Here Is Me

Editor’s note: As a mother raising a child with autism, I have spent countless hours trying to understand the way he thinks, learns, and communicates. I wrote this piece based on conversations with him.

Here is me.

I am Jack.

Here is me, and here is my autism.

I am a boy and a diagnosis tangled together like so many vines climbing a tree.

I am the rustle of paperwork, and small round pills in a vial.

I am honesty, and tenacity, and a body in motion.

I am a boy trying to hide.

I am downcast eyes.

And a hopeful heart. 

I am repetitive behavior.

And special meetings in a hot conference room.

I am letters on paper—a statistic, a number, a pie chart.

I am articles, and research, and notes in a folder.

I am the most delicious chocolate cake you have ever tasted on your tongue.

I am a cake-baker.

A dish-washer.

A pasta-maker.

I am humanity.

I am hope.

I am here.

Here is me.

I always say here is me.

I should say here I am.

But that’s not how words work to me. 

The problem is you cannot see words out of people’s mouths. For me this is hard. I hear someone say I love a good campfire, and I have to go inside my brain. I look for the words, and I see bright orange light. I smell wood burning. I taste a roasted marshmallow on my tongue. 

I remember the last time I saw a campfire. It was a summer night. Wednesday, August 19th, 2020.

But by the time I remember it all—the glow of orange flames and the wood and the sticky sweetness, it is too late for me. When I finally find the words, the conversation has dissolved into the air above our heads like smoke.

When I was a little boy with little legs and small hands, my mother would come down the hallway and call my name.

Jack-a-boo! Where are you?

Where I was, I’d stand up, and walk into her voice. 

Here is me.

This is what I would say.

Here is me. 

I remember this.

I remember everything. 

I remember her blue shirt and the sound of her song which was not so good really, and the way she would swing me up with my small hands and my mouth smiled a littlest smile.

I remember the socks I wore when I was in 2008. They scratched my toes. 

I remember the way in sixth grade I screamed red hot white light in the classroom and all around me kids watched and looked and worried.

I remember how it felt like a boat sinking under grey waves until I had no more air to breathe. 

Here is me.

I am a disruption in class and screams off the walls. I am books thrown to the floor.

I am teachers with nervous smiles, and murmurs into the intercom, and a room empty.

I am heartbreak, and the slow climb to heal.

We all have bits and pieces of autism. They float within us like colors of confetti. It is good for you to know this.

Maybe a schedule makes you feel safe, and warm. Like you are wrapped in a soft blanket. 

Maybe you chew gum, or run many miles, or bite your nails to help your body feel calm and still.

Maybe you battle a wolf in your heart and you have scary thoughts that will not go away, no matter how many times you ask your brain to please please stop.

Maybe a small part of your heart is lonely and you feel like there is no one else in the whole world like you.

Are you lonely?

Or alone?

We all have autism. This is the thing. 

I just have more of it. I have all of it. It gets in my way. It changes the way I move and learn and think and talk.

This is okay.

I am okay. 

I am better than okay.

Hear me.

Here is me.

I am Jack, but I am also you.

I am your neighbor, and your brother, and the sixth-grader down the hall.

I am a family.

I am a legacy.

I am forever.

See me.

See my autism.

It is the gift I offer again and again.

Acknowledge me.

Understand me. 

Talk with me. 

Inquire about the things I like. 

Share the things you enjoy.

Meet me where I am. 

And upward, we will climb, two vines growing toward the sun.