Voice for the Voiceless

Since my post in 2018, when William participated in the World Trade Center memorial service as a reader, the world has changed.
And so has William.

On March 19, 2025, William Aronow went with several support people (I’m there) to the New Jersey Statehouse to testify to the Assembly budget committee. He spoke with NJTV NJ Spotlight news prior to the hearing, and he appeared on the news that night. 

Considering that he had difficulty making a phrase with his tech as recently as 2019, his growth can be overwhelming at times. 

He says, “October 2020 is when I learned to type.”

Schools had worked on typing with him for probably a decade or more. His fine motor tremors, limb apraxia, and difficulty looking up and down to check his work kept him dependent on some physical support to type. Lots of practice and help positioning himself were what he needed. 

When the world stood still, conditions from April 2020 for the next 15 months were weirdly appropriate for practice. William was home with nowhere to go but on Zoom. For Zooming, he had an upright touchscreen on his iPad, or an upright laptop keyboard. On the other end of Zoom were people with whom he really wanted to connect. 

The other elements of practice came together:
(1) screens and keyboard on the same plane,
(2) a consistent arrangement of desk, chair, and tech with no distractions,
(3) high motivation to communicate with trusted people, and
(4) Zoom etiquette, so each person had a turn and plenty of time to set up messages with technology,
(5) and lots of repetition for gaining confidence. 
He also happened to have me, a speech language pathologist, to coach him quietly off screen. I pointed out how people were responding to him. Waiting for his turn, I watched him form speech messages until it was his turn to unmute. 

He had dozens of hours practicing the timing of high tech communication when a day habilitation program that had gone online, Disability Allies, asked him to be “Narrator” for a zoom production of The Greatest Showman. He narrated all the stage directions and descriptions using voice output from a document on the Pages app. 

Moths and the Butterfly, a Parable of Speaking

Spread the wonder! October is #AACawareness month.

Before there was even one butterfly, there were moths. The primeval moths flitted in darkness, avoiding flying dinosaurs and massive flying insects. If their colors were beautiful, no one could see them.

Then a moth stumbled into a new thing: flowers. As flowers evolved, moths came out into the light. Flying dinosaurs could see them now, and they were vulnerable. But they became more and more beautiful with every generation.

Butterfly house in Sedona, AZ, 2016

William was born listening to everything. As a baby, he was visibly excited by the peaks in Russian symphonic music, and he loved Spanish guitar or a good saxophone solo in anything. But he was unable to produce varied speech sounds. He also couldn’t use his fingers and hands well enough to sign words (like sign language).

When he was 4, we bought him a device the size of s small piano that could hold 8 words at a time. The world hadn’t created a synthetic voice for a child, so his young teacher recorded words in hers. There weren’t any flowers for him yet.

The world grew more possibilities. Touch screens became mobile, and more varied and expressive synthesized voices started opening up.

When William finally got his first high tech device, he was 15 years old. Now 7 years later, he’s speaking his mind in public meetings and just about learning where and what he can do. His colors are so beautiful, and he’s coming out into the world to show them.

Finding Your Voice on 9/11

On Wednesday morning, September 11, my son William Aronow participated in the 911 Memorial ceremony at Ground Zero in New York City to remember his late father, Richard Aronow. He cannot make clear speech sounds. He used his iPad for voice communication to read names and make a tribute to his father. Yes, he nailed it.

—Copyright 2019, Laura Ann Weinberg. You may link to this page but may not put it behind a private paywall without prior permission. —

This post is to document the support and effort William put into it and that of many people who made it possible. People went out of their way to help him be prepared, confident, and comfortable. You could say they were making accommodations, but it was heartfelt and kind.

William had attended and watched the annual ceremony in New York City, seeing his aunt or his uncle participating in reading names, a few times. I told him years ago that I thought he could participate, too, and he was interested but didn’t have the confidence. When he graduated last year, he felt ready. I entered him in the lottery, which is how readers are selected from among family members and first responders who want to participate in the ceremony each year. He “won” on his first try.

When he found out that he was selected, he knew right away what he wanted to say. He told me on his device. “…and my father, Richard Aronow. Dad, I love you very much. I miss you.” Pairs of participants read assigned sets of 40 names responsively. We asked for his uncle, Gil Aronow, to be assigned to read with William on the same podium. The day that we got William’s set of names (CL’s and CO’s), I programmed the pronunciation into his device. (Thankfully, this year I finally figured out how to trick his device into the correct stress for his own family name: as “arrow-no”.) Gil was assigned the name “Colbert” as Coal-bert, while William had the person whose name is said as “Coal-bear.” Reading names accurately is stressful for anyone on that podium, as is delivering your speech without forgetting what to say. Those were things William would not have to stress about.

