Following Ezra, page 8
And I feel continually surprised by the revelations that come from Ezra’s fascination with animals. Long after Ami and even Noam have outgrown their interest in zoo visits—as most children do—Ezra’s attraction just soars.
For Ezra’s tenth birthday, Shawn’s brother and his wife send him a book that might have come straight out of Ezra’s dreams. Animal: The Definitive Visual Guide to the World’s Wildlife is a seven-and-a-half-pound, 624-page visual encyclopedia of nearly every animal on the planet. Ezra adopts the hefty volume, with its cover close-up of a mandrill’s colorful face, as his constant companion. On Saturday mornings, he silently pores over it in synagogue as if it were the Torah itself. On the school bus, while other kids chat or stare off, Ezra inhales data about habitats and extinction rates. I come to think of it as my son’s way of bringing the zoo along with him.
Not long after that, during another visit to Portland, my father takes a morning off from work to bring Ezra and me to the Oregon Zoo. As the three of us make our way, Dad grows amused and enchanted by his grandson’s enthusiasm and knowledge. We are in a complex of squat buildings housing the primates when Dad looks into one cage.
“What kind of monkey is that?” he asks.
“That’s not a monkey; it’s a siamang, the largest gibbon—lower risk of extinction,” Ezra tells him, moving on quickly to the next exhibit.
Dad surreptitiously pulls out his cell phone and accesses the Internet. “He’s right!” he says with a delighted grin. I feel gratified that my father has shared the kind of moment I have experienced so often with Ezra, an instant of grasping and celebrating what makes his grandson unique.
Ezra doesn’t simply remember the animals. He has a remarkable recall of his interactions with them.
At nine years old, he is reading aloud to me from a book that mentions a character’s favorite bird. I take the opportunity to ask him his.
“A woodpecker,” he says.
I ask him if he has ever seen a woodpecker.
“No,” he says. “But I’ve heard one, when we were on a hike on November twenty-eighth, 2003. It was a Friday.”
He is, of course, correct. A year and a half earlier, friends joined us for an outing in Malibu the day after Thanksgiving. Ezra asked that morning about the ticking sound he kept hearing echoing through the woods. I wasn’t aware that he had tucked away the memory.
In fact, he has accumulated an extensive mental diary of such moments, whose entries he shares spontaneously at random moments, over pizza or in the car. His are not mere fleeting memories. They seem to transport him back to the place and time, as if Ezra is reliving the sights and sounds and even the feelings he had inside. “Remember at the Santa Barbara Zoo in November of 2005,” he says over his oatmeal, breaking into laughter, “when that baby threw her daddy’s hat in to the otters?”
He giggles loudly and recounts again and again the time at a zoo when he happened upon the sun bear exhibit just in time to spot one of the bears urinating. Like any preadolescent, he finds the thought of a peeing animal endlessly funny. He smiles when he remembers the time Shawn’s parents, then living in Ohio, brought him and his brothers to visit a farm, where an unruly goose made its presence known with loud and persistent honking.
But the memories aren’t all good. Once, on a visit to a small zoo in rural Big Bear, California, we arrive at an enclosure of owls just after they have been offered a luncheon of dead white mice. For months and years after, I can see him struggle on occasion to block the memory from his brain. Even hearing mention of the name of the zoo makes him physically agitated—so much so that he covers his ears, closes his eyes, and says, “Stop-stop-stop-stop-stop!”
Possessing a superhuman memory has its drawbacks; when he wants to shake an unpleasant recollection, it can prove difficult.
Yet, with the exception of those rare, painful images, I can sense that Ezra is accumulating a storehouse full of joyous memories that he carries with him, just as he lugs the hefty animal book around. The familiar paths of the Los Angeles Zoo (and the other zoos he visits) provide a happy place—not school, where he struggles to focus and make sense of the rules; not home, where he can work himself into a frenzy with his repetitious habits. At the zoo, his soul seems serene.
