Alaska Belle: And so, she called the cops

As I write this, I sit in an office chair in front of a bright white screen, fingers tapping away at my keyboard as I make the meticulous effort to put my thoughts into words.

The past year of this life has been great. I’ve made a few songs, spread my name around, met a few new friends. I’m pretty much living the dream right now, and I’ve never had it easier. Even still, with everything I have achieved up to this point, there is a hole in my heart that feels as if it will always be impossible for me to fill.

Living my life as an autistic person is just another part of what makes me different from everyone else I have known. The thought of growing up continues to scare me to this day, because I never got the chance to flourish during my adolescent years. In middle school, I was sexually and emotionally toyed with by someone who I truly believed loved me, and that experience alone has left me with immense trauma that has been difficult for me to recover from, to the point where it has seriously affected my relationships for years as I struggle to unlearn habits he taught me. In elementary school, I was threatened by my teachers because they saw me as defiant. On the other side of the coin, I was desperate for a way out for years.

Growing up, I took a school bus to South Portland every morning to head to Roosevelt School. I would watch as we crossed the boulevard, passing through the beautiful sunrise, orange bleeding through the sky; a view I would never forget.

I felt like I could be myself there. I had an occupational therapy room the size of a warehouse, a social worker who I really connected with, and teachers I could call my friends. We even had a playground that made me feel like I was on top of the world, with swings that could catapult you across the wood chips. It felt like my second home.

My last day there was bittersweet. A few weeks before, they told my parents that they believed I would have better education opportunities in Portland Public Schools, and that they didn’t know what else they could do for me. When we all decided I was ready to go, we threw a party. With a full-on barbecue, my favorite teacher working behind the grill, and completely free reign over the playground, everyone celebrated the time we got to spend together. We said our final goodbyes, and the last note my mom left in the journal was:

Thank you for everything you have given my child.

And so, my new journey began.

…

I don’t remember much at all from the last half of second grade. I think I did a few math tests and gave a kid a black eye, but that’s pretty much all I can recall. Life seemed to be transitioning smoothly. I had everything I had before, and then some, but despite this, something was starting to feel off; a fleeting feeling that came and went almost every day until the summer.

My summer was average. I went to a baseball game with my family, headed on over to Willard Beach, gagged at the taste of salt water and screwed up my eyesight for a weekend because my goggles were too small. My heart was beating with anticipation for the fall. My parents were in talks with Portland Public Schools to switch my enrollment to Presumpscot Elementary School. It seemed like the perfect fit; it was close to home, it was right by the deli and a lot of kids from my neighborhood went there. The thought of going there made perfect sense, so I agreed. They promised my parents, many times, that they would provide me with the utmost support and care, and would see it through to the end.

With a nervous face but excited feet, I walked with my dad to the elementary school that would change the course of my life forever. With hash browns in hand, I made my way through the door to the cafeteria for the first time. I sat at a table by myself, with barely anyone else in the room to drown the silence.

As the bell rang, I spent the next five minutes trying to figure out where my classroom was. When I finally made it there, I was greeted by a small room with one teacher and thirty other kids. I quickly felt conflicted. Was this really where I was supposed to be? It had the correct number above the door, and the teacher told me her name, but it felt like something was very wrong. I was losing touch with my surroundings, but I knew I had to endure. I sat myself down in the circle where I joined my classmates, a collection of faces that have become a blur in my memory.

The next day, I decided to bring the journal I kept on my shelf with me to school, so I could write about what went on in my day-to-day life during class. The entries of that journal are entirely gone now, but I believe I used to write entries by the hour, as if I was talking to an imaginary friend. I really just wanted someone to be my third eye.

On my third day there, I met the woman who was assigned to be my social worker. I don’t remember her name, nor do I care. We had lunch together outside, as the leaves waved and the sun shone above our heads. I didn’t know how to talk to her; for years, I had a jungle gym to play on while my occupational therapist would talk to me about my sensory problems, and how I can work on them. Here, I just sat on a bench with someone expecting me to know how to communicate.

This wasn’t like Roosevelt School. Nothing was the same, at all, and nothing would ever be the same again.

As the days, weeks, and months went by, my confusion, my loneliness, and my sorrow turned into anger and distress. I would frequently shut down in the corner of the classroom while everyone else was listening to the teacher, sitting in her chair by that fucking whiteboard, pointing over and over again at the same fucking number. Another teacher would be in my corner trying to calm me down, but I couldn’t take it. I wanted to go home. I lashed out on multiple occasions because no one could handle me.

One day, I realized that I actually knew the way home, and I wanted out.