When you use a touchscreen to say items in a list, you can’t keep your place using your finger, like people normally would. Standing on a podium in front of a crowd and video cameras, it’s natural to look up. When William looks up, his hand moves a little. We practiced and refined his touch screens, and with each change to the screen and navigation, he became less anxious and more accurate. The screen was colored to help him find his place. To signify the point at which his uncle would say a name, there was a blank button. He wanted at first to have all the names added to the speech message, but then changed his mind and had just one name showing at a time.

Pacing in a ritual is important. So that he wouldn’t rush, I reminded him that the ceremony is not about him. We know people who listen every year for their loved ones’ names, and they want to hear them clearly. We practiced reading responsively for pacing, and then he practiced with different people standing in for his uncle.

We practiced many times and in different positions to work out all the ways in which things might go wrong. You can skip a name or row or say it twice or three times. You can completely lose your place. It helped him to remember that every year, an extra reader is designated to say all the names other readers forgot to say. He knew it was all right to make a mistake, and mistakes were expected. Each change on his device, after we discovered another type of error, reduced his anxiety. Offset boxes, certain row lengths, different button sizes, simple shading, coloring, and interlocking screens helped him navigate his device.

His uncle was told what to do in case William repeated or skipped a name. A speech therapist suggested adding visit and navigation buttons, just in case. I was prepared to intervene if things got beyond a certain level. Neither Gil nor I had to do anything for him. He was fine.

It was good that we happened to listen to a podcast about preparations for the original moonshots ( https://www.comedy.co.uk/radio/the_infinite_monkey_cage/episodes/2019/1/ ). For each NASA mission, a flight director put the astronauts through disaster scenarios so that they were fully prepared. William understood that I was his flight director. For practice under stress, he read his portion for speech therapist friends and their friends at a karaoke bar. He needed to be prepared when his emotions kicked in on 9/11. At the bar, he ordered fried calamari and our friend sang Evita, which he appreciated but which weren’t quite enough to make up for that awkward experience.

The staff who produce the Memorial event every year handled him very thoughtfully. He rehearsed with the stage director for hours the day before. In case one of the moments of silence occurred during his portion, we talked about what should happen. But staff had checked and assigned him a section of names unlikely to be interrupted. We practiced how to link his iPad to the sound system. I had buttons on his device to use in sound checks, and we worked how to do it all in real time. We would have to attach his device to a cable, check the sound level without changing anything he would see, get up the stairs with a cable attached, and set up the printer reading and his device on the same podium in short order. I brought a kickstand for his iPad, but it wasn’t quite high enough, and everything had to be set up quickly. His limb apraxia has meant holding the device for himself is confusing and uncomfortable (although I won’t stop trying and hope for a solution). So I would hold his iPad for him. Then he could literally and emotionally lean against me to steady himself.

We practiced entrances and exits. He knew exactly where he would stand and who would lead him on and off the raised stage, so that he didn’t rush. I told him stories of my wedding to his father to help him understand staging. Music plays during the entrance and exit of a wedding to slow people down. “And they don’t leave the wedding after the first person says, ‘I do!’” I reminded him.

With Jeffrey Pearl, stage director in his 18th

He started to get comfortable and asked for the restroom. The production restroom was behind the production room, with a dozen live video monitors of the Memorial plaza and locations. He stopped dead in his tracks. A week earlier he had told me he was anxious about being on “TV.” He asked for reassurance and had calmed down. Now he was reminded again and, after a few minutes of staring, said: “I’m uncomfortable.” We went out and talked with the stage director about how the things that aren’t perfect are what make something a live event. Otherwise, it’s a movie. The point of this Memorial is that people are actively remembering and doing everything in real time each year. Humans making some mistakes are how we know it’s from the heart. Human elements are why other people come or watch on television. If not, you could simply play last year’s video.

I’m feeling ready

His seat during the rehearsal was 5 feet from the stage, in the same spot where he would be sitting for the Memorial the next day. He had the row just for himself and his extended family, with a personal production assistant, just in case. We were so sheltered by the staff who surrounded us that we had no sense of any dignitaries being there, even though the Senate majority leader, a Presidential candidate, two governors, and others were there with their entourages.

