When the Fires Cool
Hi.
My name is Carrie.
I have five kids, and my second son is diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder. His name is Jack.
His actual birth-certificate-name is John. But we call him Jack because we like to stand around in airports while the official in customs flags us down because Jack/John insists he is not John he is Jack and there’s a lot of eyebrow-raising and throat-clearing and passport-checking. We’re fun that way.
Autism affects everyone very, very differently. That it is why we refer to it as a spectrum. In fact, we have a saying in our community: when you see one person with autism, you have seen one person with autism.
Everywhere I turn these days I see what I think of as t-shirt slogans—somewhat hollow phrases better suited to a bumper sticker, or a piece of clothing.
Spread kindness like confetti.
Feel grateful.
Live your truth.
What if I don’t have a truth? What if my brain is like one big Venn diagram, with overlapping circles and ideas, and I cannot decide where to land?

I am what you would call privileged. I am a middle-aged white woman . I live in a wealthy community. I drive a minivan. Since the day I was born, the color of my skin earmarked me for a certain future of prosperity and ease.
But then I think back to when I was a kid, and the divorces and the late child support checks and the rage of two parents on the brink. I think about the way I could hear the rats fall through the walls in my first apartment.
Yet I know I can waltz out my front door and go for a run and not worry someone will shoot me. If I see an officer’s car behind me in traffic, I simply ease off the gas pedal and check my rearview mirror.
In other words, the shade of my flesh does not play a large role in my safety.
I believe in equality but looting makes me anxious and I know people need a voice and it’s gone too far and police brutality is awful, and real.
What do you wish I knew about you?
Because any day now, the flames will cool, and we will be left with nothing but soot and scars.
My brother is a police officer. His name is also John. He is gentle and kind and good. He is also at risk.
He is at risk because the much of our country hates the police right now and maybe there is a reason for it but this is my brother. He baked my birthday cakes and we rode our bikes down the driveway together and he was the smooth, cool rock that stemmed the rivers of chaos within our home.
I support police and I support racial equality and protests are good but I am not sure stealing and burning really makes the same point and this is all because of one man—a man who kneeled and stayed and defied and ignored.
This is my truth.
It doesn’t fit on a t-shirt.
When it comes to stereotypes, I know what little I know because of my son, and his autism.
The day he was diagnosed, I looked at my chubby toddler and I knew in my bones people were going to misunderstand him.
So I talked. I talked and I shared and I told the librarian how he loves avocados but won’t eat yogurt.
Then I stepped back, and made room for questions. Given enough space and time, people will ask almost anything.
I have been asked about medication, and puberty, and sibling rivalry.
Some ask if it’s hard to raise a boy like Jack, and if we’ve considered aromatherapy, and if he will ever live on his own.
I don’t care what they ask. I am simply grateful for the conversation.
The truth is, I don’t even know the right words to say.
Black? African American? A person of color?
Maybe you think I am ignorant—stupid, even. That doesn’t bother me. I have been called much worse.
I grew up in a town full of white people and I went to college with almost all white students and now I live in a mostly white community.
I don’t think this was on purpose. It is simply where life took me.
I was born in a small town in New York and I went to a state college because it was cheap and we chose a little town in New Hampshire because it had a good program for special-needs kids.
Maybe the point is that I had choices, where others do not.
I just want to know. I want to know what to do.
It is highly unlikely that any of my children will struggle to breathe beneath an officer’s unfounded rage.
And yet I did have to register Jack with the police department in case he ever ran away or became belligerent or aggressive.
He, too, is earmarked—not by the color of his skin, but by the wiring in his brain.
When it comes to autism, there is no handbook. There are no written instructions. And I don’t believe there is one for how to universally dismantle racial stereotypes.
The thing is, I like action items. I like explicit expectations. I like to know what I can do—big, or very, very small.
Help me. Help me understand.
What do you want me to teach my children?
I mean, I teach them now about how people come in all shapes, sizes, and colors.
I teach them that kids like their brother Jack are different, and equal.
I teach them to listen between the lines.
We’ve learned that from Jack, you see, because autism is a listener’s language. It requires you to sift through the words and look past the diagnosis, to the fire burning within his spirit.
He has a fire. He does. He has a fire unlike anything I have ever seen.
It’s true, when you see one person with autism, you’ve seen one person with autism.
And when you meet one black person, you’ve met one black person.
I believe the same goes for police officers.
It goes for all of us—we each have our own story of privilege and rage and shame and hope.
All we can do it hold it up in our upturned palms, and offer it to one another.
Ask. Share. Tell.
Maybe that’s what I’ll put on my t-shirt.

June 10, 2020 @ 7:52 am
Thanks Carrie! I am White. My family is White. My son (Jack) is a Spectrum. I do everything I can to protect every color he has. I do not try to change any of the tints or hues. However I spend my life trying to help him live with, succeed and thrive with each color he possesses. It is hard. I get tired. I wake up and go back to it. By day I am the Attorney for a city in Connecticut. I represent the police officers in any litigation brought against them and the taxpayers ( who pay). I also work with the police to help them understand how to deal with an Autistic person should they run into them. We have special training sessions for our officers and I assist. In Connecticut we have a ‘blue envelope’ program to help the situation should an autistic person get pulled over by the police. I am afraid for my son. I worry that he will not drop the item in his hand if commanded to do so. I try to tell the police that this is no defiance, it is just that letting go of it might be hard for my son on the Spectrum.
We need to understand that humans come in all colors -/ and we are all humans regardless of color.
http://www.news12.com/story/41569233/blue-envelope-program-makes-traffic-stops-easier-for-people-with-disabilities
June 22, 2020 @ 6:14 pm
Thanks for all you do for the community Jeffry
June 17, 2020 @ 5:55 pm
One of your best, Carrie. Thank you.
June 22, 2020 @ 6:20 pm
I was also brought up in a primarily white neighborhood. I attended a Catholic School for my primary education, then attended a public high school. I had one friend who was black. She was nice and was in Tall Flags with me. We went on bus rides and had competitions and spent the nights at summer camps. The only thing that was different that I noticed was she had a lot of products that she used in her hair. I had never seen that before.
My husband’s best friend is black. He is a good guy and was in my wedding. I attended his wedding 2 years ago. He married a white woman that had a grandson with autism. She is great and I’m so happy he found love at the age of 53 years old.
I’m sad about what is going on with the police violence. I believe we are in a time of change. I have hope that Black Lives will matter more to everyone and they can live their lives without fear.
Thanks for your blog Carrie
Teri