Class of 2020 Hats off to the Class of 2020

By Randy Capps

Since our annual Summer Guide was impossible to do for this issue, we had to come up with another idea.

Luckily, all of the inspiration we needed lives right down the hall.

Our son, Ethan, is a member of the Class of 2020 at South Johnston High School, and like thousands of other Johnston County students, the second half of his senior year has been notable for all of the things that didn’t happen.

I’m talking about proms, baseball seasons, softball seasons, tennis seasons,

club meetings and the countless other moments that make a young person’s last year in school one of the most memorable of their lives.

My happiest high school memories happened during my senior year, and I can only imagine how it must feel for the Class of 2020 to have it all end so suddenly.

We can’t bring back that which has been lost, but we can try to honor the accomplishments of a few of our students inside these pages.

This isn’t all of them. It isn’t even most

of them. But it’s a small way for us to recognize these amazing young people as we wait for the world to look like itself again.

I enjoyed reading the submissions we got. I felt a mixture of happiness and sadness, reading about the things they all did, or didn’t, get the chance to do.

It made me think of Ethan and what this has been like for him.

Wait a second. I wouldn’t be much of a dad if I didn’t write up Ethan’s profile, would I?

Ethan Capps

Hometown: Four Oaks

School: South Johnston High School

Ethan is a member of the Inclusion Club, SADD and Friends of Rachel. In a social media post, he thanked Kim Denning and Dr. David Pearce, calling them “two of the best people I’ve ever met.” He plans to attend a community college and study graphic design. In his spare time, he likes to watch movies and listen to music.

That’s the version you’d normally get.

But, perhaps it isn’t surprising that I’ve got a little more to say about my only son.

When he was 2 years old, we took Ethan to the doctor because we were concerned that he couldn’t hear well. As it turned out, there was a little more to it than that.

After a day of testing — and watching him struggle through basic tasks through a twoway mirror — we were told that our perfect little boy was likely “mentally retarded.” And we should “prepare ourselves for the fact that he might never speak much, read or write.”

His mother, the best person I know, immediately went to work on ways to help Ethan reach his potential.

After a few months of throwing myself a pity party, I snapped out of it and started helping, too.

We used a plastic cylinder with pictures of things like his cup and a TV screen to help him start talking.

We got his first sentence at the age of 4, when he told me, “I love you,” after I had said it to him on the way out of the door.

We moved to Four Oaks right before he was slated to start first grade. That’s when we met the two people most responsible for Ethan’s successful journey through school.

David Pearce wasn’t a doctor then, but he was a constant force for good in Ethan’s life. He bent rules, thought outside the box and went far beyond what any normal principal would do at Four Oaks Elementary.

It was his idea to put Ethan in a mainstream class for part of the day. He sat in on every IEP meeting, and he was always looking for ways to make Ethan’s education experience better.

It was his choice to put him in Allison Tucker’s exceptional children’s classroom. “She’ll be perfect for him,” I remember him saying.

And she was just that.

That room is where he learned to “get his wiggles out” when he just couldn’t sit still any longer. It’s where he learned to read and learned how to say things he didn’t learn from The Wiggles or Leap Frog’s Letter Factory.

It was his safe place, when he wasn’t trying his hand at mainstream classes. It started out with music, then grew to other electives.

Finally, by fourth grade, he was in “normal” classes. But he still spent time every day with Allison Tucker.

Don’t get me wrong. There is a long list of teachers who helped Ethan along the way, but those two believed in my son in ways that I’m not sure even I did.

And I’m eternally grateful.

Standardized tests and autism don’t mix, so we had to deal with EOG testing every year.

I remember the day he realized he didn’t pass the math part and had to take it again. He sat in the backseat with tears in his eyes and said, “so, I have to take it again?”

We did the only thing we could. We bought him an iPad and tried to encourage him.

He worked much harder in school than I did. He started testing a little better as he reached South Johnston and even scored high enough on the ACT to make college an option.

Autism has nothing to do with intelligence, after all. It’s simply a question of how the brain gets from point A to point B.

For Ethan, it’s rarely a straight line. But he’s so bright that his mouth has trouble keeping up with his brain. You might call it stuttering, but the truth runs deeper.

With hard work and the support of his teachers, Ethan will graduate having spent most of his high school career on the honor roll.

His classmates, some of whom he’s known since those early days at Four Oaks Elementary, also deserve credit.

Popular kids don’t have to care about the shy kids or the kids that are different. But Ethan was never picked on. Quite the opposite, actually.

He was cared for and included. They liked his Twitter and Instagram posts and engaged him every way they could.

I don’t know if it meant more to him or to me. I’m not going to embarrass anyone. You know who you are, and I thank you.

And finally, instead of talking about him, I’m going to talk to him.

Ethan, being your father is the greatest gift I have ever received. Proud doesn’t begin to describe what I feel when I think about all you’ve had to overcome to be where you are.

I remember all of the nights at the kitchen table, watching you struggling through homework. I remember all of the doctor’s visits while we searched for the right combination of medicine.

I remember the first time you made the honor roll and the first time you passed a standardized test.

Through it all, you were always smiling. You are always polite, helpful and cheerful.

For a while, when you were very young, I didn’t know if I could handle being your father. I always had a mental image of what having a son would be like, and it was very clear early on that you weren’t going to be the son I imagined having.

It occurred to me one night, however, that one of my life’s purposes was to be your dad. It dawned on me that the God I know wouldn’t have brought me a son that I couldn’t help raise.

I don’t know exactly what your future holds, but I am sure of two things:

First, it will be amazing. You have defied the odds and expectations your whole life. No one who met you at 2 years old would recognize the man you turned out to be.

Second, while I draw breath, you will never have to look very far to find me.

I love you, son.

Thanks for indulging a proud dad, and hats off to the Class of 2020.