The constant need to limit the kind of places and public situations where I can take my young adult son with special needs is really getting to me.
It’s hard.
Tonight was something of a disaster.
My oldest son is 25, intellectually disabled, autistic, and schizophrenic. I try not to expose him to situations that might freak him out. His morning meds usually wear off by mid-afternoon, by which point he starts talking to himself. Constantly. He asks a lot of questions and flaps his hands excitedly for no apparent reason whatsoever. People don’t feel comfortable around him, so I’m also careful not to take him places where others might be freaked out by him.
Today, like we do virtually every year, my family went to see the Christmas trees at the Hotel Roanoke, which were awesome. There were four of us—my wife, my intellectually-disabled son, my youngest son (19) and me. My intellectually disabled son likes Christmas trees. This year, he especially liked the Dr. Seuss-themed Christmas tree.
Afterward, we thought about eating at The Regency Room, the Hotel Roanoke’s fine-dining restaurant. Before going inside, we studied the menu. My intellectually disabled son has particular tastes. Many foods he will not tolerate. He likes mac n’ cheese. And pizza. Lord, how he likes pizza. But he also likes chicken and (in moderation) salmon, both of which were on the Regency Room menu.
It was just after 5:10 p.m.
The four of us asked for a table. The Regency Room is huge. At that hour, it was also virtually deserted. The restaurant had only opened for dinner service at 5:00 pm. There were literally dozens of empty tables. So many empty tables that I figured the chances of my intellectually disabled son disturbing another diner was minimal.
Still, the maître d'hôtel consulted a seating chart.
My son asked if the restaurant served pizza.
“No, we do not,” the maître d'hôtel responded.
“Do you have mac-and-cheese?” my son asked.
Something in maître d'hôtel’s glance shifted. “No. No we do not have mac-and-cheese,” he said.
I asked my son to stop asking questions but people who are intellectually disabled, autistic and schizophrenic do not always heed such requests. In quick succession, he asked again if the restaurant served pizza and mac-and-cheese. He did not raise his voice. Nor was he rude. If he had not just asked the same thing seconds earlier, this second round of questions would not have raised anyone’s eyebrows.
But, alas… the maître d'hôtel... He blinked. And then he said, “We do not have a table available. We will not have a table available for thirty minutes.”
Mind you, I kid you not… there must’ve been thirty empty tables in his restaurant when he said this.
And then he looked at me and said that my son could get what he wants at another (lesser) restaurant within the hotel.
He said this as if he thought he was doing us a favor but, honestly, what he was doing was plain outright discrimination. He was treating my family of four as second-class citizens because one member of our party exhibited signs of neurodiversity and had the audacity to ask—not once, but twice!—whether his establishment deigns to serve plebian fare.
I know this incident probably strikes many of you as, well, a first-world problem. But stuff like this happens all the time. I’m so sick of people shooting us nasty glances whenever my son says or does something awkward. Over time, you begin to feel as if you have no right to expect decency and respect from other people, only dirty looks and disdain. It takes a toll, affects one’s self-worth.
I’ve been thinking about this event for hours now, twisting and turning it in my mind every which way. The maître d’hôtel had been very specific: there wouldn’t be a table available for us for thirty minutes. He must’ve thought he was very clever—he didn’t refuse to serve us per se (which I guess might be illegal?) but merely made it extremely inconvenient for us to eat there in a timely fashion.
I’ll also confess something:
As we walked out of the Hotel Roanoke, my intellectually disabled son started asking me what happened. There was an urgency to his voice. He flapped his hands. He had the sense that he’d done something wrong. That, in effect, the reason we couldn’t eat at The Regency Room had something to do with the questions he asked about pizza and mac-and-cheese.
This is shameful of me.
I told my son that he should’ve been quiet. That he shouldn’t have asked those questions. That he should’ve kept his mouth shut. That, in effect, it was all his fault that we had to go elsewhere.
He told me he was sorry. He told me he didn’t mean to misbehave.
By the time we got to the car though, I realized I was wrong.
My intellectually disabled son wasn’t at fault. He was just being himself. How can you fault someone who is just being himself?
No—the person at fault was the maître d’hôtel. He looked at my son and prejudged him to be more trouble than however much money his restaurant would’ve made by serving us. Which is crazy, because we probably would’ve spent a small fortune there tonight. Instead, that guy needs some sensitivity training. Judging by the speed in which he lied about no tables being available for us, my hunch is that this wasn’t the first time he cost his restaurant a few hundred dollars.
Postscript:
So… we drove back to Blacksburg from Roanoke. For dinner, we ate at Preston’s. And, needless to say, my intellectually disabled son was well-mannered. Delightful, actually. He enjoyed his crab hushpuppies, chicken wings, and country ham carbonara tremendously. The whole family had a fantastic time. We told our server what had happened to us at the Hotel Roanoke. She was aghast. She couldn’t believe something like that could happen at any half-decent place.