The morning of 9/11, 2019, William was up and in the shower by 4:30 AM. His morning helper of 10 years, Tina, got us out the door. Our drive into NYC was quiet. Approaching the parking garage, we were behind a long truck, and he recognized what it was. It was for removing bombs. He hadn’t wanted to talk to the press, so we walked quickly past the press area. There was a security mix-up, so he waited a long time to get in the secure area to a restroom. Rather than join the crowd of readers inside the museum, where we heard there were speeches and pastries, he wanted to wait on the plaza. We had our breakfast sandwiches with bibs on, as I fretted over melted cheese landing on a shirt. We have traveled internationally in recent years, and we have managed some strange situations. He was calm; I’m the nervous one.

It was beautiful outside, with fluffy clouds and a light breeze. He focused on the sound of the massive memorial fountains not far away. He’s gotten used to bagpipes over the 18 years since a police bagpipe band at his dad’s funeral scared him, at age 4. The bagpipers practiced their routine. I helped him add “bagpipes” to the pages on his device for “9/11” and “music.” Family joined us. We talked about the kids’ plans, how different families handle rituals of remembrance, and who could go for lunch later. William’s turn was tenth; he watched others go through their lists of names and make tributes. He saw the flow. We listened to sweet flute music, names, choked up speeches, and the fountains. I got him up slightly ahead of time to plug in and check his sound. Then it was his turn. He, Gil, and I sidestepped risers used for two small children, who had just finished their readings, and walked quickly up the stairs.

It Might Have Been Me. Watch the final episode about Scientology, after binging the other ones

I’ve been riveted watching Leah Remini’s series, Scientology and the Aftermath. The last episode is airing in a few days. She has been introducing former members to tell their stories of what the Church of Scientology (CoS) did to them, why they left, and what was done to them after that. Since I follow one of the world’s oldest religions, why did this series hit me so hard?  Here’s some of my personal story about how I and my son were abused using tactics like those of a cult by a psychology professional. Despite my two top Ivy League degrees and years in business, it happened to me. I no longer trust people to be who they are supposed to be or to treat us ethically. How could I let it happen? We were extremely vulnerable, so I don’t believe it was my “fault,” but it happened “on my watch” nonetheless.
Click here to link to episodes, through your cable provider

Feel the Math, or, you don’t need to write to figure out what’s right

Are you facing a child who “hates math”? I’d embarrass someone dear if I were more specific, but I tried to prevent one girl from develop math fear. I’m sorry to say it didn’t work. But I learned, and now my favorite way to teach math is through natural situations. My son has never been able to write or type numbers independently because of his motor control issues. Nonetheless,  he does math in his head. I realized he’d learned how to calculate 15% from years of teachers doing “discrete trials” with him. They would have him do something 10 or more times in a row and calculate whether he’d done 85% correct before giving him a fraction of a mini M&M. With so many repetitions across months and years, he learned the feeling of 15% wrong, not the long division or multiplication.

When he was about 13, he went with a family to a restaurant. The mother told me he laughed when she said what she was going to tip for the meal. She checked, and she’d done it wrong. A tip is 15% of the total. I checked, and indeed he was good at calculating tips in his head and telling me which tip amount was better.

I used to be involved in pricing and gross and net sales calculations for a Kraft food product, so I know “sales” work. But are they really the best price? When we walk around the store with coupons or checking out sales, I always calculate in my head which price is better and ask him. Over time he’s more and more accurate. So here are some examples:

BOGO: buy one get one free. There are two types of BOGOs. The items are the same and at the same list price, or the items are not the same and probably are different prices.

When we sold cups of yogurt, the items were the same original cost, so here’s the math.

Get 1 cup of yogurt for $1 + 1 cup of yogurt for free = 2 cups for $1 or 50 cents/cup. You would otherwise have paid $2. So you saved $1 of $2, or 50% off, for two.

When you go to a clothing store and see a BOGO, the items are not the same, so here’s the math.

Get 1 T-shirt at $10, and the second one free, instead of $9. You paid $10 for 2 t-shirts, but you would otherwise have paid $19. That means you saved 9/19, or 47%, not 50%.

NOW LET’S GET EVEN MORE DEVIOUS!