I took my first steps out the door, and two of my teachers followed behind. They stayed back by the entrance as I kept walking. I wasn’t planning on stopping, until I heard a teacher threatening me for the first time:

“If you take one more step, we’re going to call the cops.”

I stopped at this threat, turned and went right back. I didn’t want to go to jail, I didn’t want to be put in handcuffs, I didn’t want to sit in the back of a cop car; I’d already been in one as a toddler because I found out how to unlock the door to my home. I was terrified.

A few more weeks went by, business as usual, bottling up my emotions and all. I don’t remember what happened, but I had another meltdown again. I wasn’t myself, I was screaming in agony, begging to go home. I lifted up a chair, ready to throw it… anywhere, really. I was right in front of the entire classroom of kids, and everyone collectively realized they weren’t going to be able to calm me down. My teacher told everyone to leave the classroom. Everyone seemed to be deep in panic, believing I was intending to harm them. I wasn’t in my right mind, I didn’t feel like myself. I felt trapped in my own body.

I soon was alone in the room with two teachers and my social worker. That was it. I was officially a threat. There would be no remorse for how they treated me from there on out, and I doubted that I deserved any to begin with.

That’s when I began to lose hope in myself. I became a monster, a shadow of my former self. I broke down constantly; in my own home, at my grandmother’s house, even in public. I was a broken record, beyond repair. I wish my grandmother didn’t have to see what happened to me. I remember locking myself in her guest room, before my parents came to get me. I wouldn’t listen to them, I couldn’t take it. My dad ended up grabbing me and putting me over his shoulder, where I kicked, punched and screamed the strongest I could. I could see the tears swell up in my mother’s eyes when she saw what I had become.

The last day I spent at Presumpscot was a nightmare come true. I remember it like it was yesterday. I was supposed to head to lunch with a friend, when seemingly out of nowhere my teacher came up to me and said that they wouldn’t be showing up. I don’t remember the reason why, but I have a feeling it’s because they didn’t feel safe around me. I didn’t understand. I just wanted to be a good kid. It wasn’t my fault, I would continue to tell myself. It wasn’t my fault!

I stormed away from her, and went into the library. I didn’t want her anywhere near me, but she stayed there, continuing to follow me. I retaliated like an entitled brat would; I climbed up the small, circular shelves as if they were a staircase, and began to throw dozens, soon hundreds of books onto the floor from above. I felt nothing in that moment but anger, resentment, and hopelessness. It became a monotonous cycle of nothing but book, floor, book, floor, book, floor… and that’s what I did for ten minutes straight, with no one able to see the pain in my eyes.

And so, she called the cops.

The door opened back up; I saw three police officers and their cars outside along with my father, and Cynthia Loring, Presumpscot Elementary School’s principal at the time. I immediately screamed in pure terror, and started bawling my eyes out. I don’t remember what anyone said to me besides my dad. He had a fury in his eyes I had never seen before, yet all he did was tell me to help him put the books back on the shelf. We were there for nearly an hour with the cops right outside, as we tried to put the library back the way it was before I had arrived.

When the job was done, the clock was already half past four. The last thing my dad said to Cynthia was one sentence:

“We are never setting foot in this fucking school again.”

We ended up setting foot in that school again only a few days later, to go over my options for switching schools. All I could tell them was that I wanted to go back to Roosevelt. I felt safe there, I felt like I belonged, and I knew that I would be able to see the people who first took care of me again.

It wasn’t an option. Spurwink closed down Roosevelt School in the summer of 2012, not long after I left. I was confused. We just celebrated my leave not too long ago. Why didn’t I hear about this? Why was I alone again?

A hole in my heart which I hadn’t felt before was starting to grow. It was as if my physical body was beginning to destroy itself after I ran out of emotions to bottle away.

Ultimately, they decided to move me to a place called West School, an environment that everyone described as my worst possible fear; a purgatory of frequent detention, a place where bad kids go. I wasn’t a bad kid, I didn’t want to be, I desperately wanted to be in a place of comfort. It wasn’t up to me, however. We were out of options.

When I first walked into West School, it actually felt surreal. It didn’t seem remotely like what people told me. All the stories, the rumors, completely thrown out the window as soon as I put my foot through that door. We knew this was where I needed to be. I got my backpack and prepared for the first day a few weeks later.

The first month was therapeutic. I met an old friend from Roosevelt, and we became just as close as we were before. It felt like nothing about him had changed, except that he just wore hats now. I made friends left and right, and I got to feel like a human being again. Sure, there were some hiccups, but this time I had people who knew what to do with me. It was an amazing feeling. I felt free.

