The Weird Kid
What did you think when he walked into the room?
Maybe he was talking about soda—the difference between Pepsi and Coke.
Or street maps. He memorizes street maps.
I know how he looked, this 6’5” tall boy with a laptop under his arm.
He looked weird.
He looked weird and out of control. He was muttering to himself. He was pacing. He kept his eyes toward the floor.
I know all about the weird kid.
I am, shall we say, familiar with the pacing.
And the street maps.
And the soda.
You see, the weird kid is my son.
His name is Jack.
Jack has autism.
Two months ago, he moved into a residential space. It has a lot of support. There is staff around the clock and teams for academic learning, life skills, and social coaching.
He takes classes at a nearby college—the same college as you.
He was having trouble with his laptop. Something with the screen. At some point during class, he decided to walk to the IT department. By the time he got there, he was out of sorts.
This isn’t uncommon for Jack. Unusual situations often make him out of sorts.
With a quiet panic rising beneath my ribcage, I try to imagine the scene.
Students like you waiting in line with questions about Wi-fi and memory.
My son storming in, all downcast eyes and angry brow.
This is life alongside autism. I have to consider every angle. I must look at all sides. There is no other way.
He can’t take in new ideas when he’s in this state. He struggles with language. You see, the skills we word the hardest for are the ones we lose first under stress.
Imagine you everyone around you is speaking French.
You don’t speak French very well. In fact, you only know two or three words.
You feel frustrated—like you have a snowstorm swirling inside you. You want to learn the words, but they come slowly, if at all.
You hear everyone around you talking—bonjour and s’il vous plait—but you can’t keep up or make out the phrases and the snowstorm turns into a blizzard of longing, and resentment, and fear.
This is the way Jack feels every single day of his life.
Ever since he was a little boy in blue overalls, there were new words to describe my son. They never got easier to read.
Autism.
Anxiety.
Obsessive compulsive disorder.
Depression.
All I ever wanted was for people to see he is more than his diagnosis—even on the days I struggled to see it for myself.
Every week he bakes a dessert for all of the students in his residential hall.
He makes a list. He shops for the ingredients. He pays with his debit card.
He goes into the kitchen and makes brownies. Cookies. Individual cheesecakes.
Maybe you thought he might hurt you. I understand. He’s tall.
I know you were alarmed. I don’t blame you.
There was a report written by the Student Care and Response Team, or SCART for short.
The words are bigger now.
Incident.
Stressful behavior.
Students were uncomfortable and concerned.
We worried about sending him to this program. We were afraid it might be too soon. Maybe he wasn’t ready.
A laptop. Reports. Concern.
He wrote an email. He apologized. He promised he’d be better. Reading it pierced my heart.
Have you ever seen a mosaic? You know, where a lot of pieces make up one big picture?
I think people can be like a mosaic. We are made up of a bunch of tiny parts.
We have ugly parts and happy parts and nervous parts. We can be mean one minute, and kind the next.
We are the history of our ancestors, the traditions of our families, and the genetics of our parents.
Yes, he can seem weird. This is true.
Deep down inside, we are all weird.
We just learned how to hide our weirdness from everyone.
Jack, well, he never learned how to hide.
Imagine a world where we never learn to hide.
I don’t know. Maybe it’s achingly beautiful.
He thinks Pepsi is better than Coke.
He is more than autism.
I worry about him before I even open my eyes in the morning.
He is trying.
He would never hurt you. I want you to know this.
I am extremely sorry for my concerning behavior on Tuesday, I was very stressed with laptop issues and I’m scared of failing classes.
Heather
September 26, 2022 @ 9:16 am
Oh, this post hit me in straight in the heart and the gut. The pain of knowing our sweet, gentle (if giant) boys are being judged and perceived as a “threat”, the idea that being different (“weird”) is a something one has to apologize for, it just absolutely destroys me. The best case scenario for my own son as he travels down the halls of his high school everyday is that he will be ignored. The worst case is that he will be picked on, bullied, and called out for his “differences”. I have often referred to my son’s disability as “invisible”, but it isn’t really…it is just unrecognizable to those that don’t live with it. And since it seems so foreign, so out of line with expectations, others come to see those with Autism as oddities, and potentially harmful ones at that.
I. Want. To. Scream.
Sending love to you all and to Jack. I know my Teddy would love his desserts.
TracyEllen Carson Webb
September 26, 2022 @ 5:06 pm
My son is 6’4″ and about 220 pounds. I worry all the time about this very thing. I’m sorry Jack that I had a bad day.
Gabrielle
September 29, 2022 @ 5:37 am
I’m so sorry Jack had this experience and felt he had to write this e-mail. Heartbreaking that our kids’ stressed-behaviour is often seen as being aggressive. Just heartbreaking.