He would have been alright if there hadn't been so much paper! That paper, you know, it gets everywhere. It fills up your locker, it escapes and sits at the bottom of your bag, it clogs up the bottom of your cupboard where your shoes should be. Darn paper. Then, when you least expect it - it ends up in your pocket and your Mum yells at you because she's washed it again. Wads of paper in chaotic balls.

Some people have it in nice straight sheets that get handed in and written on. A+ for a clean white sheet. But others have paper warfare! Teachers call it "chronic disorganization". Parents mutter about the paper and the collection of acorns and the interesting rock formations that take his attention.

A doctor called it 'autistic spectrum disorder' while the kids at school just called him a freak. He never really did belong, in amongst a world where white sheets got an A+ and wads of paper in chaotic balls got an F. He was too different to sort the white chaotic balls into ordered white sheets - nor was he interested enough to try. It was much more interesting to watch the wind blow in the trees and to try to remember where he left the thing that had no name.

But he could read! His room had shelves and shelves of books and he could remember the names of any marine animal he'd ever heard and what they ate and where they lived. He understood more about the war than an average 14 year old would. He cried when he heard of September 11 and he prayed for them all. But he could never straighten the paper enough for them to write an A+ on it.

The school didn't care about marine animals or where they lived or what they ate. The school didn't even care about the war or acorns or rock formations. All these things just got in the way of him being normal.

Home school stopped the paper from landing in his cupboard where his shoes should be. The laptop was so much easier to file in. Home school taught him about marine animals; where they lived and what they ate. Home school let him read as much as he wanted to and three books at a time was just fine. He didn't need to conform to being normal or to be called a freak. He was free to explore being him.

Learn more about this author, J. M..
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