by Gabby Smothers
Not once have I visited a zoo and seen someone with special needs inside an exhibit displayed as a figure of entertainment.
Despite this fact, why am I still treated like I belong in a zoo?
You don’t see me with the ravenous maw of a lion, nor the dreadful claws of a bear. Neither do I have the rugged trunk of an elephant, and the talons of an eagle are nowhere in sight. Yet somehow, I’m often compared to such ferocious creatures.
Everything was far simpler, for me and my family, when my autism was undiagnosed. I was able to play and function just like any normal toddler. I felt like a cheetah in the wild, sprinting alongside my peers with not a care in mind.
Then, my third birthday hit, and the mystery was revealed.
Seemingly overnight, every aspect of my family’s life and mine were altered in ways no neurotypical person can imagine, let alone fathom. Beaming lights made me want to claw my skin off, blaring noises made me want to cry out for help, and crowded rooms made me want to throw myself to the ground and scream. It was hopeless for my mom to guess what bomb would explode in a minefield of possibilities. In just a matter of days, I became an anomaly to my friends and my family.
I felt trapped. I was no longer the cheetah dashing across the grasslands of my home. Now, I was confined in a small realm, robbed of my confidence, and left with authentic inhibition.
I can only imagine what my parents were thinking when it became obligatory for me to start kindergarten. I picture them fearing how I was going to interact with other kids, many of whom did not have a disability. I’m sure they dreaded dropping me off to my class, worried about what might happen when I was forced to leave the prison I was trapped inside.
Looking back now, I don’t recall many problems during kindergarten, or the rest of my early elementary school experiences. I kept to myself and rarely spoke if someone spoke to me. I suppose the only thing I despised was playing games or completing work with my classmates. In that case, I was forced to interact with people, something I would’ve been fine with prior to my diagnosis. But now, conversing with others feels foreign.
Fast forward to my first day of fourth grade. I wasn’t very excited to start school, as that meant I had to surround myself with strangers all over again. But I did hope to try and spread my wings a bit, attempting to liberate myself from the bars of my cage.
My first memory in fourth grade was being teased for repeatedly rocking back and forth in my chair. Then, it quickly escalated to being segregated from my classmates, all because I didn’t act like them. If I dared to try and even ask them a question, they would either ignore me or laugh at me. No teachers, staff, or administrators questioned what was happening to me. I constantly felt hopeless. The walls of my enclosure were suffocating me, sucking out my energy and whatever confidence I may have possessed.
This issue persisted until ninth grade, when I finally became a stranger and no longer a target.
As I reflect upon my elementary and middle school years, I cannot help but wonder how the bullying got to such an extreme point, and yet none of the faculty batted an eye. How is this allowed to happen to me and other neurodivergent children?
In South Carolina, the white-tailed deer symbolizes beauty, power, and resourcefulness. But an ugly crisis is occurring, one in which special needs kids, no matter their age, are brutally tormented. Just like our state animal is being hunted down by the bloodhungry Eastern coyote.
We don’t want to be treated as animals in a zoo. We are all humans, and we want to be treated like humans. For as long as I live, I’ll fight for kids like me to no longer face the cruelty of our predators. I envision a new version of South Carolina, where neurodivergent children can run wild like the cheetah without the fear of eternal captivity. I hope for my dream to apply to all aspects of our beloved state, not just our education system.
I don’t bite. I rise like the phoenix.
About Gabby Smothers
Gabby Smothers is a senior at West Florence High School, where Jennifer Erxleben is her AP language and composition teacher. The daughter of Richard and Lauren Smothers, Gabby enjoys writing poetry, traveling, and the beach. She hopes to attend the University of Texas at Austin and become a journalist.