I am building my own memories as well, forging a deep connection with my son through the simple sharing of experiences. The more we visit the zoo, the closer I feel to him, and the more I marvel at his struggles, his worries, his quirks, and his wondrous mind. Without setting out to do so, I have discovered a place and a way to connect with Ezra.
Not everyone shares my delight. In his excitement to see the blacknecked swans one day when he is ten, Ezra jostles his way past an older man and inadvertently plants himself directly in front of the man’s son, blocking the child’s view.
“Excuse me!” the man says.
Ezra, oblivious to such social nuance, just keeps gazing.
“Do you mind?” the man continues.
He doesn’t. “Abba, you see the swan?” Ezra says—still not noticing the man, and now outing me as his escort. The man glares at me.
“He could say, ‘Excuse me’!” the man says.
I have an answer prepared for such situations, but I never actually trot it out. I imagine myself stepping over, putting my face right in his, narrowing my eyes, and unloading. “Mister,” I say, “it’s a miracle that kid can speak at all.” That would be followed by a lecture on the neurological underpinnings of autism and a sob story about my son’s journey through special education and a series of doctors and therapists, and conclude with a final admonition: “I think you’re the one who should say, ‘Excuse me’!”
That’s what I dream of saying. Instead, I follow Ezra’s lead: I ignore the man and watch the animal. (Occasionally, I wonder whether it might be better in such situations to educate strangers by patiently explaining what makes my son different. But I usually err on the side of letting people experience a different type of person, unfiltered.)
“Yes, I see it!” I say, looking at the swan. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
By then, Ezra has slipped through the crowd and I trail him as he scurries off toward the Chinese alligator, blissfully unaware of the disgruntled gentleman he is leaving behind.
Even when he isn’t bumping into people, Ezra can stand out. There simply aren’t many children his size at the zoo cooing so excitedly and loudly over the animals. He has never really learned sensitivity about controlling the volume of his voice, even in places like movie theaters and restaurants, so he certainly isn’t going to learn that among the Sunday throngs crowding the paved paths of the L.A. Zoo. Ezra has developed a particular affection for otters and lemurs, both species that seem to share his playful and gentle nature. Seeing the otters so excites him that on some visits he stands at their enclosure literally bouncing on his toes with glee and excitedly reciting one factoid after another for every passerby to hear: “Those are otters! Otters are mammals! They’re in the same family as weasels, badgers, and skunks! My favorite kind is the North American river otter and also the sea otter!” He seems more delighted with each new detail, and other visitors must wonder whether perhaps this little boy works here in some capacity. “They’re carnivores! They like to eat fish! They’re very playful!” I have heard this litany over and over, though sometimes he surprises me by adding a new piece of information: “Otters live on every continent except Australia and Antarctica!”
One afternoon when he is eleven he’s watching the sifaka lemurs, pacing and hopping in his orange fleece jacket as he mimics the movements of the animals bouncing inside the cage. “I love these guys!” he squeals. “They’re soooooo cuuuute.” Other visitors come and go: moms pushing strollers, a den of Cub Scouts. Occasionally I catch a couple of them exchanging looks, as if to say, “What’s wrong with that kid?”
Once self-conscious and worried, I have learned from Ezra to ignore those glances. Like Ezra, I leave my troubles and concerns at the zoo gate, letting go of worries about money or work and losing myself in the animals and our shared moments.
As much as I cherish that link, I do sometimes wonder whether Ezra might ever find another child with whom to share the experience, a friend to make his existence that much less solitary. One Sunday when Ezra is ten, Shawn has joined us at the zoo when a woman about my age approaches us.
“I think my son knows your son from school,” she says.
Ezra does recognize the boy, an awkward ten-year-old who, it turns out, shares his passion for animals and the zoo. The boy is carrying a digital camera, and shows us how he likes to catalog the animals, stopping at each exhibit to photograph the informational sign, then the animals inside. His mother explains to us how he prints the photos and assembles them into albums he likes to flip through at home.
