Posted on

White Rubber Boots

White Rubber Boots – Part of an artistic installation by Wendy Hanson Hoffman

I leaned tightly into the corral post, trying to be as still as possible without being noticed. I knew Wendy was going to get it. The red whiskered man had told her to stay out of the puddles. There she was, with mud right up over the top of her boots and running down the insides, her pudgy little arms sticking too far out of last years sweater. She was just singing to the sunshine and enjoying the sweet pleasures of a muddy puddle on a warm spring day.

I listened toward the barn for the singing sound of the milk going into the bucket. As long as he was still milking old Jenny, Wendy still had some time to get out of her predicament. She seemed oblivious to the dangers though, and was now reaching into the mud up to her little elbows trying to get one of her boots unstuck. Nice new white rubber boots. Boy was he gonna be mad!

All at the same time, it seemed, the milking sounds stopped and Wendy plunked down on her butt in the mud and started wailing. I grabbed onto my post even tighter and held my breath.

”Stupid little Wurpet! I told you to stay out of the mud.”

Whisker man wasted no time getting from the barn door to the mud puddle, cussing and yelling at Wendy all the way. She wailed even louder as she tried to get up and fell back in the mud again. He yanked her up by an arm and raised her high above his head, then flung her to the ground, right into a pile of horse poop. He commenced to kicking her with his big boots, just kicking and kicking until it really started to bother me that he was getting horse poop all over her, even in her hair. She had stopped crying and wasn’t even wiggling now. As far as I could tell, she wasn’t breathing either. She must be dead.

I hung onto my post and tried to get my eyes to shut but they just wouldn’t cooperate. I just wanted him to stop kicking her and getting more poop on her. I tried not to make a sound.

Then, as suddenly as he had started, whisker man stopped kicking her and picked up her limp little body, cradling it as though she was his precious baby and something terrible had just happened to her.

”It was the horses,” he was saying, as he headed for the house with his precious cargo, yelling for mama and cussing the horses, using all kinds of bad words my ears didn’t like to hear.

I glanced around to see where the horses were. They were grazing peacefully on the far side of the pasture. I stood there, still clinging to the post and trying to make sense of it all, while hot, silent tears streamed down my cheeks.

”That was real dumb on Wendy’s part,” I thought. “Real dumb!”

You could never tell what was going to get you in trouble with whisker man, but she should have known to listen to him when he said to stay out of the mud puddles. Now last week, when I got a good punching, that was different. I was still figuring on that one.

Whisker man had been driving down the lane in his pickup truck, me riding alongside of him, standing up so I could see out the window since I was a little small for a five year old. All of a sudden a bunch of sheep ran into the road in front of the truck. He hit the brakes hard and my head hit the windshield hard. A big crack went all the way across -the windshield- not my head, though my head wasn’t feeling too good right then either.

He stopped the truck and grabbed me before I even got the first sound out, punching me and cussing at me for busting the windshield.

Well, I’d sure try never to do that again, though I wasn’t exactly sure what it was that I did that I should never do again. Life is hard like that sometimes. Just so hard to make sense of things.

Epilogue

The accuracy of this memory has been verified in two ways. While my sister was undergoing unexplained rib problems and attributing it to something whisker man called “rabbit punches”, she was also working on a sculpture exhibit, which was based on white rubber boots. We lived thousands of miles apart and this was nearly thirty years ago, so we communicated by snail mail. When I shared with her the memory I had upon which I wrote the above story, she went for xrays and sure enough, had several unexplained healed broken ribs.

The rabbit punches happened to whomever was allowed to sit by whisker man in the truck. He chose. While driving along, without any warning he would suddenly elbow the child beside him in the ribs. Hard! It was similar to the hot spoon torture. You did not have to do anything to deserve it. Just be there!

The second way the memory was verified was when I told our mother about it. She remembered the horse having trampled Wendy and that they had to keep Wendy sitting up even at night because she couldn’t breathe lying down. They did not take Wendy to the doctor.

