Mother of reinvention

There is a herd of elephants stampeding overhead. I glance at the lobby wall clock: Yep, it’s class change time at Connections School of Atlanta. Twelve teenagers — double last year’s number — make quite a racket, especially when each one must greet the other 11.

I’d thought all that noise would have upset them. But they seem to have a particular appreciation for high-fiving one another between classes. Perhaps because they didn’t think they’d ever get to do it.

Half of them head to world literature where the soft rumble of rolling desk chairs above the lobby quickly replaces the elephant stampede. It soon gives way to the Audible narration of the book “I Am Malala.”

The other half settle in to learn the physics behind the temperature regulation of their brandnew aquarium. They’ll use that knowledge to perfect the environment for the trout eggs arriving next week. This spring, they’ll release full-grown trout into the Chattahoochee River.

When Connections opened, I was most thrilled by our freedom to celebrate our students’ quirks. This year, I see what most thrills our students is exactly the opposite. Here, in addition to being “adolescents with special needs,” they are teenagers. They eat their own body weight in pizza, sing along to their favorite pop songs and horse around in the halls between classes.

These days, I revel in our students’ joy in the typical high school experience. And no event highlighted that joy quite as well as their sensory-sensitive prom last May.

“Just lean against the wall, like you’re hanging out,” I beg. Gabriel sighs, but grudgingly humors my enthusiasm as I take picture after picture. It’s not every day my teenager goes to his first school dance — nor that Connections throws a prom for its inaugural class.

At school, the teacher-chaperones finish tying one last gold balloon to the front gate and gather Gabriel and his classmates to welcome their special guests: next year’s incoming class. Their anticipated entrance does not disappoint. Catherine is the first to arrive. She co-opts the closest adult as her footman and exits the car as though alighting from Cinderella’s coach. If I were wearing a blue chiffon ball gown trimmed with butterflies, I’d act like a princess, too.

Parents remain on the sidewalk as instructed when our children go inside. For the first time since I helped start the school, I stand on the outside with the rest. So this is what it’s like having a teenager with his own weekend plans.

I go to a quiet dinner with my husband.

The event, I am told, featured a few unusual touches in addition to established prom standards.

Crisp suits and silky dresses? Sure. But also flip-flops, Disney princess costumes and tuxedoprint T-shirts.

A glitter-backdropped photo booth — and a bin of Legos across the hall.

Five-foot speakers blasting a throbbing bass line? Not so much. Dancing? Absolutely.

The photos show a seamless blend of typical and atypical, of expected and unexpected, of quirky and traditional — just like Connections and its growing community. on E6