Raising Up Miggy
Growing Up In A Strange Land
from 
JoeUser Forums
JoeUser Forums
Scattersez:
RAISING UP MIGGY –
(GROWING UP IN A STRANGE LAND)
I think it was October then, barely a month after it happened. To visiting relatives who had come from far and wide, it was a startling event, but not unlike any other tragedy one read in the papers only to be clouded with another one would hear in the news the following week. Somehow the dimensions of 9/11 had not quite sunk in then to many. You heard expressions like “tsk..tsk..tsk..what’ll they come up with next?” and “Let’s go visit Ground Zero.”, still with that distant affectation that seemed to measure how far away one was when it happened .For the relatives who came, they were miles away then. Like thousands of miles away.
So, with all the hoopla that seemed to accompany tourists breaking out for an exotic beach, the whole clan prepared to go to the Big Apple, which was an hour’s drive away. Everybody wanted to see Ground Zero.
“Miggy, aren’t you coming ?”, I called out to my son, who was always moping around in the basement with his games and his computer. No answer. With a little more prompting and his mom’s voice now geared to a sterner pitch, we managed to help him disengage himself from the PC, to put on his coat and shoes and head for the door and into the car.
Miguel wasn’t your regular 15-year old who by this time would be excited to interact with his cousins. He had a bit of a problem.
Has it really been that long? Years ago, my wife and I had already developed this paranoia whenever we received a letter from the principal’s office inviting us for a talk. In our heads would always hang the questions, “What did Miggy do this time?” ”What did he say?” as we sat outside the Principal’s office nervously awaiting our turn.
What was thought of as childish tantrums at the start was starting to weave a bizarre pattern of antisocial behavior. First, the reports of fights with seatmates were jolted by reports of pencil-stabbing incidents. Then ordinary Sundays were turned into a nightmare when we were treated with the spectre of Miggy hurling invectives and the tennis racket at his Grandad simply because he couldn’t hit the ball. The old man was just patiently trying to develop Miggy’s interest at the game and was left dumbfounded. These were very trying years that made us desperate to look for solutions ,many of which, when we look back now, were largely misplaced.
Having lived in a developing country then with its stricter social mores, behavior of kids in their school years was held in a rigid spotlight. There were the discipline sessions, which were really not my cup of tea, since I liked spoiling kids, but this Dad had to bite the bullet when the going went rough. I had to make sure, though that he understood and remembered what the punishment was for rather than just remember the punishment alone. There were the guilt trips when we had to look at ourselves as effective parents and even scrutinize our relationship as a couple. And the many special schools we tried , the last ones of which put him in the same room as a kid with a Mongoloid disorder and he had to come to us crying, “ I’m not abnormal.”
A pediatric psychiatrist made us aware of ADHD (Attention-Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder) which was one of the labels they gave quirky kids, but transported and transplanted to an American High School which was to accept his “oddity” much later, we received a more accurate picture of what we were dealing with. “Asperger’s Syndrome”, we were told by a panel of counselors and psychologists who gave him a battery of tests. What it meant, we were told , was that it was a high-functioning form of autism. Everything was ok with Miggy, except that he didn’t know how to relate socially. (At that point, I was almost tempted to say, “Are you sure you’re talking about my son and not the rest of America?) But we did note it sometimes, as he struggled to get in a conversation, only to blurt out an embarrassing comment out of the blue. It’s a thing the family members have learned to buffer with a lot of love and explaining.
At times, Miggy would fascinate us with his ability to breeze through with school exams when he had to, but these episodes were marred when he would irritate the teacher (and his class) with his never-ending questions. He became the official family counselor for computer problems and despite school board sessions on his boorish school antics, he finally made it to college where we hope he could fulfill his dream of being a “ computer animator”.
Of course I was glad when Miggy made it to the car. At least get him off the computer for awhile, I thought. Uppermost in my mind too was the chance to make up for the time I had to be away from him. What was it called ? Absentee Father Syndrome ? If it was my syndrome or his or both of us, I don’t quite remember, but there always was a hesitation to get closer even if we were both aware of each other’s presence.
We felt the biting October wind upon reaching Ground Zero, and despite this, that tourist temptation of grabbing a camera to document a moment came reflexively among my relatives until finally the Instamatic landed in my hands. The camera had carried its magic with it. You know, when you held it, all of a sudden, you’re Mr. Film Director and I found myself giving the hand signals for the group to pose before what was already a partly fenced-off giant crevice with metal cranes hovering amid the shadowy background of neighboring buildings. I looked into the lens to catch that final cut of how I wanted the picture to appear when, all of a sudden, I saw Miggy’s face approach, his hands motioning to me.
“ No, Dad, no”, Miggy said, “This is sacred ground.”
My son who barely spoke to me past the “good morning” s had finally something else to say to his Dad in all seriousness. So his Dad had to listen. I looked around and saw darkened coats and couples hovering behind me in a somber mood. In a corner, there were tacked-up notes of sadness and ribboned violets which slowly grew to cover part of a wooden divider with each passer-by.
“Here, son”., I told him, handing the camera, “ you take the picture.” And he readily took the camera and I watched him, positioning himself on higher ledges where he snapped photos of the ruins one after the other.
Upon reviewing the pictures we took that fall, Miggy’s shots of Ground Zero never failed to catch my attention. He caught Ground Zero at dusk – hovering cranes and all and conveyed the serious tone of what “sacred ground” meant.
Ruins . Lost Lives , but not lost future. It was like a re-dedication (if there is such a word) of the lives lost to build a better future. It was much like how I felt a part of my life and his crashed down for a time, only to meet at Ground Zero to be rebuilt, one stone at a time.
It’s like finally seeing something rising from Ground Zero. It’s like Miggy, beating the odds out of his syndrome to become a part of this Land’s future.
Hey, my son spoke to me that day. Maybe next time I can get him to smile.
Who knows? If I stick around longer, I can actually get him to like me.