I am unable to explain this incident except to say that abuse does not just affect the child it happens to. It also affects the children who see what happens. I was unable to tell my mother what I saw and did not completely understand what happened. I could not comprehend dishonesty. The communication difficulties of autism along with being easily overwhelmed made it extra hard to make any sense of these happenings. My response was to retreat into my own safe world.

Coming next: Paper Horses

Posted on

Patterns, Colors and Shadows

Cracking rocks as a small child, hour after hour, making piles and piles of cracked rocks, was a wonderful way to spend my days as a small child. I saw inside the rocks amazing patterns and designs that lit up my little heart. The same was true of my visits to the creek to watch the ripples on the water. I would toss a pebble and watch the ripples, then toss another and watch what happened when the second ripples bumped into the first ripples. Shadows also fascinated me, as did droplets of light coming through the trees, patterns of berry bushes loaded with berries, patterns made by pebbles in the creek bed, patterns in a dried up puddle and so many, many, beautiful patterns everywhere. I could happily spend my days watching and absorbing these things.

Recently I was messaging my sister in Colorado who has a BA in Fine Arts from the University of Lethbridge. I asked her if she felt I am out of balance after another family member criticized me to what I felt was an excessive degree. My sister told me to disregard the criticism and to keep painting. She understood my fascination with patterns because she grew up alongside me. She even was moved by one painting that reminded her of excursions we used to take into the forest to where there was a tiny cabin. The painting is the one on the upper right above. She could even feel how the sunlight filtered down through the trees.

My recent artwork has been an explosion of patterns, colors and shadows. I did them on 12 x 12 canvases and just hung them sitting loose on the screw so that I can lift any painting down and sit and enjoy the patterns and colors. It was suggested by a well meaning family member that I am out of balance, making too many meaningless paintings. It was pointed out to me that the cost of paint and canvases for filling my walls with these paintings was out of balance considering that my refrigerator was empty.

So am I the proverbial starving artist? I think not. I am the senior on social security who gets income only once a month, pays the bills and runs out before the next months deposit day. That’s all. I justify money spent on art supplies as a substitute for anxiety meds. If painting and looking at patterns and colors is calming to me and I do not need prescription meds at all, how is the cost of my art supplies even a concern. I also choose not to drive anymore and have no car expenses. I am badly affected by fluorescent lighting, noise levels and crowds, so I don’t go out to eat, go on cruises, or take trips. My preferred outing is a walk down to the river to observe patterns, colors and shadows.

Do I have too many paintings of patterns? Perhaps by some standards. However, I live with four dogs and two cats and they have never complained. My grandchildren are my most regular visitors and they love my paintings and make plenty of their own. I have a whole wall just for them.

Recently I hung a new painting in one of my displays and took down one to make room for the new one. My three year old grandson immediately noticed the missing painting and asked what I had done with the “fire” painting that he really loved. I explained that I wanted to hang up the new one, which he said he liked as well. He went through my house looking for another spot to hang the “fire” painting and showed me where I could put it by the coffee maker. I did. He said “Now every time I go in your kitchen I will be happy!”

These are some of my displays. I have twenty of the pattern paintings in my living room.

This is a slightly different post than my poetry and childhood history posts. I want to use this website as a means of helping others, both on the spectrum and off, to see inside the mind of a person with autism. Every person on the autism spectrum is different, yet there are so many similarities that when I look at the art of many artists who have ASD, I understand and feel their art.

Posted on

The Tree

The Tree

The tree,
deformed and
scarred by life,
did not choose the ground
where it would grow.

The tree,
whose seed was put there
or fell there
in that barren, rocky place,
was forced to struggle.

The tree,
branches at odd angles
like arms pleading help,
was alienated amongst
buildings and concrete.

The tree,
arching backward,
peeled back its skin,
exposing the black cavity
within its twisted trunk.

The tree,
a monument
to the will to survive,
stands graceful
in its death.

