Pushcart XLIII: Oliver de la Paz, “Autism Screening Questionnaire – Speech And Language Delay” (poem) from Poetry, July/Aug 2017

1. DID YOUR CHILD LOSE ACQUIRED SPEECH?
 
A fount and then silence. A none. An ellipse
between — his breath through
the seams of our windows. Whistle
of days. Impossible bowl of a mouth — 
the open cupboard, vowels
rounded up and swept under the rug.
 
2. DOES YOUR CHILD PRODUCE UNUSUAL NOISES OR INFANTILE SQUEALS?
 
He’d coo and we’d coo back. The sound
passed back and forth between us like a ball.
Or later, an astral voice. Some vibrato
under the surface of us. The burst upon — 
burn of strings rubbed
in a flourish. His exhausted face.

Complete poem available online at Poetry

I was stuck on this poem. It’s moving – of course it is, how could it not be – and the use of unusual form is right up my alley. I started working on ways each “stanza” answered the question asked. The first question of losing speech is answered by a lovely image of “a fount, then silence”, and ellipse, words stored in a cupboard, vowels hidden. A question on repetitive language evokes a “pocket in his brain”, grooves, tracks. When asked if the child “speaks gibberish or jargon”, the speaker raises a defense (or admits denial) with “We make symbols of his noise”. One verse acknowledges the boy does not inhabit the human world of language, but sensation: His god is not our words…. / It is entirely body.” Frankly, on this topic, anything would evoke emotion, and these images bring truth to the questions. But I didn’t feel like I had it.

Then I did my usual google around for other ideas, and found a blog post from Dora Malech on the Kenyon Review website that crystalized the power of the poem: “The fairly flat interrogative language of the questionnaire serves to highlight the intense intimacy and arresting sensory detail of De la Paz’s own writing.”

In the immediate sense, the poem is a heart-rendering story of one family and one child. But in a much larger sense – and this may well be expanding beyond the poet’s intent – it’s a look at how every day, people try to deal with the questionnaires our medical system has come to rely on. The reductionism is mind-boggling, just as the world the speaker in the poem creates with his answers is worlds away from the yes/no answers the questionnaire demands. So much information is lost. A child whose parents don’t give the right answers might be shuttled into a fruitless category. Does any truth remain, except in the speaker’s mind?

And worse, does demanding answers that conform to research protocols change the perception of the parent? Will he edit his own perceptions, see what he’s told is important rather than what is there, see his son differently, as a series of yes/no answers, rather than as a person with his own approach to the world? Does that help the boy?

Zoom out even more, and it shows the consequences of reductionism in a data-driven society. Cost/benefit analyses result in lead in Flint’s water and a fire in Grenfell Tower, resulting in who knows how much loss in human potential, how much suffering to come. Students deciding on computer science majors when their hearts are in history or art might well result in lowered quality of work in all disciplines in the interests of selling more iPhones and creating a culture that sees – and respects – only cost, not value.

Every wrong form
is a form which represents us in our losses,
if it takes us another world to understand.

It comes back to a little boy who has something to say, a parent who can’t understand him, and how to bridge that gap. Maybe the answer is found in the gap between the questions and answers.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.