“Viewpoints” is a place on Chapelboro where local people are encouraged to share their unique perspectives on issues affecting our community. All thoughts, ideas, opinions and expressions in this series are those of the author, and do not reflect the work, reporting or approval of 97.9 The Hill and Chapelboro.com. If you’d like to contribute a column on an issue you’re concerned about, interesting happenings around town, reflections on local life — or anything else — send a submission to viewpoints@wchl.com.
He Calls Me Dad
A perspective from Dwayne Ballen
“Hey Dad!”
There was a time I never thought I’d hear those words, coming from my son Julian. More on that shortly, let’s allow him to finish.
“What is Peter Pan’s favorite type of airplane?”
“Uh-h-h.” He had me.
“The one that NEVER lands!”
“Hey Dad! What did the Dalmatians say after they finished eating?”
“Hm-m-m.” Again, no clue.
“That hit the spot!”
As he rocked back in his chair (wide grin on his face) it was evident he was quite pleased with this bit of comedic gold. His infectious spirit quickly captured me as I succumbed to the giggles. Julian has autism. He’s thirty-two years of age and I’m his father.
When we first became aware that Martina, my wife, would be giving birth to a boy, our first child, my mind took off on a flight of grandeur. Over the ensuing months, I began to design a mental blueprint. This child would grow to become one of the world’s most significant people; a colossus astride the globe, his would be a name for the ages. Philip II of Macedon and Joseph Kennedy would have nothing on me, I was going to raise, shape and guide humankind’s next important light.
By the time he reached the age of three we realized that something was different. He missed crucial developmental markers, was barely verbal, would pace (incessantly) back and forth while flapping his hands and humming to himself and could, at any moment, erupt with an emotional, and physical, outburst that engulfed all and everything near him.
“Julian is on the autism spectrum.” I understood the sentence structure, as the doctor delivered the news. I simply was unwilling to engage or consider what it actually meant. Autism, that just wasn’t part of the plan, my plan. I could only think of myself. What did it suggest about me as a man, that my son, legacy, was less than? Was there a flaw in my DNA that caused this? It was a wrongheaded mindset, but it was the way I felt at the time.
During this period, I was a (very pampered) studio anchor for a national television sports network, based in Los Angeles. Martina, who held a very demanding position as a college athletics executive, remained in North Carolina with Julian and our younger son Jared. I traveled home on weekends, to a house of tension. Julian was very limited verbally. He mostly expressed himself through echolalia which is the precise repetition of words, sounds or phrases spoken by someone else, a core communication trait in autism. His volcanic meltdowns were draining, on everyone, and scary.
Martina was worn down, once wondering plaintively, “Will he ever speak to me? Will he ever call me Mom?” She attempted myriad times to engage me in substantive dialogue about Julian. He has autism, it is different. We need to consider a course of action for him. I listened, always in a cursory manner, then moved on to my “Father plan.” It was simple. He was broken. As his father, I had to fix him. Julian would adhere to my expectations. Autism was just an excuse for unacceptable behavior. I would, physically, attempt to stop him during his meltdowns. I would try to force him to look at me directly and insist that he answer me when I spoke to him. I was, obviously, very wrong and completely ignoring the reality of his autism.
Matters reached a (proverbial) boiling point when, during one of my weekend trips home, Martina confronted me and demanded that I recognize our situation. With pain and near desperation all over her face she let me have it.
“You think he does these things just to upset YOU. It Is not about you! It is who our son is, he has autism. I know this isn’t what you expected but we are going to deal with it, for his sake. Time for you to get on board.”
That pretty much did it, my wife can be powerfully persuasive when necessary, plus I knew my methodology was a disaster. I then began the deliberate journey towards acceptance of who my son was. Coming to terms with his autism would mean dispensing all of my conventional notions regarding Julian’s pathway in life.
I wanted to communicate with him, but how? Simply talking, asking him a question and expecting a response, was useless. He did not like to be held so embracing, to express my love, was not an option. It occurred to me that he enjoyed sitting, alone, in our recreation room and watching The Lion King, the Disney animated film. It was, and remains, his favorite. I decided to sit with him, uninvited, on the Saturday afternoons I was at home. The idea was to just be there with him, in that moment.
Over time I noticed that near the end of the movie, when the baby lion cub is presented on Pride Rock, to the rest of the animals of the kingdom, as the lions began to roar, with the Circle of Life providing a majestic musical accompaniment, Julian, with eyes fixed on the screen, would start to roar, just like the lions. So, one day I decided to roar along with him. Initially he did not acknowledge my effort to join in the celebration, remember this was his thing. I was an interloper. After a few months of this, one afternoon something happened.
As the final scene began he looked at me, before returning his attention to the movie. It was very brief, but I saw it! Then as we were in full roar, I felt his eyes and smile, yes smile, on me. I slowly slid my hand next to his and he allowed me to hold his hand. With tears streaming down my face I felt it, the first ever real connection with my son.
It was probably the first real lesson Julian taught me, this journey with him would only be successful if I was willing to meet him where he was, on his terms, at the time. That day, his eyes and smile provided me with the first sense of affection, from him, that I experienced. I truly felt like his father. I’m forever indebted to Simba and his friends.
From that point on I have valued every minute of being his father. That includes the dispiriting lows and the exhilarating highs. As he grew he did begin talking, a lot. Martina hears the word Mom more than she could ever have imagined. He regularly expresses his feelings with hugs and kisses for both of us. Recently, as I walked through the aisles of a department store, I heard his familiar voice as he came up behind me proclaiming, “Time for hugs, I love my Dad.” With those words, he wrapped his arms around me while softly slamming his head on my shoulder (a form of his stemming) and I, as is customary, greeted him with a kiss on the forehead. This has become a regular occurrence, no matter the setting.
Julian attends a day program, for adults with autism, during the week. A few days ago, when I dropped him off, he was greeted by a counselor, a new one that I’d never seen before. As she came out to greet him and started to walk him into the building he turned around, motioned to the car and said to her, while wearing a big smile, “That’s my Dad.” Yep, and that’s my son.
Dwayne Ballen is an award-winning television journalist who lives in Durham, N.C. and the author of Journey with Julian. He and his wife, Martina, are the proud and loving parents of sons Julian and Jared.
“Viewpoints” on Chapelboro is a recurring series of community-submitted opinion columns. All thoughts, ideas, opinions and expressions in this series are those of the author, and do not reflect the work or reporting of 97.9 The Hill and Chapelboro.com.
