The Scholarship

THE ESSAYS-Chapter Six

Contestant #2: James Dean

When I was four years old, I beat my mother so badly she ended up in the hospital. 

 We were in line at the grocery store. She had just put the milk on the belt and then the yogurt. I told her that was wrong. Actually, I screamed it at the top of my lungs. She had to put the yogurt before the milk. I told her that's how she had done it the time before, so I knew I was right.

The woman in line behind my mother asked her to please make me stop yelling. Her own son was asleep in the baby seat on her cart, and she didn't want him to wake up and add to the noise. My mother tried to calm me down, but I threw myself on the floor and shrieked as high as my voice would go.

The manager came over and asked if he could help. My mother told him no, apologized, and told him she had simply placed the milk and yogurt in the wrong order on the belt. By that time, people were staring and making comments under their breath. My mom heard one person say, "What a spoiled brat!"

The real problem came when the manger tried to switch the items on the belt for her. Maybe he was just trying to be nice, or maybe he just wanted us to get the hell out of there. Either way, it was the exact wrong thing to do.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" I screamed as I got up from my mother's feet. I yanked the milk off the belt and threw it as hard as I could. It hit the cart with the baby, and the baby started wailing right along with me. My mother grabbed my hand and apologized (again) as she headed for the door.

 I refused to leave without my milk and yogurt. I reached for the closest display and took hold of a coffee mug with "Liberty and Prosperity" written on the inside of a picture of New Jersey. I tried to smash it on the ground, but it hit my mother in the face just as she was bending down to pick me up. I swung the mug as hard as I could five more times before someone ran over and stopped me. There was blood on the floor, and then my mother passed out.

I don't remember a single thing from that incident, but one month later I was diagnosed with autism spectrum disorder or ASD. I'd like to tell you that was the last time something that awful happened, but ASD is not curable. Sometimes I get so upset, and I black out. I'm like a drunk who gets really belligerent. Only I can't stand the taste of alcohol.

After I was diagnosed, my parents and I moved to Blackwood, another town in my home state of New Jersey, to be closer to Philadelphia. Philadelphia houses The Center for Autism, which is the oldest autism treatment center in the country. 

 It's also home to my favorite team ever—The Philadelphia Eagles. I've been an Eagles' fan for as long as I can remember. While some kids obsessed about dolls or cars, I obsessed about the Eagles. I can give you team stats, player stats, and just about anything you want to know about Lincoln Financial Field, including the stadium's coordinates. It's 39° 54′ 3″ N, 75° 10′ 3″ W (just in case you're wondering).

My mother named me James when I was born because she said I had the bluest eyes she'd ever seen. My father, whose name is Daryl Dean, thought that was a bad idea because he said I'd be teased my whole life. Little did he know my name would be the least of his worries. Besides, kids my age don't even know who James Dean is. It's only old people like my parents who get the reference. 

 My eyes are still really blue, but I'm much taller than the actor. He was only 5'8, and I'm nearly 6'3. My teachers at school are always asking me to reach things up high for them. Sometimes I say no because I feel like everyone is looking at me, and I don't like that.

I used to have a really hard time in school. I'm 17 years old, and I should be a senior, but I got held back a year when I was in third grade. Even though my teachers knew I had ASD, they didn't really know how to handle me. I guess people knew a lot less about autism ten years ago. I wasn't stupid or anything—I just had a really hard time sitting still and doing my work.

First, they moved me to a different class. That was worse because I wasn't used to the new routines, and I ended up melting down into my blackout state. I got suspended for throwing a chair.

Then my mom tried to homeschool me. Now that I remember. My mom was the one who ended up melting down. A lot. That lasted a month. I don't think I ended up learning much from her, but I did get more time to watch my old tapes of the Eagles. I think I'm one of the few kids my age who knows what a VCR is, and I bet I'm the only one who actually knows how to use one!

Finally, my parents moved me to a different school in our district. It wasn't easy. They had to petition the school board and everything. I hated the idea of another classroom, but I did much better at my new school. There was less kids in my class, and there was more than one adult in the room at all times. I still had a few meltdowns in the beginning, but I had someone there who knew how to help calm me down.

By the time I got to high school, my parents and I had learned a lot more about my disorder and how to handle it. Plus I was older, and I could explain to my teachers when I felt a meltdown coming on. I'm what medical professionals consider "high functioning," but that label comes with its own set of problems. Sometimes I seem like a normal kid, and then I'll go and do something completely abnormal that makes me the only kid ever banned from an NFL stadium (there was a whole article in the Philadelphia Inquirer about it if you don't believe me).

My mom says I'm not disabled; I'm uniquely abled. I know she's just trying to encourage me, but there's really only one thing that makes me feel like everyone else—writing fantasy fiction. I'm actually pretty good at it. I belong to a bunch of online writing groups, and everyone who has read my stuff thinks it's pretty great. John Ronald Reuel Tolkien is my hero. I remember reading The Hobbit and thinking, "It's cool to be different."

I read fantasy fiction on a regular basis. It's a nice escape for me. I enjoy spending time in worlds where everyone is a little strange. I've spent my whole life being called a weirdo, a freak, a spaz, and a retard. In fantasy novels, though, those are the heroes.

 I know it may seem like a strange combination to love football and fantasy fiction (although I hate Fantasy Football, go figure). In my head, the combination makes perfect sense. Both involve a group of individuals hiding behind their own masks trying to obtain something. I feel like that describes my life.

My parents sacrificed so much when I was growing up. My dad took a demotion to move us to Blackwood, and my mom quit her job to take care of me full time. Having a kid with ASD was both a financial and emotional strain for them. 

 I can't let my college education be another sacrifice they try and make for me. I want to prove I can handle college on my own. My dream is to attend Hamilton College in New York and become a writer (I know the odds of being the next Tolkien are incredibly slim, but I'm okay with having a different career and writing as a hobby).

I just want the world to see me for my accomplishments—not my limitations. Tolkien once wrote, "All we have to decide is what do with the time that is given to us." I have decided what I want to do with my time, and I hope you will help me prove to the world it can be done.

Signed,

James Dean, Author and #1 Eagles Fan