Mariela

Sometimes I wish I was like Mariela.1

She got some pritstick and glued her lips together,2

So she never had to speak...3

People used to say she’s as quiet as a mouse, she just doesn’t make a peep.4

She marched to her wardrobe and she threw away the colour,5

because wearing black looks mysterious, but it didn’t impress her mother.6

She wanted to dress her baby in patterns and flowers,7

But Mariela just crossed her arms, and so she cried for hours.8

Mariela, Mariela, my pretty baby girl,9

Unglue your lips from being together,10

And wear some pink and curls.11

You can have your friends round,12

and they can stay for tea,13

won’t you just try to fit in?14

Please do this for me?15

But Mariela just crossed her arms, and she walked up the stairs,16

And she went into her bedroom, and she sat on her bed.17

And she looked in the mirror, and she thought to herself:18

If I want to play, I can play with me.19

If I want to think, I can think in my head.20

At school, Mariela didn’t have any friends,21

The girls, they all looked at her and they thought she was quite strange.22

And the boys, they’re not really into girls that age,23

And the teachers, they thought Mariela was “just going through a phase.”24

But Mariela just smiled, and she skipped down the road,25

Because she knew all the secrets in her world.26

She always got the crossword puzzles right every day,27

And she could do the alphabet backwards without making any mistakes.28

Mariela, Mariela, my pretty pretty girl,29

Mariela, Mariela, happy in her own little world.30

And she said:31

I’m never ever... going to undo my lips from being together.32

She said:33

I’m never ever... going to undo my lips from being together.34

Ha. Ha. Ha.35

(lyrics from Kate Nash, Mariela. Not coppied exactly. All colloquialisms removed.)36

Sometimes I wish I was like Mariela. It would be easy, never having to speak. You’d never have to settle arguments, to make yourself heard, to feel as if your voice has to express you. No. If you just chose to keep quiet all the time, life becomes simple in its own way. After all, you can point at what you want, you can nod or shake your head; you can use your eyes to communicate. But that wasn’t enough. It was never enough for me.37

She was a strange baby-beautiful, with blonde curls and big, blue eyes. She didn’t scream all night, which was a blessing for a young, first time mother like myself. It was just before she started school that things began to change. 38

Mariela had always been quiet, but now she hardly spoke. She nodded, pointed, gesticulated, but I never saw her smile. Sometimes, such a ferocious scowl would darken her features, that I would almost step backwards, but it never lasted long. When she started school, it was as if she’d glued her lips together; she never spoke. Consequently, she never had any friends, and it broke my heart to see her standing apart from the other dancing, happy little children. Each day, when I collected her from school, they skipped out into the playground in ones and twos, some of them holding hands, or clinging to each others sleeves. Mariela was always the last one out of school. She walked alone, her shoulders hunched, arms folded and head bent, no trace of a smile on her face. In fact, it was completely expressionless. And it broke my heart to see her like that.39

“Don’t you want a friend, Mariela?” I asked her one day.40

She put her little curly head on one side, as if considering what a friend was.41

“You know? Someone to play with, someone to talk to. Someone to share your sweets with?”42

Slowly, she shook her head.43

And then the stupid things began. I came into her bedroom one day to see her kneeling on the floor, beside a small pot of black paint from her art set. She knelt in front of the wardrobe, a thick paint brush in her right hand, the folds of her school skirt in her left.44

“Nooooooooooooooooooo!” I shrieked, alarmed.45

She jumped slightly and turned her blank face towards me.46

“What are you doing?” I cried, stepping forward and grabbing her by the shoulders.47

She screamed and threw herself sideways, away from my hands. I had never heard her scream like that before; the loud noise in the endless silence of her presence was strangely eerie. Almost sinister.48

Every single garment in her wardrobe had been painted black. Black all over. No bright colour shone through the dark mask she had created.49

“These are going in the wash,” I said, firmly.50

She shook her head, slowly and purposefully, rocking back and forth on her heels. Then, she crossed her arms in front of her in a firm, solid line, as if she was blocking me out of her body... her world completely.51

“Mariela,” I said, throwing up my hands in exasperation, “You can’t go round wearing painted black clothes. Little girls don ‘t wear black anyway, they wear nice, bright colours like pink and purple.” 52

Mariela screwed up her face with distaste.53

“Why do you like black?” I asked.54

She licked her finger, and traced it along the smooth surface of the mirror, hanging on the inside of her wardrobe.55