By Linda Hanson – 2001

I sketched this tree and wrote this poem while sitting in a parking area in front of an arts center waiting for my daughters to finish a class. Often I am unable to tolerate being inside a building for more than a very short time because of my reaction to fluorescent lighting. Not only do I jerk and make noises when exposed to fluorescent lighting, but the sound of the lighting is often overbearing. Fluorescent lights have an effect on my brain that takes hours to recover from if the exposure is more than a few minutes. So I try to minimize exposure and spend lots of time waiting outside. If I have paper and a pen, waiting outside is not difficult at all because I can enjoy the clean air and whatever there is to see, even if it is a dead tree.

Although I had not yet been diagnosed with autism at the time I wrote this poem, I had been living with it my entire life. Much like the tree, I did not choose my circumstances in life. I could only make the best of the circumstances I was born into, even when it was a struggle.

Posted on

Captive

Captive

Screams inside me
screams of horror,
depths not searched
where total horror
holds a captive
still in tears
held hostage more
than fifty years.

By Linda Hanson Denmark – 2003

Children with autism often have difficulty communicating so in effect, if there is no one looking out for their well being, they are in a hostage situation. The effects can last a lifetime. It doesn’t end when it ends.

Posted on

Picassoul

Picassoul

My father used to cut out
little pieces of my soul
and stick them back
in odd places
where they didn’t belong
as my mother watched
and when I cried for her
she’d turn away
until after awhile
I stopped crying for her
while my father
kept cutting out
little pieces of my soul
and sticking them back
in odd places
where they didn’t belong
until I was like
a Picasso painting
and now I look in the mirror
and try to figure out
where all those pieces
were supposed to go
and maybe one day
I’ll see the picture the way
it should have been
before it was cubed
or maybe ———

I should just paint a new picture.

By Linda Hanson Denmark – 2003

I had previously posted this poem on Facebook as my own “Me too!” statement since the abuse came in many forms including sexual abuse. However, the theme of this poem can also be applied to my autistic self and probably many others like me.

When my autism diagnosis was made, my brain signals showed a lot of scrambling, where a signal was sent from one part of the brain to another and then to yet another and finally some part of my brain that would not normally process that info would handle it. The cognitive tests showed results all over the chart, from four percent in visual stamina to straight across 100% in the part of my brain I use in processing language from brain to hand.  Not from brain to mouth though!

Other areas in the cognitive testing showed impairment. I am unable to determine emotion from facial expressions of others. I have problems with auditory retention, which means that I retain only pieces of a conversation and often can’t make sense of it. If I get the same information in written format, I retain it very well, to the point where I could ace a test by reading the textbook the night before the test.

Before others can accept autism and show some understanding, we first have to accept ourselves. After I was diagnosed I initially felt a bit of dismay mixed with relief at finally having an answer. I began researching and reading everything I could find concerning autism and now have a whole shelf of autism books and continue to read all I can find online as well. What I began to notice in myself was an acceptance happening. I have to accept that I have these weak points and strong points and work with the materials I have available in order to paint that new picture.

 

 

Posted on

The Stone

The Stone

I had my hiding places where,
when things were bad,
I sought refuge from the storm
– my dad.
I could retreat to think
and ponder why
my father hurt me so
and safely cry.
Cry because my mother
didn’t care
and when I needed her
she wasn’t there.
The common dog and cat
protect their own.
My mother stood and watched
——— a silent stone.

By Linda Hanson

I like to illustrate my poems because I am a visual thinker.

What profound message does this poem carry? Just this. Kids usually have two parents and one should never look the other way if they even suspect a child is being abused or treated unfairly. This is true whether the child has ASD or not.  However, often a child with ASD cannot speak for themselves or does not know how to ask for help. Maybe I would not still be having nightmares if the abuse had not gone on for my entire childhood.

Posted on

Differently Wired

Most who are familiar at all with ASD understand that there is a difference in the wiring of the brain. Some areas may work exceptionally well while other areas are compromised. The QEEG (Quantitative Electroencephalogram) showed this to be true in my case.

When I am put on the spot my mind goes totally blank. Totally blank. Even when trying to have a conversation where I am not put on the spot, I can have a thought completely formed in my head and cannot get it from mind to mouth.

Last night I saw this happen to my grandson. He had a special part in front of an audience. He had rehearsed and knew his part very well. When it was his turn to speak, he froze. He was able to recover with a prompt and I was so proud of him.

