To all of the men, women, and non-binary folk out there who don’t have children for whatever reason, or if you have children but still play a role of protector, mentor, guide, or safety net for someone who isn’t your biological child, I would like to thank you personally and validate how important you are.
Autistic people have a high rate of trauma and abuse. Many of us come from parents who attempted to normalize us, whether or not they knew we were autistic and whether or not they thought they were doing it for the right reasons: so we would fit in, so we would be more responsible, so people wouldn’t think we were weird.
So, it’s not uncommon for us to have been taken in by some benevolent “Mama Bear” type who helped us to feel we were safe, loved, nurtured, and seen by at least one person.
Recently, I read a heartbreaking blog from a friend of mine, and she said something which took my breath:
I wasn’t a timid child, but was easily frightened and sometimes I wonder about the life-long effects of never having had anyone comfort me EVER. No one ever took me into their arms as a child and said, “Things will be alright.”
Not a Fit
As a teacher, I occupied the same space I have in every role I have ever played: not quite a fit. I was misinterpreted by other teachers, especially some of the veteran teachers in my department, and quickly became the problem and not the solution. Being different without a label was interpreted as playing for a different team, except I didn’t realize we were playing a game or that it was even possible to have an opposite team.
There were subtle passive aggressions, like not telling me about meetings or deadlines, and major aggressions, like not allowing me to attend events funded by grants I wrote.
Changes in the way special education worked resulted in me sharing my classroom with the most boisterous, confident, strong (read: intimidating) voice in the workplace: Beverly B. She was a force and an anachronism, always light years ahead of the times and delightfully behind the times. She was “old school.”
At first, this arrangement was catastrophic. We couldn’t have been more different. I was the least organized person in the building, relying on my charisma (with the kids) and my otherworldly memory to survive.
We eventually had to undergo mediation because we butted heads like a pair of rallying Titans. Finally, something clicked for Beverly. She must have realized in my floundering how profoundly disabled I was, and that no matter how hard I worked, I was not any different from her students.
In fact, I was the future of her students– not lazy, not dismissive, not uncaring, but not capable in the same ways as most people. I was never going to be able to function like her, and my success in that overscheduled, multi-tasked, “data-driven” world depended on someone else’s benevolence.
After that, she became the best ally I ever had. She brought me lunch sometimes, reminded me about upcoming deadlines, let me in on all the relevant office politics to which I’d been oblivious, explained everything in concrete terms which had always evaded me, and helped to keep me organized.
But her guidance and accommodations were world-shifting for me. She helped me to keep my head above water, walked me through ways to self-accommodate to empower instead of enable me, and plugged me into the social nuances I had previously missed.
She used her privilege and her power to help me meet my potential– with substantially less suffering for me. I wish all persons in the world had a Beverly on their team.
From a few of my friends on Mama Bears:
I never had a mama bear. I never had anyone tell me that it would all be okay. Or that I was safe. Or pretty. Or anything other than awkward, or difficult, or too (insert as appropriate- loud, emotional, quiet, bossy).
There was a lady in my street though, called Deanna. She would be dead now. She rented out her spare rooms, by some arrangement with social services, to adults who needed support. She saw my need, and she tried.
But my parents refused to let me visit her because of the perceived ‘threat’ of those who lived with her. But she knew that her animals helped me. That they brought me peace and comfort and acceptance. And she made her animals available to me always.
I spent my childhood on her doorstep, walking her dogs, and the dogs in our neighbourhood. This small effort, this act of seeing me and giving me a way to connect and feel loved (at least by the pets), was life-saving.
So whether you have biological children or not, if you are found family to someone who needs to be nurtured, appreciated, seen, and protected, thank you.
Sometimes, the family who chooses someone is the only family that person has, or the only family who ever truly loved that person. Being a Mama Bear type (regardless of your gender) is a selfless venture and something that is done for no other reason than to be a force of loving kindness and grace.
You deserve to hear today that you are loved, appreciated, respected, adored, and valuable beyond words.
Share this article with the found family in your life, whether they have been that role for you or for someone else. They need to know what kind of difference they’ve made for others.
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- My family’s autism services are working for us, so we will probably lose them - May 24, 2023
- What autistics mean when we say this world is not made for us: How fun activities push autistics into the margins - December 23, 2022
- Being a Great Parent to Your Autistic Child at Fall Festivals and Halloween Events - October 31, 2022
5 Responses
There’s a young man that I wish would get evaluated for ASD who I consider as an adopted “street son”. I’m proud of the strides he’s made, but scared that if something happens [i]outside of his control[/i] to prevent him from succeeding that he won’t try again
I understand your fear. I myself have “adopted” many individuals who have been in such a precarious place. No matter what happens, you make all the difference by existing and might be the only person he’s willing to try again at all. <3
Such a lovely post.