The Silent Boy

 

In a hospital in New York City, a baby boy was struggling to enter the world. The only tool the doctors had to assist him was a pair of forceps. They were clamped to his head, and he was pulled out of his mother's birth canal. He was a handsome boy, perfectly formed. His parents were proud. He cried and cooed and laughed, just like any baby would.

Most children would start pronouncing words by the age of two or three, but this child was silent. He was not deaf or mute; he was not anti-social. No, he was a most sociable little fellow. He enjoyed playing with his aunts, uncles, and little cousins. He was not autistic, he was just quiet. No one thought much about it, and there did not seem to be much cause for concern. After all, a quiet child is usually preferable to a noisy one.

He was loved and catered to by the ever present adults, whose only communication with him was the occasional "Mira, how cute" and "ay, pobrecito." Except for a few cousins who were around the same age, he did not have much exposure to other children.

He was sent to live with his grandmother in Florida, where he attended the first grade in a regular public school. His attendance was satisfactory and his reading skills seemed to be developing normally. A letter from his teacher indicated that his motor coordination had not improved, and he was experiencing some difficulty in forming letters and numbers. He was also having trouble adding and subtracting simple numbers. He had to repeat the first grade.

He spent his third year in school in the second grade. He was becoming more aware of phonics and was applying it to his everyday experiences. Although he showed no interest in script writing, he printed beautifully, and his spelling improved considerably. In a letter to his grandmother, his teacher reported markedly improved social skills and much interest in music. He sang a duet in a school program and did quite well. His participation in physical education and art was also reported as satisfactory. He was admired by his teachers and classmates as he was very good natured and cooperative. He was responsible, and he interacted well with those around him.

The silent boy is my cousin. Actually, he is more like my brother. His grandmother was my great-grandmother. That’s close enough for me. He is eight years older than me. When I was growing up, it was a big event when he was coming to visit, or if I was going to visit him. I had very few friends as a child. I spent my summer vacations in Florida. My cousin was a breath of fresh air. He had a great record collection and lots of cool toys.

When I was ten, I was sent to live with them. He was eighteen, yet I was still able to play with him and relate to him as if he was a boy my age. I would sit for hours with him playing rummy and checkers- he always won, and have him read aloud to me. I tried to help him with pronunciation. Our relatives used to say that when his parents died, that I should be the one to be with him since I spend time with him and teach him things. At that time, he was receiving vocational training at a center for the mentally retarded.

Eventually, he went to work at the Goodwill, where he worked as a sorter. He would bring all kinds of cool stuff home: books, records, and little chachkas that he would lift from the conveyer belt and hide in his locker. After twenty-five years of service, he was dismissed for stealing.

When his parents moved from New York to Florida, and into the house, we had to leave. I would see him occasionally, but I was already older, and I was starting to get involved with jobs and girlfriends. Our reading sessions came to an end. His parents didn’t talk to him much.

They used to send money to TV evangelists for holy water and prayer handkerchiefs. One of them came to town to hold a revival, and they took him to get a miraculous healing from Jesus. It didn’t happen, and they stopped sending the money.

A few years after the deaths of his parents, I returned to Florida to live with him. He is fifty-five years young, and he has not changed. He is always happy and playful. I have never known him to cry one tear. Sometimes I envy him. He had been treated as if he was retarded during his life, but I know that he can learn how to do anything. He didn't know how to crack an egg until I taught him. His first egg went all over the stove. We tried it again, and he got it into the frying pan. Now he makes a better over-easy than I do. I always break the yolk.

Ray Galindo