Phyllis Grilikhes’ Autism’s Stepchild, reviewed by Cristina Deptula

 

autismsstepchildcover

Phyllis Grilikhes’ Autism’s Stepchild is an insightful book about the author’s friendship with a woman whose daughter, Jean, lived with a condition that we would today recognize as autism. Phyllis Grilikhes is a clinical psychologist, as well as a dancer and tapestry artist, so she speaks from a place of knowledge, but the story is not primarily psychological, but a human story of friendship, learning and perseverance.

Book describes Dora, the mother’s, determined efforts to help her daughter, which included founding an organization for families affected by autism.

Although told with compassion for all characters, the story does not avoid honesty about the difficulty of raising some autistic children. Jean had great difficulty communicating and a terrible temper, and her violent outbursts made the family home chaotic.

Dora and Jean lived through many unsuccessful treatments, the conflicting parenting advice of the 1930s and 1940s, and a miserable time when Jean was confined to a mental hospital. Eventually Dora found flower child art students to come to their home to serve as companions for Jean, which worked well because they accepted her as she was and provided creative outlets. Now, after her parents have passed away, Jean lives within a group home for other women with mental differences, in a community setting where she can have friends and activities.

Autism’s Stepchild is a story of mothers and daughters, of disability and difference, of love and strength. This story is a good starting point for discussion of how society can best care for those who require help to make it in life. And an interesting historical record of how we understood autism over the past century.

Would recommend Autism’s Stepchild for support groups and general book clubs.

Phyllis Grilikhes’ Autism’s Stepchild may be ordered here.

Poetry from Vijay Nair

Vijay Nair

Vijay Nair

SLEEPING NEPAL, WHERE NO SUN RISES!

 

Sleeping Nepal, where no Sun rises,

No Moon smiles at; and Stars glittering,

Nowhere on the sky;

To regale a seeker

It is futile

Roaming across the land

To see at least

A candle light to delight.

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Poetry from J.J. Campbell

each beat of the heart
 
a faint
whisper
on a hot
summer
night
the sweat
clinging
to each
beat of
the heart
you always
had piss poor
timing with
goodbyes
sometimes
i think it
would be
easier to
just find
a note than
pretend i
don’t see
you quietly
trying to
shut the
door and
sneak away
————————————————————–

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Essay from Donal Mahoney

Larder Bare with People Hungry
 
It will be a while before Fred’s hometown has its annual food drive, he told me. That’s an important event because it helps stock the pantry at the small charity where he volunteers. Right now, he said, the larder is practically bare and unemployment is still a big factor in the lives of many where he lives. 
 
Certain times of the year are worse than others, he said, and this is one of those times.
 
It’s not that people who have money aren’t willing to help others but they have bills and needs of their own. It’s easy sometimes to put those in need out of mind, at least temporarily. 
 
Fred’s charity helps people who wouldn’t come through the door if they didn’t have to. They may be broke but they still have pride and that’s a good thing because when a job opens up they’re ready to apply

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Poetry from JD DeHart

The Official
He is in charge and you can tell
From the stick he carries
It is large and full of venom
    Puffed up adder
Plus the badge with the fancy letters
Golden spirals of digits and codes
So complicated they must mean
Something important
The universe of a black bag to place
    You in, heedless
Plus the car, all trappings of authority
Siren light and blaring noise
Speeding on the night street breakneck.
 

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Poetry from J.K. Durick

PTSD

Somethings we should forget

never go away, live with us,

stay on as dreams, as nightmares,

sleeping and/or awake, the line is

so slight at times like these.

 

We send people off to wars,

wars far enough away we

rarely think of them, but

when they return too often

they bring war back with them,

 

like the guy next town over

who called 911 three times

saying he was surrounded, under fire,

the people in the next house

were, he saw them, building a bomb.

 

After he opened fire they came,

rambling on the phone is never

enough, but shots fired, neighbors

huddling in their homes, like

in a war zone, gets them out.

 

This time he survived, surrendered

peacefully, neighbors frightened,

a bullet hole here and there, their-

our familiar calm restored; during

his court appearance he seemed

the most frightened of us all.

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Short story from Michael Marrotti

Too Big for the Small Press

It’s funny how life works out. After four excruciating years in the small press scene, I was famous. A living, breathing overnight sensation. What’s even funnier is, I can’t attribute my writing to the fame. It was a complete denigration of the art form that awarded me the accolades.

   You’re shaking your head in disbelief, huh? Well, please allow me to explain.

   A poem I wrote a few years back entitled “The Great Fire Of Pittsburgh”, was the culprit behind my expulsion of the Brookline Open Mic.

   “It’s a profound, angry piece of poetry that made the crowd feel uncomfortable.”

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