It’s hard.
Tonight was something of a disaster.
My oldest son is 25, intellectually disabled, autistic, and schizophrenic. I try not to expose him to situations that might freak him out. His morning meds usually wear off by mid-afternoon, by which point he starts talking to himself. Constantly. He asks a lot of questions and flaps his hands excitedly for no apparent reason whatsoever. People don’t feel comfortable around him, so I’m also careful not to take him places where others might be freaked out by him.
Today, like we do virtually every year, my family went to see the Christmas trees at the Hotel Roanoke, which were awesome. There were four of us—my wife, my intellectually-disabled son, my youngest son (19) and me. My intellectually disabled son likes Christmas trees. This year, he especially liked the Dr. Seuss-themed Christmas tree.
Afterward, we thought about eating at The Regency Room, the Hotel Roanoke’s fine-dining restaurant. Before going inside, we studied the menu. My intellectually disabled son has particular tastes. Many foods he will not tolerate. He likes mac n’ cheese. And pizza. Lord, how he likes pizza. But he also likes chicken and (in moderation) salmon, both of which were on the Regency Room menu.
It was just after 5:10 p.m.
The four of us asked for a table. The Regency Room is huge. At that hour, it was also virtually deserted. The restaurant had only opened for dinner service at 5:00 pm. There were literally dozens of empty tables. So many empty tables that I figured the chances of my intellectually disabled son disturbing another diner was minimal.
Still, the maître d'hôtel consulted a seating chart.
My son asked if the restaurant served pizza.
“No, we do not,” the maître d'hôtel responded.
“Do you have mac-and-cheese?” my son asked.
Something in maître d'hôtel’s glance shifted. “No. No we do not have mac-and-cheese,” he said.
I asked my son to stop asking questions but people who are intellectually disabled, autistic and schizophrenic do not always heed such requests. In quick succession, he asked again if the restaurant served pizza and mac-and-cheese. He did not raise his voice. Nor was he rude. If he had not just asked the same thing seconds earlier, this second round of questions would not have raised anyone’s eyebrows.
But, alas… the maître d'hôtel... He blinked. And then he said, “We do not have a table available. We will not have a table available for thirty minutes.”
Mind you, I kid you not… there must’ve been thirty empty tables in his restaurant when he said this.
And then he looked at me and said that my son could get what he wants at another (lesser) restaurant within the hotel.
He said this as if he thought he was doing us a favor but, honestly, what he was doing was plain outright discrimination. He was treating my family of four as second-class citizens because one member of our party exhibited signs of neurodiversity and had the audacity to ask—not once, but twice!—whether his establishment deigns to serve plebian fare.
I know this incident probably strikes many of you as, well, a first-world problem. But stuff like this happens all the time. I’m so sick of people shooting us nasty glances whenever my son says or does something awkward. Over time, you begin to feel as if you have no right to expect decency and respect from other people, only dirty looks and disdain. It takes a toll, affects one’s self-worth.
I’ve been thinking about this event for hours now, twisting and turning it in my mind every which way. The maître d’hôtel had been very specific: there wouldn’t be a table available for us for thirty minutes. He must’ve thought he was very clever—he didn’t refuse to serve us per se (which I guess might be illegal?) but merely made it extremely inconvenient for us to eat there in a timely fashion.
I’ll also confess something:
As we walked out of the Hotel Roanoke, my intellectually disabled son started asking me what happened. There was an urgency to his voice. He flapped his hands. He had the sense that he’d done something wrong. That, in effect, the reason we couldn’t eat at The Regency Room had something to do with the questions he asked about pizza and mac-and-cheese.
This is shameful of me.
I told my son that he should’ve been quiet. That he shouldn’t have asked those questions. That he should’ve kept his mouth shut. That, in effect, it was all his fault that we had to go elsewhere.
He told me he was sorry. He told me he didn’t mean to misbehave.
By the time we got to the car though, I realized I was wrong.
My intellectually disabled son wasn’t at fault. He was just being himself. How can you fault someone who is just being himself?
No—the person at fault was the maître d’hôtel. He looked at my son and prejudged him to be more trouble than however much money his restaurant would’ve made by serving us. Which is crazy, because we probably would’ve spent a small fortune there tonight. Instead, that guy needs some sensitivity training. Judging by the speed in which he lied about no tables being available for us, my hunch is that this wasn’t the first time he cost his restaurant a few hundred dollars.
Postscript:
So… we drove back to Blacksburg from Roanoke. For dinner, we ate at Preston’s. And, needless to say, my intellectually disabled son was well-mannered. Delightful, actually. He enjoyed his crab hushpuppies, chicken wings, and country ham carbonara tremendously. The whole family had a fantastic time. We told our server what had happened to us at the Hotel Roanoke. She was aghast. She couldn’t believe something like that could happen at any half-decent place.
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