Sales on top of Sales? The department stores, Macy’s especially, love to layer sales upon sales. Take 50% off already reduced prices. If the original price reduction was 20%, how much money are you saving? You might say 70% (=20+50), but no. Pants originally marked at $50 were marked down 20% to $40, and now are 50% off that, or $20. How much did you actually save from the original price? Remember that’s all that counts. You paid $20 instead of $50, which is saving $30 on $50, or 60%. That’s a lot less than saving the 70% your brain on sale thought you were saving.

Okay, if we buy one at $1 and get a second at 70 cents, we paid $1.70. That’s instead of $2 for two. So we saved 15% on two. It doesn’t sound so great now, does it?

Now here’s another example.

Which is better, 30% off, or buy two and get one free? 

If you were following along, you can guess the answer. You don’t have to prove it with calculations to me, but you should try to feel the math. Part of feeling the math is knowing that the retailer isn’t giving it away.

Feeling the math comes from practice in school and experience in the world. If someone doesn’t feel the math inside, they won’t be programming complex systems or fixing their own programmable self-driving cars. And they will give some of their money to retailers without even realizing it.

What Do You Do When “My Child Refuses to…”

A professional posted seeking advice on Facebook to get a child to do something in school. (The child has autism, but the parable will apply to all kids, I promise.) The teacher had a reward system in place, but the child would say, “No,” and get up and walk away from the task laughing. My reply is edited for this blog. Clearly the child didn’t like the task. Kids with autism are like typical kids, squared; they like what they like and do what seems important to them. If any child is refusing, either the task is too hard, so they know they can’t, or, in this case, they don’t believe it matters.

Lots of regular kids refuse to do at least one kind of homework (spelling? word problems? defining a word? long division worksheets?). Your kid who doesn’t have autism is probably more discrete than to say “No” and walk away. (When I was a teen, I’d do dishes to avoid homework, or do homework to avoid dishes, doing whichever was less painful at the time!) Stalling or seeming to lose the worksheets or homework are refusals, too.

Well-Loved, 1995-2016

As a parent, I believe every child deserves to be well-loved. My son attended the funeral of a friend from town very recently, a young man whom we’ll call Stephen, who was 21 years old. Stephen didn’t look like the sort of boy to have plentiful, close friends and community involvement. You see, he was completely dependent on others for mobility, nutrition, and hygiene, and he did not speak nor use a device like my son’s. He was always in his wheelchair, his arms at angles, his feet in the stirrups, with a broad facial expression. His joy was visible and seemed continuous.

When I told my son of Stephen’s passing and upcoming funeral, my son was visibly stricken. I asked whether they saw each other, and my son replied” “a lot.” He showed that he wouldn’t be able to settle in for sleep, so we sat up together and discussed the details of Stephen’s life and death. He had a heart problem, followed by lung problems and had not been well since the last time we saw him.

That last time was at local special needs basketball group last fall. The recreation center hosts a weekly group of children and young adults to learn and play basketball. Stephen’s father was extraordinarily vigorous at practices, running Stephen around the court and staying in the action. I was watching from the sidelines mostly, but my son would have witnessed Stephen’s joy up close.

As we left the funeral, Stephen’s entirely “typical” best friend and next door neighbor, who I’ll call Stewart, greeted my son by name with a big hug. Stewart had volunteered at a summer day camp that Stephen and my son attended. The boys had been in the same group. The group camp photo is one of two that my son stands in front of almost daily, studying it and reminiscing, as he waits for his dinner to warm up. He loves that group picture. The basketball group’s photo is at the entrance to the kitchen in another prominent place. Stewart attended the basketball group as well.

We had learned in the funeral that Stewart and Stephen were next-door neighbors who saw each other every day, Stewart walked over to his friend’s house to tell him about his day at school. On the church steps, Stewart graciously explained to my son that Stephen’s first year of life had been painful, with heart surgery, as had his last, but that he is now peaceful.

Stephen’s funeral was well-attended, and the eulogies long and detailed about his many interests, activities, and preferences. He watched and enjoyed certain shows and sports. Stephen had been active in his family’s church and had completed religious education exercises via multiple choice administered orally. Religious belief has, for me, been at times difficult and at others comforting. I appreciate what belief gave Stephen’s family and Stephen himself, even as I am unable to partake in it.

