Back to the Green

I am a newly diagnosed person with autism,
And my  sense of self and wellbeing across time and place
has always been affected by
my engagement with nature.  

My fondest memories from my childhood were from playing in our garden
with my sweet animals and growing flowers and herbs.
My mum was the daughter of a preacher  farmer from Alabama.
She had a gift for the green — any plant in her care would thrive.
From lilac trees, a sea of Sempervivum tectorum
(or what you commonly call hens and chicks),
bloomed, begonias, chives, carnations, clematis,
rare roses that actually had strong scent,
tomatoes that were sweet,
squash, greens, herbs,
and so many different types of peppers for our plates.

There always seemed to be new friends in bloom and old friends
that returned to say hello
Consistency
where one small patch of failure was immediately noticed,
and care was immediately administered
A cultivated lushness…
Using creative composting to reclaim the old
to transform it into something new
a vibrant miracle … this growth
it all happened there
in that garden
and
I can see it
like it was all just yesterday.

Plants and animals were my best friends
Playing hide in seek behind our trees and hiding behind the plants
and under the porch and behind bushes.
Scheming  how to bring that joy and my animal friends inside when it was cold
I think I learned  how to love from this vibrant life force
Which at the time seemed unending and perennial
At least as part of my early musings
The quietness to be alone with my thoughts
away from the sorrow from inside that home
I could not stop writing
Perhaps we can only learn to love what we can
Or go as far as we can
if we perceive our choices as limited,
or as limitless.

Rare and common plants all seemed to thrive indoors
and outdoors at our home
Mirroring our early escape
from the poverty and violence from the West Side of Chicago, 
I think that we too had a hope for thriving and growth
but the violence followed us there
perhaps it never really left.
My father suffered from a gunshot wound to the head
that ended a career
that summer —
a wound to the soul too
our house set on a small hill of an urban street,
greenness aggressively cultivated as a small respite,
an attempt
to keep back the darkness of the inner city,
separated by a sea of flowers and hedges,
where only one street away there were drug dealers
and girls my age lost innocence too early.

In the midst my mother’s sadness of being poor,
her worry about unremitting bills,
the violence of the gangs, the costs of food,   
her multiple illnesses of the heart
she shared all this with me too
I retreated from the darkness  as best I could
in my alternative vision,
in the green
all I saw was
a desire to live and thrive as all living things do
in the animals I sheltered, in the plants I grew,  
and in me,
all my hopes and dreams
as I played in the garden and watched things grow,
the peace within
I pondered how to best keep my plants alive
in the Chicago winter,
taking care of my animals,
as I looked  up to the sky
hoping that there had to be more in life
than  just this.

As I grew older,
I too watched innocence begin to fade,
I watched the bullying of my brother,
as a newly diagnosed
…with developmental and intellectual disabilities
A predate to  “autism”
perhaps
he did not speak till he was seven years of age,
still designated as broken, labeled as “retarded” by teachers,
schoolmates and neighborly gossip, 
tossed into the educational rubbish heap
that was black male tracking to “special ed” in inner city Chicago public schools.

It’s not special to be discarded from learning by societal
and institutional stigma
a failure
to clearly see gifts because you learn differently,
to be jeered at by peers
because you walk and talk slower than others,
defined by all the things you cannot do,
the limitations
it was also not special for me to be deemed gifted because I learned easily
by  their provincial comparison.

My mum threw all her energy into the garden that was my brother,
fighting labels that diminished opportunities
and trying to create viable educational options.
She also taught him to garden.
looking to shield him against my father’s growing rage and disappointment
in his only son
A battle of anger fought daily with his fists,
first with my mother and inevitably me,
An alternative offering…perhaps?
when I could not seek approval through my grades,
or make myself quite small enough,
or quiet enough
to find
or run to
those places 
in the green of my mind
to hide.

With all that was going on,  
I think I was also forgotten by my family,
Forgotten but by those that loved and understood me
My plants that grew and my growing number of animal friends
rescued from harm even as I could not rescue myself
yet, seeking safety
I too learned to  mask the difference I knew was there,
an echo from when I tried to make myself
smaller and smaller,
my  hopes,
made better only  by focusing on what I could keep green and alive in the garden
and in me
as I plotted
my escape through school
and vigilant prayer.

I returned home  weekly to visit my friends while in college,
I feared for my plants and animals
I saw nothing else … there… but sorrow
The beautiful plants I had grown up with had stopped thriving
Tended
Discarded, uprooted and replanted
yearly, it gets hotter in the inner cities
things do not grow quite the same as before.
Inside the house
what was once lush
now decayed.

My brother’s bright future also stalled
by my parents growing fears for him from the outside world
The green grass of my youth now brown despite watering
The danger within
I took my friends with me as I ran away that last time,
trying to look forward
and not back
Or thinking of the parts of myself I left behind.

I became anthropologist
because it is inspiring to try to understand people
who are in pain.
That is the focus of my work —
those who suffer across diverse cultural and medical contexts.
I have  felt a similar silencing
and sought to help people give voice to those experiences,
and to create opportunities for healing,
and to care.
I have continued to garden because of those memories.
It has been a priority and privilege
to now have a garden filled with
hydrangeas, a lilac  and fig trees,
a sea of  Sempervivum tectorum,
vegetables, and herbs and so much more…
A place for the green
I remember that lushness from before
but now the growing season is different,
the summer is hotter
the yield is less,
the fertile ground is somehow less viable.  

When my mum passed
I simply could not pull myself back
together     
Fragmented
my garden and I languished  
My mum had been diagnosed as autistic before she passed  
Some pieces fell into place
Others still remain.

so I take my  opportunity
to lift my voice
to share and navigate
back to the green.

Dr. Rhonda Moore, PhD (MA ’91, PhD ‘96), is an autistic medical anthropologist and Program Director for the Genetic Counseling Resource with the All of Us Research Program at the US National Institutes of Health in Bethesda, MD. In her free time, she enjoys gardening, writing poetry and short stories, and attending comic cons and renaissance faires.