The phone rang. And everything changed. Eight readers share what they heard on the other end of the line

My Special Son

Tzippy Goldman

I wished he’d at least look like everyone else

MY oldest son, Yossi, was always a sweet boy with a delicious personality and lots of energy. Lots of energy. From a young age he had a hard time in school — he was not a child who could sit at a desk for long periods of time.

“I wish I could just strap him into his seat!” his second-grade rebbi said to me at one point.

We followed the school’s guidance in everything (except for the seatbelt). We hired tutors and tried various therapies. Nothing really helped, but Yossi managed to stay in the system until he graduated eighth grade.

Ninth grade, though, didn’t work out so well. He had no chavrusa; no one wanted to learn with him because his attendance was not consistent. But with no chavrusa waiting for him, he felt no push to go to yeshivah. When we approached his rebbeim, they couldn’t force someone to learn with him unless they could be sure he’d show up. It became a sort of stalemate: no show = no chavrusa, and no chavrusa = no show.

By the beginning of tenth grade, Yossi was home with nowhere to go and no interest in going, either. I recall one Tuesday morning that was a turning point for us. The previous Shabbos had been an off-Shabbos, with the boys meant to return to yeshivah by Monday morning. Yossi hadn’t gone back, and I called the rosh yeshivah to ask him to try to convince my son to come back.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Goldman,” he told me. “But there’s not really a point to his coming back. He’s not doing anything here anyway.”

I hung up the phone and cried. And that’s how we found ourselves with our son home and nowhere to go. Thing spiraled pretty quickly after that. Yossi got himself a phone and began watching movies for hours on end. Davening was not on his schedule, and his tefillin remained untouched. He became very into bodybuilding, and any time he was not on his phone was spent working out. He talked about the motorcycle he planned on buying.

Watching my 15-year-old son spend the day in bed and then leave the house at night until  three or four a.m. was not easy. Compounding this, we are part of a community where conformity is a big deal. We sometimes wished he’d at least toe the line and just look like everyone else instead of walking around in shorts and tank tops.

Eventually,  Yossi went to a small, warm place that caters to boys like him. After incredible amounts of research into different yeshivos, we found a place that fosters a real relationship between rebbi and talmid. There were rules: The boys needed to give in their phones during the week but there were filtered computers available to them for shopping, sports, and news, but the main thing is he was treated like a mensch. They focused on the things he could do, not those he couldn’t, and his self-esteem returned. Slowly, my son started going to minyan again… and learning.

The summer after 11th grade, Yossi got a job as a counselor in a special-needs camp. I was happy he was happy, but I still mourned his differences: I’d have loved to see him in a learning camp like my nephews went to.

But then I received a call from the mother of the boy my son was working with.

“We met your Yossi on visiting day,” she said. “We were so impressed with him! He really understands our Rafi, and he’s so great with him. We were so nervous about sending Rafi to camp for so long, but we can tell how responsible and capable Yossi is. We feel so good about the experience Rafi will have.”

She continued praising him for a few more minutes, and I kept stammering my thank-yous. Finally, she ended with, “You must be so proud of your son, doing such chesed with his time.”

I hung up with a lot of thinking to do. Why wasn’t I proud of Yossi? Why couldn’t I see what she saw — a young boy giving up his summer vacation to take care of a child with special needs. Because I wanted him to look like everyone else, I wasn’t able to recognize any of his qualities?

That call changed my perspective. Instead of wishing he looked and acted like his cousins and friends who were all learning full-time, I began to see his maalos. He may be different, but that doesn’t make him any less amazing.

Today, I’m proud to say that I’m proud of my Yossi.