kickabel

In the house I grew up in, we had a spacious basement that housed our laundry room, my dad’s “man cave”, and a playroom for my sisters and I. Because Eva and Olivia could not go up and down the stairs easily, it was only Sammy and I who had constant access down there. 

My dollhouse and toys that were choking hazards (which Eva and Olivia couldn’t be around) were down in the basement. I know I played down there by myself a lot. Dad says that Sammy played down there by herself a lot when I was outside with the neighborhood kids. I’m not sure how often Sammy used to hang out there by herself, but it was enough for her to deface one of the doors down there. 

The logistics of this are a complete mystery. I have no idea how her tiny 7 year old self managed to reach the top of the door to draw on it. 

I remember seeing the original door and my first impression being a little freaked out. My whole life I haven’t been very fond of the church, and this thing was covered in crosses. Half of them seemed to be inverse, too- like some trendy goth shit. 

Back then, it crossed my mind that my sister might be channeling the holy spirit somehow, and the thought sent shivers down my spine. This was scarier to me than her being possessed by the devil. I’m not sure what my parents thought. 

As an adult, now, I am learning as much as I can about the history of disability. It’s a scary thing knowing that if we were in a different time, this would be evidence of my sister being of the devil. It would be politicized immediately if anyone found out. An autistic little girl who speaks very little suddenly creating murals on the walls of her home consisting of religious imagery would be the type of thing voyeurous academics sunk their claws into. It would be a narrative spun and weaponized.  

This basement is a very contentious space in my sister’s life that I’d like to ask her more about. I’m not sure how much she remembers from those years, or if she even remembers this door. If she’s anything like me, there are most likely a lot of pieces missing. But this basement is where a lot of my sister’s therapy sessions occurred in childhood. She had speech therapy, occupational therapy, tutoring, what have you, down there. And this basement is where my sister experienced her first session of ABA therapy. 

I do have memories of sitting on the living room couch hearing her scream as she had a meltdown below me with the therapist. As a kid, I didn’t like it at all, but trusted my parents who told me it was for her own good. It didn’t take too long for us to quit ABA. 

This piece is my warped memory of that door. 

The process of me remaking this door helped me find a fresh appreciation for the similarities and differences between my sister and I’s art itself as well as our processes. My father made a mini version of the door for me, which is fitting, since I’m pretty sure he also made the original door himself. He’s a handy guy. 

I feel that it’s important to acknowledge that by disclosing her diagnosis, her artwork and behavior will inevitably be pathologized. But this is a reality I must live with. We don’t exist in a vacuum. In truth, though, art is an impulse that we all share, and is something precious and to be respected. Not exploited.