The week before Thanksgiving, I put a colorful turkey sticker in Robert’s work folder and wrote this message to his parents: “I am so thankful for Robert.” My words are genuine, but they are not what I expected to feel about this precious fourth grader. 

I’ve been a fourth grade teacher for 23 years, and when I learned that I would have a student with autism this year, I felt apprehensive and worried about how I would be able to teach him. I had never taught a student with autism, and my observations of several younger students at my school caused me to think it would be very difficult and draining. I had witnessed outbursts in the cafeteria from a kindergartner years ago. More recently, a fifth grader on my hallway with Asperger’s Syndrome often struggled socially and was aggressive towards his peers and teachers.

In an effort to prepare myself, I read a book about autism, and I prayed that somehow I would be able to meet his needs along with those of my other students. One teacher instructing 25 students with very diverse learning levels is a monumental task in itself.

During Open House the week before school started, Robert entered my classroom and reached out to shake my hand. “Hi, I’m Robert. Pleased to meet you.” I greeted him and smiled, thinking, “What a nice young gentleman.” My fears began to subside. Here stood a handsome young boy with impeccable manners and a smile from ear to ear. Immediately I felt drawn to him.

On the first day of school Robert shared with me that he hated to wear blue jeans. He explained that he was autistic, and the seams on denim pants bothered him. Other seams, such as the ones on the toes of socks, caused irritation as well. As soon as he told me this, he stopped and remembered that his mom had said he didn’t need to share that he was autistic with everyone. He looked worried, but I assured him that it was okay since I had talked with his mom and I knew. I told him, “Your mom is right, you probably don’t need to share this information with the others.” 

Robert’s mother and I both wanted to give students an opportunity to get to know him without prejudging. To this day, no one in the class has expressed that there is anything different about Robert. If he has opened up to them, I am not aware of it, but I honestly think it would not make a difference. Everyone really likes Robert. They even elected him to run for student council secretary. His mother shared with me that he came home one day exclaiming, “I think I’ve got a big future in this school!”

It hasn’t always been easy for Robert. In kindergarten, he had extreme difficulties and outbursts, which led to medical testing and his diagnosis of autism. At each grade level, Robert has made progress. His mother also saw to it that he received therapy. He worked on not hitting or biting when he was frustrated, and now he is working with his counselor on socialization.

Robert is artistic, smart, and a wonderful reader. He is in my top reading and spelling groups. He writes neatly and well. He also often sits and stares or reads instead of writing, and he is easily distracted and disorganized. Nevertheless, I love the perspective Robert brings to my class. He is very intuitive and honest. When he sees that I am anxious, he doesn’t hesitate to say, “Excuse me, but you seem rather frustrated.” His perspective causes me to stop and reflect about the message I want to convey to my students.

Often I find myself thinking about Robert even when I am not at school. Knowing him has broadened my point of view, and I have learned so much. I am learning that our differences provide richness and color to everyday life. Each student in my classroom is like a beautiful piece of a patchwork quilt. Together they make a very lovely pattern. Yes, I am thankful and hopeful too. Hopeful that, in spite of and because of our differences, we can all learn and grow. A poster in my classroom reads, “We are all uniquely different.” These differences are an important part of how God made each of us. I am thankful and forever changed because of the gift of teaching Robert.