscious/conscientious decision to not post it here. You can easily search for it by typing “no more hurting” or “peace” along with Martin’s name in the search field. You can also find it on Facebook because the poster made the photo public. Again, I have decided not to post the link.

At the time I am writing this, the photo (around 3pm/PST) has 116,596 likes and 67,271 shares (number of downloads is unknown). The photo was posted about 8 hours ago (7 am-ish here so close to 10 am on the East Coast). HuffPost and its ilk picked up the photo by noontime. I’m not going to lambast this person for trying to honor Martin’s memory. She wasn’t even Martin’s teacher.  She was a friend of the teacher who gave art projects to his class that touched upon social issues.

What concerns me most about this photo being readily available online is that people rush to share and make it viral without hesitating even a moment to reflect on its appropriateness. The irony of Martin holding a sign with words he wrote (No more hurting people/Peace) is undeniable. We should take those words to heart but I question whether it is right for this photo to circulate all over the Internet after his grieving family asked for privacy.  I am very protective of my son’s image; I try to maintain as much of a modicum (or delusion) of control over his likeness and intellectual property of his artwork on the Internet.

A woman posted a comment under the photo: “Been thinking about him all morning and having a face and connection to go with it makes it that much more real.” Isn’t the cost of violence real enough? Do we as Americans lead such a sheltered life free from so-called “real violence” that we need to have a first-degree personal connection to grasp and process its realness? I doubt that his parents have much time to be Internet watchdogs and take down personal photos of their deceased child. Martin’s mother and sister are still recovering from their own injuries.

I can only speak to my own feelings as a mother and no one else’s experiences. There is much to be said about solidarity, the feeling of being united with other human beings. To me, it’s the near visceral feeling of community and mutual support. It may be the idealist in me that believes we all start life with the capacity to feel for other people.  Let’s reclaim that again, here, in this moment when we are grasping for other hands to hold because we are lost and overwhelmed by sadness.  Loss is incomprehensible; it cannot be wholly grasped by our limited minds so we need our hearts to finish the job.

Let’s honor those this world has lost yesterday using our minds and our hearts. Show solidarity but use a pinch of restraint and good conscience before you hit that “Share” link. There is much to be said about plain and simple solidarity. Sometimes it is unspoken. Sometimes it is best expressed in what is not said, or in this case, posted online for the whole world to see and claim.

Let’s not forget the aspect of mutual respect in solidarity. I want to respect Martin’s family in my way, which is to refrain from uploading his picture all over my social media.  I remember you, Martin William Richard, without ever meeting you. When days go by and people have forgotten your face because your photo has stopped being viral to make way for the next trending photo, I’ll remember you without ever needing to call to mind your face.  Because in my mind and heart your face is the same as my son’s – innocent, young, happy.  His face is the same as every child that we meet so, no, thank you, media outlets. I don’t need careless visual exploitation of one child’s face to remember violence and tragedy and death and heartbreak are all real.

Peace, little man.

In light of President Obama’s mention of equal pay for our wives, mothers, sisters and daughters, here is a reminder of how far we have to go.

Source: Learn Stuff Infographic

December 31, 2002 — New Year’s resolutions don’t appeal to me very much today because I don’t want to think about being a better person. Are there things that I can improve upon in 2013? Certainly, but that’s not the issue.

Behind every resolution is the deliberate and conscious decision to do or not do something. Making one on New Year’s usually assumes that you are going to do something different from the previous year and that difference will almost 100% be an improvement. No one resolves to be a worse person.

I say meh to that notion. Meh, I tell you.

In 2013, I’m going to do something daring. I’m going to be more myself.

Sure, I made mistakes in 2012 and I’ll probably make new ones next year. I just think that at my age I don’t want to make apologies for who I am anymore and I might as well celebrate what makes me who I am.

That’s why I came up with a manifesto. For months, I’ve been thinking about my personal philosophy instead of any self-improvement to-do list. I don’t feel a need to write my whole manifesto here because there’s no need. I believe that my inner thoughts will give way to my actions towards others.

Why am I feeling so Zen and at peace after such a tumultuous year?

A few days ago, I was backing up my computer and found the following excerpt of my essay for New York City Teaching Fellows. I was going to be a special education teacher, even before my son was diagnosed with autism. I reread the two pages describing 2006, the year of my son’s diagnosis, and I realized I am the same. I still reflect on old experiences in the same way, even after 6 years’ worth of new challenges in raising my son.

