Estevan Barrera has found a security net at school, but it's a net the 21-year-old will soon lose.
It's one of those rare, quiet moments at Estevan Barrera's school. Barrera's classmates have left for the day and he has his teacher, Eric Lichte, or simply Mr. Eric, as Barrera calls him, all to himself. Lichte and Barrera's parents sit around a classroom table discussing the four years of strides Barrera has made in Lichte's class and what the future holds after Barrera graduates in June.
The meeting isn't part of Barrera's usual routine. He asks when he can go home. And he circles around the activity table where Lichte and his parents are conferencing. Voices talk about the future, plans and the unknown. Barrera circles again then pauses for a moment. He stands above his seated stepfather, bends his neck and quietly kisses his stepfather's balding head.
Barrera moves around the table and pulls out a chair he neatly lined up earlier that day next to Lichte. He sits down.
"You're cute!" Barrera tells Lichte.
"Thank you, Barrera. But we don't tell boys they're cute. What do we tell them?" Lichte's gentle voice redirects Barrera to find the best way to pay a compliment to a fellow gentleman.
Barrera's parents count the days until that gentle, guiding voice will no longer be a part of Barrera's routine. The date stands as a milestone on most parents' calendars, but Graduation Day 2012 marks unchartered territory for the Millers.
Barrera, 21, shares his coming-of-age story with a boom of cohorts that joined the swelling number of children diagnosed with autism in the 1990s and 2000s. Many have grown up under public education and Medicaid-funded supports that either disappear around the age of 21 or have fallen victim to recent budget guts. That leaves advocates wondering if the state and local communities can build the village needed to support the anticipated surge of autistic adolescents slated to transition into adulthood.
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