My son has teared up, uncharacteristically, a few more times in the past week or so, and it was when he was thinking about Stephen. He is back in summer camp now, the first season without this friend. When a child has difficulty interacting and lacks functional communication, I worry whether the child  has someone at home who truly knows him or her. Stephen was well-known, and well-loved in a beautiful, brief life. I cried, too, shocking my son, but in my case for Stephen’s parents. Their lives were defined by and encircled their son. If anyone needs and deserves prayers now, it is they.

The family asked that donations in lieu of flowers be made to our sons’ camp, a 401c3 charitable organization, http://www.campacorn.org/donate.php

 

In Search of Words: Say it, and Say it again

On the last day of the school year after 4 weeks in this school, as I inventoried my caseload, there was one child whose code I had not cracked. I was concerned. I wore long sleeves in 80+degrees because it was my day to see him. He made no verbal sounds that anyone could identify, couldn’t hold an object in his hand without assistance, and tended to scratch the adult with him. My passion is, as you may know, something called AAC, which my son uses to communicate, in his case via iPad and an app (for more information on what he uses, click here.) The iPad “speaks” for him because essentially his own vocal tract doesn’t respond to his commands and intent at all well.

The district I’m in now, however, follows rules which
strictly limit children’s “screen time,” meaning no television babysitters or canned lectures, and their access to cause-and-effect toys, which are useful when a child cannot speak. So I had been leaving my touchscreen AAC devices and touch-button toys at home, bringing velcro’ed, laminated pictures instead. Most kids like them.

But laminated pictures make no sound.

It being the last week, I had begun to take liberties, however, and had already used my iPad for all sorts of vocabulary lessons with children in general education. This iPad is mine now, but it was my son’s very first one (the iPad 1), old and heavy. The app my son uses for communication includes various levels of  “vocabulary sets.” A vocabulary set is an interlocked set of screens with pictures that, when touched, say a word or phrase and show its spelling, or navigate to another screen. The “Things” button goes to a menu including buttons for more choices, such as “Toys” and “Food.” The “Food button in turn offers “Breakfast,” “Fruits,” “Vegetables,” Meats,” and there to pictures of “fish” or “burger.” You can “say it again” by pressing a speech bar at the top that holds the spelled message.

Using an iPad for communication at home requires a parent or student to take care of the equipment, charge it, and run updates. In school, breakage and loss are less likely.  Several students in this school clearly had used touch screens, but this child had not. Furthermore he had dropped many of my toys. For many reasons, an iPad was not my first or second choice for him.

However, tour hands are always with you and never need a charger. So I
started to have this boy request (“give me”) by touching his open, flat hands to his chest. At some point when I had been showing him sign language, I realized his limp arms were not responding to my touch at all. I had tried to get him to understand that sign language really is a way of “saying” things. He was not producing the signs with floppy arms and hands, so while he might learn to point eventually, he wouldn’t today. I only had him with me today.

So I held him with me for a longer session than we had ever had. I wasn’t going to let him end the year until he’d experienced the joy of communicating clearly. We started to use the iPad to “say” various things, my hand holding his. In a picture of Beach, you could “say” sand,” “water,” “ball,” and in the page of “needs,” you could say “break” and “I need a break.” He began to touch the iPad independently to make it respond. I’d tell him to “Say it again,” which meant touching the letters at the top so the iPad would repeat it for you. I’m not sure how far into this exercise it was, but he became very calm. He focused and stopped moving or flopping. He didn’t scratch me for the rest of the session.

Kitchen scene (TouchChat)

 

I don’t know how much of he understood, but he stopped getting mad when I told him to “say” something.

Children who cannot speak may not understand the words we say a lot of the time. They do often understand the emotion and intention behind what we are saying. With the utmost sincerity, certainty, and calmness, I told him,”This is how you say things. Your mouth doesn’t do what you want. I know. It’s hard. You say it with the iPad.”

Softly, at a speed about 5-7 times slower than typical slow speech, he said,”I want iPad.” I will never be able to prove that he said that. I do not need to because I understand what he meant. I told him, “You will be fine.”

I had kept his group an extra half-hour. It was a half-day. In fact it was the last day that school building  would ever again be filled with students. It was antique and closing permanently. “We may see each other again. You will be fine,” I said as we went out to the playground. I knew he does not understand the conditional word “may,” but I was talking for myself more than for him. And who knows. Maybe we will.

