Guest article: Jill Drum

When my son was one year old, he loved taking video cassettes out of their boxes. To encourage him to help clean up, I would ask him to hand me a tape. If I picked up a Barney box, he would hand me the Barney tape from a jumble of twenty. If I picked up a Pooh cassette, he’d search until he found the matching Pooh tape. Most tapes had only words printed on them, yet he matched boxes and tapes with uncanny accuracy. At the time I thought he might be a prodigy. By age three, however, he still struggled to form sentences; frustrated by his inability to communicate, he bit another child at preschool. A S.E.I.T. (Special Education Itinerant Teacher) was assigned to act as a bodyguard, protecting other students from him.

After years of early intervention services, my son entered kindergarten declassified. At “Meet the Teacher” night, his kindergarten teacher wrote test results on the board: a list of 100 sight words. Most of the class could read about 60 percent or fewer. One child read 99 out of 100 words. When I opened the envelope and saw the name, it was my son. I remember thinking it was a good omen. Later that year, at a parent-teacher conference, the teacher told me not to make too much of it—“kids level off,” she said. That spring, while planting in the school garden, a boy took my son’s flower and ran off; my son reacted by throwing potting soil at the other child’s back. That was his first of many visits to the principal’s office over the next twelve years.

By second grade, the situation escalated and we realized we needed more help. We navigated rounds of psychologists, neurologists, social workers and multiple assessments. One doctor joked that our son had “the Colin Drum diagnosis”: he checked many boxes across evaluations, but not enough in any single column to dictate a clear treatment plan. We were bewildered and exhausted. Socially, he had only one friend—someone who likely visited because we took them places. We cherished those rare playdates and would have done anything to foster more social connections for him.

From an early age, my son developed deep, concentrated interests. First it was Thomas the Tank Engine, then the solar system, followed by a period focused on U.S. presidents. He developed a strong fascination with the Titanic and eventually films. Once film captured his imagination, he read everything he could find. He traced the history of cinema, seeking out old recordings and dusty tapes—Edgar Bergen and Charlie McCarthy, Kinetoscope exhibits at the Edison museum—trying to understand how sound and effects were made. He examined the innovations of each decade, learning how technology influenced storytelling. When he entered a horror-film phase, some family and friends questioned our parenting, concerned about the genre’s appropriateness. We trusted our instincts: he was exploring his passion, and in the process accumulating the intense practice that builds true expertise.

Academically and socially, school continued to be a struggle. We tried every possible placement—general education, inclusion classrooms, mainstream classes with a one-on-one aide—without success. We returned to specialists and sought guidance on how to help him fit in. A social worker cautioned against letting him retreat into video games and isolate himself in his room, advice that, in many ways, proved well-intentioned but incomplete. By eighth grade, his one friend was gone.

My son began sitting with boys he had known from Cub Scouts, whose main interest was video games. To belong, he started playing too. Around that time, playing live with others online became popular. Counselors often recommend limiting screen time, and moderation can be wise. For our son, however, gaming opened doors: it became a way for him to socialize, collaborate and form friendships. In an unexpected turnaround, playing games helped him connect with peers and find a place in a social community.

High school brought significant academic setbacks. He passed only two classes in ninth grade, one of which was P.E. Administrators and a guidance counselor told us he would not graduate on time or earn a Regents diploma, and cautioned that college was out of reach. A psychiatrist diagnosed him with Asperger’s Syndrome after a short evaluation and, when I asked what his future might look like, he bleakly predicted my son might be a 40-year-old still living at home. It was heartbreaking to hear.

Thankfully, the Special Education department and the school psychologist saw what we had always seen: potential. They recognized his creative talent and intelligence and found the right environment for him. Placed in self-contained classes that valued and supported his strengths, he began to thrive. For two years he attended a BOCES technical program in filmmaking, earning six college credits, and he ultimately graduated high school on time with a Regents diploma.

Today he is a junior in college, majoring in film. He collaborates with classmates on projects; just yesterday a group of students were at our house filming a commercial for a class assignment. At 21, he recently spent spring break not at a typical beach destination but in Japan—the global hub of video game culture—traveling with five friends he has known through gaming conventions over the past decade. My husband and I worried while he was halfway around the world, but we gave him our blessing because we know him and trust his judgment.

What does the future hold? No one can say for certain. What we do know is this: by recognizing and nurturing his passions—by finding the right educational placement and allowing him to pursue what engrosses him—our son found community, purpose and direction. We have faith in him and in the path he is building for himself.