Shawn suggests we walk together, and I feel excited at the idea that Ezra can reach out to a schoolmate and bond over their mutual enthusiasm for wildlife. I imagine playdates at the zoo, hours to be spent musing over the boy’s photo albums and Ezra’s big book. But the two boys just trudge on, taking note of the dromedaries and gray wolves, but oblivious to each other. I am disappointed, but then I look at Ezra, who is unfazed, eager to get to the zebras.
Occasionally the zoo affords us sublime moments I couldn’t have experienced anywhere else or with anyone else. One chilly, misty afternoon when Ezra is eight, he notices that a new exhibit that has been under construction has finally opened. As we get close, Ezra leads me to a side of the enclosure where the floor of the cage is at about his eye level. We are the only visitors nearby, and Ezra quickly spots the animal inside: a young snow leopard—gorgeous, white with black spots—pacing back and forth inside the cage. Ezra squeezes his cheek up to the metal enclosure, tracing the leopard’s steps with his eyes.
“Listen,” I tell him.
We are so close, and the place is so quiet, that I can hear the leopard rhythmically inhaling and exhaling.
“He’s breathing!” Ezra says.
As the leopard paces, Ezra lines up his body with the animal’s, mimicking its steps, pacing back and forth, again and again. The air is cool and I see the vapor from the leopard’s breath.
“What’s that?” Ezra asks. “What’s coming out of him?”
“You can see his breath,” I tell him.
Ezra stops pacing and places his hands on the fence between himself and the creature. He takes a few deep breaths, and then I realize what he is doing: Watching the vapor emerging from the leopard, he is adjusting his own breath to be in sync with the cat’s. I take a few steps back and watch my son—who has gone through life seemingly so alone, who would never think of pacing the playground with another child—breathing in near silence with a leopard. I savor the moment, satisfied that I have brought Ezra to a place where he can be, at least for two minutes, content and calm, at peace.
And then he darts away, on to the next animal and the next and the next, until it is time to head to the parking lot. He senses the change, and even before we exit the gate, he starts in again on the usual chatter about Disney movies and junk food. As we walk hand in hand out toward the car, I wonder if the joy Ezra feels among his animals will ever permeate the rest of his life—and hope my little boy might someday feel as content and comfortable among his own species.
CHAPTER SIX
The Reader
We’re at Brad and Elana’s house when Ezra is five years old. The four adults are chatting over what’s left of lunch. Meanwhile, most of the kids have scattered around the house, occupying themselves with a bucket of Legos and the chocolate-chip ice cream that has appeared on the kitchen counter. Ezra sits on the floor nearby doing what he spends much of his time lately doing: obsessively paging through a picture book, front to back, then back to front. It’s not idle page turning. He holds the book close to his face, examining the letters and images the way some kids stare at their Game Boys. This afternoon it’s his current book of choice: a simple, colorful storybook about Thomas the Tank Engine.
Elana glances toward him.
“Is he reading yet?” she asks.
I am not sure I’ve heard correctly.
“Reading?” I ask. She might as well have asked if he’s composing symphonies. But she’s serious. Ezra, thanks to Sesame Street, can recognize the letters, but he shows no sign of stringing them together into words. In school he is so challenged by the simple act of paying attention that it’s hard to imagine him achieving much more. Brad and Elana have an older son with a diagnosis similar to Ezra’s. Often, Elana has valuable advice and insights. But this time I can’t fathom what she’s thinking.
“Yeah,” she says. “I’ll bet he’s reading.”
Elana is smiling cryptically as she says it, and I wonder if she’s speaking in some sort of coded, ironic language, as if she’s putting quotation marks around the word reading. Is this her way of saying that maybe Ezra thinks he’s reading, but of course we all know better than that? Surely Elana can’t be implying that Ezra could be comprehending the words on the page.
He does spend countless hours—the majority of some days—scrutinizing the pages of books: Dr. Seuss, The Story of Babar, Madeline. He seems magnetically attracted to their pages, mesmerized by their images and practically hypnotized by the process of opening, staring, and flipping page after page after page. It may be a form of imitation. He’s growing up in a home lined with bookshelves, with a rabbi for a mom and a writer for a dad. The way other kids might put on an apron and pretend to cook or sit behind the wheel and play bus driver, Ezra flips through books, just like his parents. Yet with all of that, it has never occurred to me that at the age of five my son is actually reading those words.