“Mysterious,” she traced.56

I stared at her, not knowing how to respond. A small child shouldn’t know such a big word, surely. Mariela sulked as I took her clothes and the pot of paint downstairs.57

“Don’t you ever let me see you paint things that shouldn’t be painted again,” I said, firmly.58

She gave me a questioning look. I frowned; I couldn’t make her out. And she was my own daughter.59

When Mariela had been safely put to bed, I wept all over my husband.60

“I don’t understand it,” I told him, “No other children paint their clothes black and trace words on the mirror. Other people’s children speak to their mummies; they speak! Why doesn’t our daughter speak to anyone? And today, she screamed at me. Screamed, Richard, screamed!”61

He lay a reassuring hand on my arm, comforting me, petting me, wordlessly trying to convey to me that everything was ok.62

“Little children do scream, Sharon,” he said, sensibly.63

“Not like that they don’t,” I cried.64

“Then speak to her teacher at school tommorrow,” he said, gently, “See what she has to say. If she’s concerned, then we’ll go to the doctors together, all three of us. If there is something wrong, we’ll get it sorted out. Don’t worry, pet.”65

As we entered the playground, I once again found myself enveloped in the mass of chattering mothers and screaming children. Mariela, unlike most of the other children, did not hold hands with me; she kept behind me, staring around her blankly, as though she wasn’t really taking in the scene at all. When we reached the school, she stepped past me, and made her solitary way into her classroom. Normally, I would have turned away—to work, and to my day alone. Today, I followed her into the classroom.66

When she saw me, Mariella gave me a look that suggested I wasn’t supposed to be there. But I was convinced I had to be here; I had to see her teacher. Mariela sat in a corner by herself, her head on her bunched knees. The other four year olds played around her. At one side of the room, a small group of children played inside a large, plastic house. Some were up to their elbows in sand, some were jabbing their grubby fingers at brightly coloured picture books. This was comfort, this was reassurance. This was the way children were meant to be. Yet rather than eleviating the knot of worry inside me, this playful scene only increased it.67

I spotted the teacher at the front desk. She was ticking names off on a long list. I walked up to her, avoiding the small bodies that scattered the floor.68

“Hello,” I said, politely, “It’s Miss Webb, isn’t it?”69

“Yes, that’s right,” she said, glancing up, “Stephanie Webb.”70

“Well, I wondered if I could have a word with you.”71

The teacher looked up immediately. She pushed a loose strand of brown hair behind her ear, and smiled at me.72

“Certainly,” she said. 73

“I was hoping I could have a word with you about Mariela.”74

“It would be my pleasure,” she said, sincerely, “I’ll ask the cclassroom assistant to keep an eye on the class for a few minutes, and then we’ll go somewhere quieter.”75

Miss Web led me into a small stock cupboard off the classroom.76

“Sorry there’s no better place to go,” she said, apologetically, “With it being a small school, there aren’t many rooms. And I don’t want to interrupt the other classes.”77

“That’s alright,” I said, sitting down on a crate of lego bricks.78

“Now,” Miss Webb turned to me, giving me her full attention.79

“I wanted to talk to you about Mariela because I’m concerned about her. She never speaks and every day I collect her from school, she’s allways by herself.”80

I was gabbling. The words were tumbling over each other, getting mixed up in my mouth and being spewed out into the open. And still she listened to me.81

“Yesterday she painted all her clothes black. Everything in her wardrobe was black. I don’t understand why she did it. She never speaks to me. I went to shake her by the shoulders, you know,” I stopped nervously, afraid Miss Webb would think I was being cruel to her; she looked at me, sensing there was more, and waited for me to go on, “You know, to make her understand. And she screamed at me. She never speaks, or laughs or cries. But she screamed at me yesterday. Surely little children shouldn’t scream at their mothers. How do you find her at school?”82

Miss Webb paused, making sure all my words had been spewed out.83

“She is indeed a very quiet child. She doesn’t mix with the other children, and so the other children don’t mix with her, I’m afraid to say. She is extremely clever. She is way beyond her classmates in reading, writing, spelling and mathematics. I have never yet heard her speak.”84

“It worries me,” I whispered, teares in my eyes, “It really worries me. Does it worry you?”85

“She is young yet,” Miss Webb said, reassuringly, “Lots of children are a little strange when they are young. It could be the shock of starting school which has made her withdrawn. Does she seem anxious about school? Has she said anything about it to you?”86