I found comfort in my own words, as narcissistic as that sounds, because certainty in a life with autism is a luxury. I have taught myself to be as flexible, open-minded and adaptable as possible to understand my son. Knowing that I am the same person that I was in 2006 assures me, however imperceptibly, that I’m doing something right. I don’t need somebody else to validate me and my parenting, though I do appreciate it when someone compliments me. I did it myself.

One good thing about self-acceptance is that it’s viral. I accept who I am and I can teach my son to do the same. Not a bad start to a manifesto, if I do say so myself.

If you have time to check out the essay, read below and have a happy new year.

[Writer’s note: It’s not exactly untouched. I couldn’t help from making slight grammatical improvements.]

==========

Then, June 28th came. I remembered because I heard the words “PDD-autism” from the neurologist on the same day as my mother’s birthday. I also heard “definitely autism” on the day before my father’s birthday in August. In between those months, I had only one doctor offer the opinion of “probably not autism” but he was quickly overruled. The year was suddenly split in two: pre-autism and post-autism. In the first “pre-autism” months his father and I felt like his diagnosis was an indictment that would eventually condemn him to a lifetime sentence of academic obstacles and social alienation.

I needed time before I could completely accept autism as part of him. Even after reality had set in and I scheduled assessments and treatment appointments one after the other, I was still trying to grasp the meaning of everything. I wasn’t sure why any of it was happening, as in why did my son have to have autism. Did my desire to teach make this entire ordeal more bearable? Did my son’s need draw out and strengthened my resolve to be a good teacher?

The answers are not important. I needed him as much as he needed me – simple. He needed the mother in me who refused to give up on her son. For his sake and mine, I needed to be the kind of person who would not give up on anyone. I know my son will learn differently from other children because of autism. He processes language in a way that I did not understand until recently. I refused to allow the world to shut him out at only three years old. I believed that abilities, natural and attained, carry us through obstacles to the best of possibilities.

I don’t know the exact moment but I decided that I would not let autism disable him. I chose to focus on his abilities, and his potential for more. I threw myself into parent training in Applied Behavioral Analysis with promising initial results. When his progress reached a plateau and I hated myself for my shortcomings, I kept going. I read all the related books in the catalog and on interlibrary loan. I nagged his service coordinator in the early steps program for any and all services he could qualify. I called nonprofit agencies and parent volunteers who might have resources for him, and then I nagged his service coordinator even more. The entire month of November was ruined for me because I played phone tag for weeks with a behavior analyst, the hospital insurance specialist, and my insurance coordinators over the slightest chance of behavioral therapy. I heard the final “no” on the last day of November, my birthday.

Tenacity or plain obstinateness got me through December. The feeling of helplessness that ebbed and flowed in my life last year made me fall back on whatever ounce (or gallons) of tenacity I had in me. A “no” on Monday meant that I would keep calling or e-mailing someone on Tuesday, Wednesday, and on until I got a “yes.” I would not give up until I found people who would not give up on my son. At this time, he attends a school where his teachers appreciate his unique qualities and learning style as I hope to do for others in the future.

I want to be the tenacious advocate of education and learning for others. I want to prove the abilities need to be nurtured and sustained through resources in and out of the community.

Pamela K. Santos (@PamelaKSantos) isn’t usually this self-assured but it’s New Year’s Eve so might as well be bold. As always, she is honored to get the chance everyday to be a mom to #ThisKidHere.

This was first published in TheFilAm on December 15.  

Since news broke yesterday afternoon about the senseless killing in an elementary school of Newtown, Connecticut, I haven’t been able to stay away from some form of media outlet.  What else could I do for the 2 hours before my son arrived safe and sound from his school bus?

Among the topics being covered in a  24-hour news cycle and stream of online content was directed at parents trying to find ways to talk about the shooting to their children.  Before anyone says this to me and therefore sounds like a douche bag delivering a backhanded compliment, I will say it first— I’m glad I don’t have that problem.

If you follow me on Twitter, you may have seen me call myself an “autism mom.”  I will not pretend to be an expert on grief counseling or trauma so I will speak here simply as an “autism mom.”