Child’s Play, and Some Broadway Tony Awards

As of today, I’ve completed my first school speech therapy assignment, with children aged 3 to 5 years old in an inner city public school. My caseload included 28 children, and I had one month left in the school year. From the first day, it felt like a race to get acquainted, connect with, and help each one of them. It’s harder at the end of a school year to find children, with so many practicing the “moving up ceremony” (graduation to kindergarten), a school-wide field trip, and miscellaneous absences. When I greeted the children, each get his or her own “Hello Hand,” a large hand-shaped clapper noisemaker. At the same time a reminder, a hall pass of sorts, and a greeting, the typical children in the classroom each wanted to clap the hand, too, so they would help me find my student in the classroom or on the playground when they saw me.  Within a couple of weeks, the students on my caseload knew and came to me or went without fuss.

The school was being closed probably forever (with every sort of hazardous substance somewhere within its centenarian walls). As soon as we’d met each other, the school evidenced increasing facts of moving. Circle time and floor time lost their rugs and couches, and each day more bookcases lost their toy bins, puppets, or books. I already was carrying my own toys and tools with me (which I had made or bought) in large beach bags, but now I could only count on those. Boxes stacked higher; I left nothing in a classroom lest it be packed up.

The toys and materials we used were mine.Materials are not everything, but I was eager to capture their imaginations and attention.  The children soon came to speech to “play” and had favorite activities. I love it when a child is unaware that he is learning important words and trying harder than he had been. Within a couple of weeks, some cried out that they wanted “ants,” my interactive version of Ants Everywhere, and UNDER and ON printable book. My homemade set of Boardmaker symbols and pictures, with IKEA finger puppets, for the classic Brown Bear Brown Bear by E. Carle, I was told, resembled a set the special education teacher had purchased for $30. The children could see my picture of what was coming on the next page and start to recognize that the words had meanings, too. The resource teacher owned a commercially-made set of figurines and cards for following directions. Keen to be different, my direction-following set consisted of tiny cars, a blueberry crate “garage,” and DollarTree skateboards, cones, and signs. My baby doll direction-following set (assembled for an average unit per piece of under $1) was less of a hit among my students (almost all male. )

I wanted to mirror what the teachers were teaching, too. The year’s curriculum closed with several units on “Buildings,” which struck me as odd for small children until I realized “house,” “school,” “store,” and “grandma’s” count as “buildings,” and children learn what a room is, not what style of roof is over it. So I made a play mat with two-lane roads, stop lights, bus stops, and pictures of places around the city. Since most children were getting “group” speech sessions, I finally found several identical (important!) school buses, since school buses are intriguing and mysterious for this age. The children really enjoyed playing bus.” The bus followed traffic signs, broke down and went to “the repair shop,” and stopped at stops for people to get on. The children independently recognized the bus stops and fast food signs, but they didn’t yet know what a restaurant or store is. The only clear photo I found of a local school was of the high school, alongside an article about a 62-year old high school teacher being stabbed by a student.

The students didn’t recognize the landmarks I had included of their own de-industrialized city, the bridge and National Historical Park. The city was founded by an industrial organization created by “Founding Father” Alexander Hamilton of the $10 bill. His story is not history; it won 10 Tony awards last week, and his cast album debuted top of the rap chart. True Broadway hip-hop.

Largely self-taught and Caribbean-born, the lyrics accurately say he was the “immigrant bastard son of an whore and a Scotsman,”who went to what had been “Kings College” and is now Columbia, and then practiced law.  (“My name is Alexander Hamilton, and there is so much I haven’t done, just you wait, just you wait.”) I hope that the children I worked with this spring learn their letters and more, and stay on to the High School and beyond.

 

What a Parent Sees: Unbiased Functional Behavior Assessment

Diagnosis: Autism Spectrum Disorder

When our very young son was diagnosed with autism in the first years of the millennium, it was a fright and a challenge. Both his parents had been perfect students, but our son was a “behavioral” mess – a mystery standing right in front of us. Applied Behavior Analysis (ABA) is still the single most researched therapy for autism. To learn how to help him, I attended weeks of parent workshops on ABA at a small, renowned local autism school.

I began to learn the language and logic of teaching and changing behavior with ABA. Whatever increases a desired outcome is “reinforcing” it, so it is a “positive reinforcer.” If I could became a contingent rewards-giving engine, reinforcing good things,

upset and wet, from http://www.therapee.com

 …could my “behavioral” little boy become perfect?

The things that worked to “reinforce” my young son felt unnatural to me.