All Sorts and Conditions at the Zoo

The zoo down the road from us hosts a Christmas light display/event every year from mid-November until late December. For the past few years (2020 excluded, obvs) our theatre company has been providing entertainment in the form of wandering characters. Frosty, Grinch, Rudolph and a host of others add to the chaos and/or magic each year for the guests, providing countless photo ops and as much good cheer as one can muster from inside a fur-covered foam head.

Visibility in said crania is poor below the characters' line of sight, so some of us dress like elves or other "face" characters and accompany the popular folx to point out small humans below and to help manage the crowds that inevitably clamor about. Now, the entitlement of so many adult humans and the occasional piss-poor parenting we see in this role is fodder for another post altogether, but this post is about my most magical moments.

You see, I have always had a spirit for those whose genetics have made them different from the standard, whose needs are often referred to as special, who make us a more diverse society than we might have if everyone were typical. The Almighty (or coincidence) put me in a family with my very own sibling with a chromosomal anomaly, offering me perspective from my beginning. I worked directly with peers, then campers, then students with multiple categories of classifications and diagnoses my whole life. When I finally became a parent, the universe knew that I could handle a little flavor, and I got to be a parent to the most fabulous neurodivergent human I know. 

All of that to say, I have a pretty keen radar for recognizing not only the more physically obvious differences among us, but it doesn't take much interaction to spot someone who might need to be approached in a way that honors their particular circumstances. I can spot a spectrum-dweller a mile away, and I have enough experience to confidently interact with them and their families.

Here's where the zoo comes in. You better know that this girl is going to intentionally pour attention out on families who have one of my buddies among them, mostly because I know that there are way more people in this world than there need to be who haven't had enough experience to know how to be accepting and inclusive of my besties. So, I make may way through the crowds and to the adults and children I see who are decidedly excited to see either me (as a solo elf) or the character I'm accompanying. The other night I got to thinking about the two distinct kinds of caregivers I consistently encounter with my friends: the Announcers and the Accepters. 

Announcers are the ones who let me know before I even get close that I am dealing with someone Different. "He's autistic!" they'll proclaim as I approach. The person-first people will tell me "He has autism," when I am talking to their kiddo/adulto and not getting a verbal response. I usually just say, "Mmmhmm," then continue to take the lead of the friend I came to see. I'm enough of a student of life to know that not everyone wants a high-five, and not everyone will respond verbally. I know enough to know that reactions can even be physically hurtful or put someone in harm's way. But they don't know that. They just see an elf and an interaction that could potentially go badly. Most likely, the Announcer is just trying to keep everyone happy and reduce their own stress. I can't help but think to myself that the intention behind the announcement is to warn me, to let me know what I'm dealing with, to protect my feelings somehow.

Maybe that's just me projecting years of frustration in dealing with parents who introduce their children at the start of the year with comments like, "This is my ADHD one," or  even, "She isn't very good at reading." Like, what? I'm just meeting one of the people you claim to love most and you are going to introduce them to me - their TEACHER - as a diagnosis? It makes me feel icky. 

Either way, it brings me such joy and satisfaction to give the gift of "normalcy" to these families. I love interacting with them in ways that might help them feel hope in a world that isn't set up for their success. I especially love the happy dances and flaps that occasionally erupt, and you better bet I join right in.

Now, the other kind of caregiver I see just as often is the Accepter. The other night, I had two back-to-back cup-filling moments with parents I'd classify as Accepters. It went like this.

As I was heading back to our green room to finish up my night, I came across an older teen having a fantastic debate out-loud and with nobody in particular about the presence of a turkey made of lights. Mind you, I've already spent 8 nights walking the zoo this year, and I had never noticed the turkey, let alone the sheep beside it. I stopped to join in the conversation about how a sheep and a turkey are not anywhere near the same size and the extreme misrepresentation of reality before us. Mom (I assume) expertly redirected my new BFF to notice me and to say hello, going through the routine of introductions I know she has done millions of times before. We took pictures together, did high fives, and went right back to the size-comparison discussion that hearkened me back to the early nineties when my camper, Alex, would constantly ask me, "Who's bigger: Ken Griffey, Jr. or The Power Company?" About this time, Dad (assumption, again) joined us and suggested we sing a song together. Such a masterful redirect! My pal, Rudolph came along, and we all shared in some great singing along about his red nose. More photos, more conversation, and a smile on mom and dad's face that said it all. 

Eventually, we parted ways, and as Rudolph and I continued our long exit, we encountered another new friend who was so excited to see us. She was maybe 40 years old, and her companion was definitely both old enough and patient enough to be classified as her mom. This new friend was LOUDly sharing her joy and asking us who we were. Personal space was not a concern, and I could tell immediately that she was decidedly one of my people. About then, I spotted her hearing aids, and noticed mom signing her answers and answering just as loudly. I got all excited and finger-spelled alongside mom, wishing I knew how to say Merry Christmas in ASL or knew how to sign key holiday terms. We stood there with them in the misting rain, feet soaked from a night of wicking standing water, hearts filled from a night of spreading joy. The more enthusiastically our friend interacted, the more mom tried to convince her to let us get back to the North Pole. Eventually she relented, and we gave lots of goodbyes.

I guess I wanted to share this with you so that you might experience a little vicarious joy. These moments are why I endure those parents who Karen out on us when the human in the Grinch suit doesn't have the stamina for "just one more picture," when those "just one more" add up to entirely too many more and nearing heat stroke. These caregivers, both Announcers and Accepters, are why I wear ridiculous clothes and terrible shoes and tolerate the entitlement and the just plain bratty behavior some parents allow and even encourage. These parents are the ones who bring balance to the parenting force out there in public, putting so much love into their people, raising them their entire lives, expecting others to be accepting and modeling it themselves. 

Pay attention to the caregivers you see in the mall, at the pool, in the world out there. Notice how they position and empower their people. Offer a smile, give space when it's needed, make room in your heart for a little more love to give others. 

And come see me at the zoo. I'll be there December 17, 18, 19, 22, 23.