A full education for autistic students

It was a simple request.

"Can I ask you a personal question?"

But for the young man who posed the query to a visitor at a Westbury school for students with autism, conversation is a minefield.

"Be careful!" boomed a classmate.

The students are among the first to attend Westbrook Preparatory School, a year-round residential program aimed in part at helping participants learn to interpret the social cues they are hard-wired to miss.

The school, located in a former convent, serves students ages 12 through 21. The first floor contains spacious, bright classrooms with state-of-the-art equipment. Students live on the upper floors, separated by gender.

All have high-functioning autism -- a developmental disability that causes people to struggle with verbal and nonverbal communication and with managing their own behavior -- or Asperger's syndrome, a form of autism marked by high IQs, solid verbal skills and preoccupying interests that can become distracting fixations.

The school, which opened in February, has just seven students and expects to top off at 24. A few new students are added each month so as not to overwhelm the other residents, who can bristle at change.

Westbrook got its start six years ago when founder May-Lynn Andresen learned there were no appropriate residential programs in New York for her son, who has autism. She and other parents lobbied the state for the school's creation. By the time Westbrook opened, her son was too old to attend.

Westbrook is funded by local school districts, the state Office of Children and Family Services and Medicaid. The funding has two main parts: a $1.8-million academic budget paid for by the public schools from which its students come, and a $3.2-million budget from OCFS to pay for the residential portion of the program. Medicaid kicks in $680,000 annually to help pay for speech and language therapy, occupational therapy, physical therapy, counseling, nursing and related supplies and resources.

Thirty-five faculty and staff members teach everything from math to manners. They say no moment is too fleeting to impart a lesson that could help residents avoid embarrassment on the job or out with friends.

A new student who attended a recent dinner with a jacket zipped to her neck told a staffer she couldn't take it off because her blouse wasn't appropriate.

The staffer, careful not to embarrass her, offered a primer on proper dinner attire.

Another student was gently chided for taking too much food before his peers had a chance to fill their plates. A third was reminded to bring his dishes to the kitchen after he finished eating.

Administrators say their goal is for the students to lead happy and productive lives and learn to advocate for themselves -- a challenge, because it requires students to recognize their weaknesses and seek out support, a difficult task for anyone.

Self-advocacy is key, officials said.

Many of the students have been traumatized before their arrival. Some were so overwhelmed by not being able to successfully navigate the outside world that they needed psychiatric intervention to help with their anxiety, school officials said.

"They are made fun of, laughed at, totally excluded," said Andresen, one of the school's directors.

Administrators at Westbrook say they want students to feel comfortable and in control.

Already, several have been placed in internships that speak to their interests. One young woman works at a garden, a male classmate works at a record shop, and a third will soon start work at an art supply store.

Diana Tasco-Meyer of Manhasset is one of the school's founders. Her son, Nick, 18, has autism and spent the past several years at a Connecticut residential program because he needed round-the-clock care.

"Every time I brought him back to Connecticut, my heart sank," she said. "I always felt terrible. He was disconnected from his family and his community. I always said, 'Come hell or high water, I'm going to bring you home.' "

Tasco-Meyer said she was thrilled to enroll him at Westbrook so he could be closer. Her son, once so prone to tantrums that he would turn over tables in anger, is thriving.

More than anything, Nick said, he wants to be treated like everybody else. But it's hard, he said, when people make assumptions about his abilities.

"They think, 'This kid can't do anything,' " he said. "Everyone should be treated equally."