The next month, the winter storm made the ceiling start to cave in, and they had to evacuate everyone from the building before it collapsed. We ended up getting a month off while they sought a new building. Now, I don’t know why they took over the building of a school right next to a cathedral, but it worked.

The rooms were bigger, the windows were wide, the sun shone on my face while I roamed about and worked with my teachers and peers. Unfortunately, it wasn’t meant to be for long. We ended up going all over the place nearly twice a year, from a random building in Falmouth to a former Goodwill office building. It was a strange time.

When they decided to finally settle down in the Goodwill building, they renovated the space to make way for classrooms, and changed their name to Bayside Learning Community. It was a lot smaller, but it felt more personal. Each classroom had a handful of teachers to hang with students and help with our work. I remember losing myself in board games every Friday. It was a fun environment, and I felt like I could finally be a kid.

Eventually, the same thing that once happened to me at Roosevelt School happened at Bayside. They said they didn’t have anything left to challenge me with, and that they wanted me to move on to a larger school.

I wasn’t ready for history to repeat itself, but their words charmed me. If they couldn’t take my skills further at Bayside, perhaps I was ready to take the leap this time?

No.

The next season came around. I packed my backpack once again, ready to start a new chapter of my life at what was once called Riverton Elementary School. The building was expansive; there were many places to sit down and learn, and there were more classrooms than I could count on my fingers.

When I found my classroom, I was surrounded by a group of twenty kids, backpacks beside each of their chairs. It seemed to be what you’d expect, but I thought to myself:

There has got to be a catch here.

Indeed, there was. Everyone seemed nice enough, I enjoyed my environment, and my social worker was amazing, but there was one thing that ruined my motivation for the foreseeable future of my education.

Common Core.

What’s this? What’s that? What the hell is a fraction? Decimals? None of it made any sense. My social worker pretty much had to do all the work for me, because I was more stuck than a doorknob. I could barely comprehend the material, and on top of this, I felt like a social outcast more days than not, only ever interacting with about two to three people a day.

Eventually, however, these challenges started to no longer matter to me. One weekend, the day after my 11th birthday, I downloaded the digital audio workstation, FL Studio, for the first time. I began to hack away at the default sounds, along with some sample packs I got from YouTube video links. I would upload my music to sites like SoundCloud and DemoDrop to get my name out there, and I would show people my profile at school. I even performed a track at the talent show, which… was the most awkward thing that has ever happened to me, because no one clapped for me. They all just sat there in pure confusion, wondering what the hell they had just heard.

My last day at Riverton marked the end of fifth grade. The last thing anyone said to me in that building was:

“I just want you to know that I never saw you as a friend. Honestly, I couldn’t care less where you go next. Anyway, have a good summer!”

… and all I could manage to say to this was:

“Okay. See you later.”

I have never felt more disposable. That’s all there is to it, I was just someone people were more than willing to walk over. That pretty much summarized my life in Portland Public Schools up to this point.

Middle school and high school had been more of the same. Suspensions, meltdowns, and not understanding anything I was reading. Before I entirely gave up on school, I gave up on the SAT, because I couldn’t read the equations being laid out in front of me, and there were people waiting to be able to leave. I felt an overwhelming need to just… stop.

I didn’t want to hurt anymore. I didn’t want to continue feeling the pain I had become accustomed to ever since I switched to this district.

I needed to go.

As of writing this, I withdrew from high school this month. It’s the first step I made towards carving my own path, and taking my life back. It was a moment of catharsis, and I felt like the weight I have carried on my back for 8 years was finally lifted from my shoulders.

Ever since I decided to start getting more serious with my music, I have been fortunate enough to explore a whole new world of possibilities, and the opportunities I have received have brought me a world of joy.

I’ve also made a group of friends I wouldn’t be here without, people I call my second family, people I would take a bullet for. I wouldn’t trade this for the world.

It took me more than seven years to learn, but trust me, no matter how long it takes, your life will get better. You will find peace soon enough; there is always a light at the end of the tunnel waiting to grab your hand and pull you into a whole new world of endless imagination.

Personally, I’ve been taking it easy lately. Being able to be a part of something big like Azura Mitsuda has helped me open the door to creatives who may have been in my shoes before. Every story I get the pleasure of hearing from the artists I meet from across the world, I will cherish forever.

Everything will be okay in the end. You will find your voice, and you will be heard.

My dad heard my cries when she called the cops.

This article was written by Alaska Belle, in collaboration with Logan Montoya.