Now imagine the effect it might have had if he was scolded for not speaking when it was his turn. How can a person, especially a young child, control something that is out of their control? I have never consciously thought about whether or not to speak in such a circumstance. It just happens and the thought is right there waiting and the connection is lost.

Children and indeed adults also, who have difficulty getting thoughts from brain to mouth need support and encouragement, never criticism. It does not matter if the person is able to give a whole verbal essay under different circumstances. If the person shuts down when he needs the words under any circumstance, he did nothing wrong deserving criticism.

When I was a child in school, I could ace a written test with no problem.  If given the same test orally I would probably fail it because of this fault in my wiring. Was that a fault I should be criticized for? Was it something within my control? No!

Encourage, encourage, encourage!

 

Posted on

The Hot Spoon

The Hot Spoon

Mommy makes hot tea
in a brown teapot,
then pours it in his cup.
He heats a spoon
in the hot tea
and looks my way.
I watch.
I breathe fast.
I want to run
and hide from him,
but don’t dare move.
I know what’s coming.
He does this often.
I can hear my heart
beating hard
as I choke on
a swallow of nothing.
I watch
as the spoon lifts
from the cup
and comes toward me,
hot,
very, very hot.
Quickly he presses
the hot spoon
on my little arm.
I want to run
and hide from him,
but don’t dare move
so I hide
inside myself.

Written by Linda Hanson -01-2008

I thought of my father as whisker man because he almost always had a stubble of whiskers, not enough to be soft but just enough to scratch my face raw when he gave whisker rubs to try to get a reaction. I believed all my childhood that he was not really my father. My sisters all had brown hair and blue eyes and I had blonde hair and green eyes. Regardless of whether or not he fathered me, he was the man in charge and determined to get a reaction from me, whether by a whisker rub, a hot spoon, or by picking me up by my hair.

I am sharing these poems and true stories because I want others to know that just because a child with autism does not respond, it does not indicate an empty shell with nothing inside. I could think. I could feel. I could be hurt badly enough to still cause nightmares in my senior years. It may even be possible that because of the sensitivities that come with autism and the inability to intuitively figure out human interactions, the damage may be even greater. Maybe also because many with autism are gifted with an incredible memory, the pain is not easily forgotten.

Posted on

The Outhouse

Our outhouse was a two-holer. There was a big hole for big people and a little hole for little people. A kid could fall right through that big hole.

I hadn’t ever really fallen in though, and now here I was, looking up at those two holes from underneath. Whisker man said I needed to learn a good lesson about the value of underpants, and he’s holding me by the ankles, right down that big hole, plunging up and down, so close to the poop that it’s getting in my hair.

There’s a nasty brown puddle and if he lets go I might sink right out of sight and disappear forever. There are bits of catalog paper all mixed into the brown muck and some even stuck on the walls. The smell gags me as flies buzz around my face. I don’t like flies. I think they eat poop. I don’t like poop. That’s how I got myself into this mess.

I had been riding Sunny’s tricycle when I got what mama calls the fisics. I ran as fast as I could but I didn’t make it to the outhouse. All I could think of right then was that if whisker man found out I’d messed my underpants again, he’d make me wear them on my head most of the day, poop and all. I knew from experience.

Considering the probable results of being caught, I had decided just to pitch the underpants down the toilet hole into that pool of brown muck where I hoped they would sink out of sight forever.

It didn’t happen. The underpants landed way up on the side of the biggest mound, the one on the grown-ups side, and there they sat in plain view, right where whisker man was sure to see them.

If mama found them first, she might push them on down into the mucky puddle. She did things like that sometimes. Like when I couldn’t chew my meat and I hid it in my pockets. She found it when my pants went through the wringer but she never told whisker man.

Now whisker man is threatening to drop me right in if I don’t hurry up and grab my underpants. Yet every time I just about get them, he swings and plunges again so I can’t reach.

There isn’t much light to see by,  just what comes through those two holes and a crack between the boards in the side of the wall under the seat. Some light from that crack is making sparkles in some drops of moisture that are clinging to a spider web under the seat boards. For a moment I feel a warm satisfaction from finding something beautiful even down here, then remember about the underpants. Whisker man is still yelling and I had him blocked out for a moment. I guess nobody else will ever get to see those webs.