“No,” I said, “She never speaks to me.”87

“Has her sleeping pattern changed? Has there been any loss of appetite or bed wetting?”88

“No,” I said, “Nothing like that.”89

“I can see why you are concerned,“ said Miss Webb, “But I would leave it for a few months yet. As she settles down, she might come out of her shell, and start to make some friends.”90

“You think so?” I breathed.91

“I think so. Oh, there is just one thing,” she paused, “I haven’t mentioned this to you before, because I don’t consider it of particular importance. And I don’t want to worry you.”92

“What is it?” I asked, my relief strangled.93

“A couple of weeks ago, one of the children threw something, and it landed over by Mariela. The child went to retrieve whatever he threw, and when he retrieved it, he said thank you to her, and patted her playfully on the head. He was being friendly, I think. Mariela yelled, and bit him on the arm.”94

I gasped.95

“I don’t want to worry you,” Miss Webb continued, calmly, “It wasn’t a bad bite. There were a few tears, a severe word on my part, a little patching up and it was forgotten. A lot of children bite at that age”96

“But that’s not the point!” I exclaimed, before I could stop myself, “Why did she bite him in the first place? What’s the matter with her?”97

“As I said, it may be the anxiety of her starting school.”98

“But she’s always been like this. It’s just got worse since she started school. And she’s like this at home too. I don’t understand.”99

“Well I shall keep an eye on her,” Miss Webb said, kindly, “And I will let you know if any other problems arise.”100

“Thank you,” I said, greatfully; I shook her hand and departed.101

“How was your day, mariela?” I asked, as we went home together.102

She gave me a blank look.103

“I don’t know what you’re saying when you look at me like that,” I said, trying to explain a complex thing simply, “You have to speak to me.”104

Quite unexpectedly, she skipped on ahead of me. I was surprised; I had never seen her skip before! She looked strangely happy, her blonde plaits bouncing on her thin shoulders. Yes. She was happy in her own little world.105

The next week, she raided the stationary drawer and found the pritstick. I wasn’t far away; I was only in the garden. And when I came back, it was to find her sticky and white faced. She had glued her eyes shut, her nostrils shut, and her fringe was matted flat to her forehead; her lips were glued together. I thanked God that the glue wasn’t stronger, or she wouldn’t have been able to breathe. I didn’t shout at her this time. I didn’t think there was any point. I could feel her blank, unconprehending look behind those closed eyelids. I got a warm cloth, and rubbed at her chin. Again, she screamed and leapt away from me. And I did shout then.106

“For Godsake, you stupid child!” I cried, out of frustration and desperation, “We’ve got to wipe the glue off, or your face will be itchy.”107

She flung her arms up in the air and screamed:108

“I will never undo my lips from being together!”109

She screamed it over and over again. Her eyes snapped open, her nostrils dilated, and her hair sprang up of its own accord. But her face remained white. She looked deranged, standing in the middle of the kitchen, whirling about and scrreaming until the house rang with her words. I lifted her up; I was going to take her up to bed and calm her down. She sank her sharp little teeth deep into my arm, still screaming. My screams joined hers in discordant harmony, and I dropped her. She fell to the floor, and lay there. Screaming. By this time, I was crying too, and I couldn’t stop the tears running down my cheeks. I was completely bewildered. I couldn’t understand my own daughter, and I didn’t know what to do with her. I felt like a failure as a mother. Richard came. He saw my face; he saw Mariela’s. He said nothing, because he knew there was no point.110

I’m looking back on this five years later, and it seems so strange to me. I can hardly remember the time I couldn’t understand my daughter. Richard and I decided Mariela had to be examined by a doctor, just in case. He did one examination, and insisted on doing many more.111

“just to make sure,” he said, again and again.112

And at the end of that time, he had come to a conclusion. Autism. It was a comfort to me to know Mariela’s personality could be labelled, that it had a name. It made me feel she was less bewildering after all. I think it was a comfort to Richard too. He remained calm, kind and gentle throughout; he allways has been. Now, Mariela has a classroom assistant of her own. She doesn’t have many friends, but I know now that she’s happy like that, and I know why she likes to be alone. As Miss Webb said, mariela is very clever. She does Daddy’s crossword puzzles for him, and she loves playing scrabble. Now I know what it is that makes my daughter scream like that, I don’t worry about it any more. If she’s left alone, and told things factually in plain language, she is good, sensible and quiet. I am proud of her for being unique. It makes her even more beautiful. Ah, sometimes I wish I was like Mariela.