“He does love books,” I say. “But I don’t think he’s . . . reading.”
“Here,” Elana says. “Let me see.” She rises from the table, taking a place next to Ezra on the floor. She sits cross-legged beside him, examining the book he’s holding.
“Let’s read this,” she says, and she squeezes next to him, pointing at one word at a time, pausing to listen to Ezra. I watch, waiting for a miraculous breakthrough, the moment my five-year-old boy suddenly emerges from his two-year-long trance to reveal his hidden ability.
It doesn’t happen.
Instead, he merely continues to page through, staring at the book. And as we continue our conversation with Brad, I let the momentary fantasy slip away.
Until a few minutes later, when Elana returns to the table.
“He’s reading,” she says evenly, still wearing her mysterious smile.
“What do you mean?” I ask. It just doesn’t make sense. I feel confused and skeptical—and it must show on my face.
“He’s smart,” she says. “Of course he can read.”
Later, on the way home, Shawn and I are both quiet for a while, and then I ask my wife: “Do you think he’s reading?”
She shakes her head. “Do I think he will read—someday? Yes,” she says. “Is he now?” She shakes her head again.
I don’t know what to think. Have we missed something? Have we been overlooking new developments all along? Has Ezra been reaching fresh milestones, higher levels of comprehension, unprecedented accomplishments that have escaped our notice? Has he been deciphering the words on the pages all this time, while we naively dismissed his page turning as mere habit? I’m perplexed. Did Ezra actually read the words on the page to Elana? Or is she just trying to send us a signal—that we ought to have faith in our son, ought to assume that he is a mindful, intelligent person?
That night at bedtime, I sit on the boys’ bedroom floor with Ezra, an Eric Carle picture book between the two of us. I point to a word and ask him to read it to me.
Silence.
I read it, then point to the next.
No response.
“Read to me!” he demands.
“No,” I say. “You read to me.”
He squirms. “Read, Abba!”
“You,” I say.
It’s silent. In the hush between us I am aware of the tension within myself—the tug-of-war between acceptance and aspiration, between embracing what my son is and pushing him toward what he might become. As much as I aim to appreciate Ezra on his own terms, with all of his eccentricities and limitations, Elana’s comment has touched a part of me that dreams for—maybe even expects—my son to do what any other child could do: make friends, sit still, read books.
While I try to rein in those too-grand thoughts, he takes me by surprise. Soon after that evening Ezra magically starts spelling words.
At first it’s his own name: E-Z-R-A. And within a few weeks he has added to that the names of his brothers: A-M-I-E-L (Ami’s full name) and N-O-A-M. He spells what he calls me: A-B-B-A, and what he calls Shawn: I-M-A.
One night, I’m making dinner in the kitchen and notice Ezra running into the room and grabbing the brightly colored plastic magnetic letters from the refrigerator door. Again and again he appears in the doorway, hurries to the fridge, grabs a letter in each hand, then scampers back out. When he leaves and doesn’t return, I peek into the playroom next door to see what’s up, and spot Ezra arranging letters in the corner of the small table that holds his wooden trains and tracks. He has placed eight letters into a crooked line to spell a word: D-I-N-O-S-A-U-R.
A big word for a little boy who seems so lost in his own head.
“Did you do that?” I ask.
He beams: “I spelled dinosaur! That’s how you spell dinosaur!”
I smile and watch my son fiddle with the letters and the trains and wonder what else is going on behind his deep brown eyes. And for a moment I ponder another question: Was Elana right? Is Ezra teaching himself? And I wonder whether he has been doing that all along—and whether he just might continue.
Soon, spelling becomes yet another obsession. When Ezra is not mimicking phrases from Winnie the Pooh or disgorging minutiae about Thomas, he is asking how to spell words: names, characters, objects, animals. This is what he fills the silence with now as we drive around with Ezra strapped in his car seat in the back of my Toyota.
