Christopher in his Star Trek uniform, circa 1994
CAPTAIN JAMES T. KIRK IS READY TO LAUNCH
By Joyce Pellino Crane
I was trembling as I sat on the diminutive chair, knees to my chest, at the Community Cooperative Nursery School. My kid had used a Vulcan neck grip on another child and now he was on the verge of getting kicked out—only a day after starting at the much-envied school with limited openings.
Christopher, 4, was a notorious bundle of energy in our Andover neighborhood and word had spread like wildfire to the North Andover nursery school. His rep had preceded him.
In those days he thought he was Captain James T Kirk of the USS Enterprise (with a tinge of Spock, I suppose), but that explanation didn’t hold water with the school’s director, who viewed his over-active imagination as the source of trouble. So I resorted to begging her to keep him enrolled, and came close to groveling on the linoleum, when she finally gave in.
As a toddler, Christopher was the most unpredictable of kids. In the blink of an eye he could knock over a playmate while reenacting an alien drama, and a moment later create the Starship Enterprise in the block room. His exuberant personality changed so imperceptibly through the years that I was occasionally pulling out my hair during this, his senior year of high school.
But somehow, Christopher, whose naturally optimistic point of view got pounded in the social arena, persevered to reach a place I never thought possible.
Through years of disappointing teacher evaluations, homework routs, and missed social cues, I despaired. I worried that Christopher would never get into college, never make a lasting friendship, and never taste a moment of genuine success. After all, when the academic awards were being handed out, he got bypassed.
When the high school play auditions took place, he got laughed at. When the social groups were being solidified, he was left out in the cold. Some educators who believed they could make a difference, gave up when change didn’t manifest in a typical way.
When he was five, the optional elementary school in our town sent him packing to his neighborhood school. The principal said he was rocking at circle time, and, heaven forbid, using his straw to spill milk droplets on his desk. The standard response to our play date invitations from mothers: “Let me check my calendar,” as though it were a mantra….hmmmm?
But there were a few adults who never gave up: a violin teacher who provided free music lessons during middle school when I couldn’t afford to pay; a middle school counselor who understood that Christopher’s unique insight was his path to success; a friend’s mom who opened her door everyday after school, creating a safe haven from social rejection.
Most of all there were a handful of dedicated fathers who ran a Boy Scout troop in Andover and never once turned him away, even when he was invading their own kids’ bubble space and annoying the heck out of everyone—including me.
In March Christopher was awarded the Eagle badge, the highest honor bestowed by the Boy Scouts of America. It was a six-year journey of advancing in rank that I never expected him to reach.
This year he was accepted into five out of five highly reputable colleges and he’s anxious for that new life to begin in September. I’ve gotten adept at hiding my bittersweet tears as graduation approaches.
I know my son has a long road ahead of him. But I’ve since come to realize that his challenges prepared him for success rather than set him up for failure.
And yes…he’s still a Trekkie.
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