My son’s challenges with speech and language have brought its fair share of negatives and positives in my life.  He can request what he wants and says, “It’s not that bad” when I don’t like the iPhone art app he wants me to buy.  Some things are still unclear; he says he loves me but he also says he “loves” pepperoni pizza.  Of course, I rely on my heart whenever possible to discern his inner meaning behind our communication and it hasn’t failed me terribly yet. (Spoiler alert: he does love me more than pizza.)

Families affected by autism will rarely say that they’re grateful for the autism diagnosis. This is one of those rare times for me and I can only speak to my experience.  I am not making any generalizations and certainly do not belittle the terrible responsibility that befalls parents of neurotypical kids to make sense of a senseless act and teach them how to cope after a tragedy like this.

In some ways he is not that different from other children.  He has an age-appropriate “naughty or nice” view of good and evil. I teach him that hurting people is “doing something bad” and there are consequences. The only kind of death he comprehends is the cartoon kind where there are no consequences for loss of life and in that we are similar.  It was only in my teens that I lost a family member close to me and the first time death meant something real.

As President Obama said yesterday, every parent in America grieves for the families in Newtown.  Death is that terrible subject we parents don’t dare touch upon if we can help it because we want to keep our children innocent.  Death is unfathomable as is evil.  If we can keep knowledge of evil as well as death from our children, we may have one more day of their fleeting youth to share with them. Abstract concepts in math are difficult to teach so imagine how much more difficult to start a discussion of life and death.

There is always going to be something for me to teach him to deal with in this world.  In our everyday life, I try to teach my son how to cope in a society that is largely different from him and will misunderstand and dismiss him more times than attempt to know him.  I try to teach him acts of love, goodness and friendship to counter the acts of intolerance he will be sure to face.  One of the hardest things I have to teach him is courage because he has to face down fear and danger to earn it.

Let me have this one thing.  Please. Even though I feel guilty as hell for being selfish at a time like this, don’t hold my relief against me.

I don’t have that problem of talking to my son about the loss of 20 young lives and 6 brave adult souls. This is a tragic blessing and I know it.

At the same time, although I cannot convey what I want to teach my son about yesterday’s events, I’d like to think, knowing my son so well, that if he did comprehend it all, his heart would be breaking.  And if only to find some shred of goodness in an already dark world, I’m clinging on to that one thought…  One less heart is breaking today.

Pamela K. Santos (@PamelaKSantos) is a do-gooder first because she doesn’t know how to be anything else for as long as she could remember.  She is honored to get the chance everyday to be a mom to #ThisKidHere.

President Obama spoke about the Sandy Hook Elementary shooting yesterday at 3:15 p.m.

I know there’s not a parent in America who doesn’t feel the same overwhelming grief that I do.
The majority of those who died today were children — beautiful little kids between the ages of 5 and 10 years old. They had their entire lives ahead of them — birthdays, graduations, weddings, kids of their own. Among the fallen were also teachers — men and women who devoted their lives to helping our children fulfill their dreams.

This evening, Michelle and I will do what I know every parent in America will do, which is hug our children a little tighter and we’ll tell them that we love them, and we’ll remind each other how deeply we love one another.  But there are families in Connecticut who cannot do that tonight.  And they need all of us right now.  In the hard days to come, that community needs us to be at our best as Americans.  And I will do everything in my power as President to help.

Read more from WhiteHouse.gov:
President Obama Speaks on the Shooting in Connecticut | The White House.

Good minds do think alike so I’m not surprised we both came up with this as good pick for a gift guide.

In spite of (or because of) the tragic day, I wanted to share something light.

Angrylink to Best Bruce Lee Action Figure Ever

I’ve been looking for good books about Filipino culture and language since I first came across a Filipino folktale picture book at a NaFFAA vendor table (cough, 1998).

WISH GRANTED!

East Coast Distributor Lorial Crowder is the gal to go to for Tahanan Books this holiday gift-giving season and beyond. Start your child’s Filipino bookshelf off right or give the joy of reading to other children in your life with this collection. Hey, go ahead and buy teachers of all nationalities a Filipino book as well so they can spread culture among their students.

Email her at: lecrowder[at]gmail[dot]com

“…yet fear can be a signal that you are on to something important.”

Or what I would call, The Rain Man Advantage.

Autism, Inc.