Knowing about the spider webs didn’t stop the silent tears that were running down my forehead instead of my cheeks as I struggled to grab the underpants. I had poop all over me now as whisker man continued cussing, swinging and plunging me. Finally, I managed to snag the poopy underpants and I hung on tight.

Whisker man was telling me that he should have just dropped me in and let me drown for all my badness. But since he loves me so much he won’t do that and he’s gonna let me have another chance.

By the time he pulled me out I had certainly learned the value of underpants. I made a promise to myself never to get the fisics again. It seemed to me that no matter how hard I tried, I could never figure out the good from the bad and I wanted so much to be good.

Posted on

Walls

Walls

The little girl
constructed walls
around her soul
and heart;
strong walls
with no windows,
thick, impenetrable walls.
Within her walls
she could exist,
safe,
secure,
alone,
crying silent tears.
No pain was felt
behind these walls.
Broken nose,
ruptured appendix,
scorched flesh,
crushed skull,
bullet between the eyes,
mommy’s unconscious,
naked in the snow,
broken glass,
black water
full of bloodsuckers,
screams of rabbits
skinned alive
could not get through
her walls.
The child grew;
the walls were strong,
well built,
secure;
she was alone,
no one to share,
to know,
to love,
behind her walls.
Time and experience
broke down
the walls;
she could extend
her hand,
her heart,
her soul
through the opening;
sensitive,
vulnerable,
one hand reaching,
grasping,
searching,
the other ready
to patch the hole.

By Linda Hanson 03-1995

With no formal autism diagnosis until my senior years, many theories and diagnoses were put forth as to why I was non-communicative and, well, weird! As a very young child I preferred to be off by myself, doing my own thing. I could spend hours with a hammer, cracking rocks to see the patterns inside them. There was a creek behind our house and I would go there as often as I could to watch the ripples and patterns on the water.  I was a shadow watcher and intrigued with shapes and patterns.

I did not have the concept of time that my mother thought I should have and I was often late getting to the bathroom. In rural Alberta in 1952, the bathroom was a little wooden structure set a distance away from the house and very stinky. All my life I have had the ability to smell things those around me could not sense and the outhouse was one of the worst offenders, worse to me than even the hog pen. No surprise then that I often would not get to the outhouse in time.

Punishment for wetting or messing could range from a spanking to having to wear soiled underwear on my head. On one occasion I put my undies down the hole of the toilet and did my best to clean myself up. The punishment for that incident was to be hung down the toilet by my heels. I wrote a short story about it which I will post separately.

The poem Walls described my sense of having protective walls around me.  I had always thought I put the walls there. My neuropsychologist said the walls are quite normal for autistic children who are unable to comprehend the world in neurotypical terms. I did not master speaking until I was six and could read and every word that I could spell became part of my vocabulary. My ability to use language improved quickly then but mostly in the form of written language. Even all these years later I communicate much better in written format than in spoken language. I was a very prolific artist as a child and I am convinced after reading Temple Grandin’s book “Thinking In Pictures”, that I also think in pictures. Even when I do a google search, I use the image search feature. No surprise then that as an adult I am an artist and a poet of sorts.

In the poem I refer to silent tears. One of my strange traits was that I felt emotion but could not show it. I also felt pain but could turn it off. Thus, when my mother got angry because I was not doing the laundry the day my appendix ruptured, I turned off the pain and did the laundry. That night I wet the bed and had a very high fever. My grandmother took me the following day and dropped me off in town with my older sister to look after me, and we went to see the doctor. I was immediately sent to the hospital. However, my grandparents had given us a dollar ro buy supper at the gas station cafe and we went there first before going to the hospital. I had no idea that it was a very bad idea to eat a greasy hamburger immediately before surgery, especially with a ruptured appendix. To conclude this tale, I was in the hospital for twenty-one days recovering from peritonitis from the ruptured appendix while everyone talked about how I did not feel the pain.