I am not a person, place, or thing. You can’t touch me, or see me, or smell me.
I am considered a human condition—a collection of symptoms.
The twitching finger and the flapping hand.
The silent toddler with downcast eyes and a tippy-toe walk.
I am a diagnosis. A disorder. A box you check on the medical form.
I make bad days and good days and bad days then good.
I live in all of us, whether you know it or not.
I am the cocktail party that makes you shy and the tag on your shirt that makes you itch. I am the sticky crunch of strawberry seeds and the overwhelming hum of the air conditioner or the fax machine or the fly outside your window.
I am the Baby Einstein DVD on repeat.
I am long, neat rows of Thomas the Tank engines snaking around your family room. Seeing these rows will make you so frantic, so frustrated and nervous and empty, that it will take all of your willpower not to kick all of those stupid engines under the couch when you walk past them.
I am hours of Minecraft.
Some days, I taste like shame and bitterness, burning up from a mother’s heart like sour indigestion. I am the taste of defeat.
But other days, I taste like the purest cotton-candy-joy.
I do not care if you were fed by breast or by bottle, if you were born in a sterile hospital room or at home in your mother’s cozy bed. No one is safe from me.
You can find me in churches and synagogues and mosques. I am in schools and movie theaters, playground and libraries.
I am in India. I am in Jamaica. I am in the Philippines and Wisconsin and Sierra Leone. You can find me north and south of the Equator, in Russia and Japan, San Francisco and Belgium.
I live within a 19-year old boy named Jack.
One year, I made him afraid of wind. So afraid, in fact, that he would not go outside all winter.
The next year, it was dogs. Because of me, he wouldn’t cross the street if someone was walking their Pug or their Golden Retriever.
For the longest time, he wanted waffles on Thursday mornings.
I have been around since the beginning of time, despite the façade of normal assembled by generations before you.
There is no normal. I am here to tell you this. So please, stop looking for it all the time.
It is up to you how you see me; as a nuisance, a tantrum, a disorder, or a curious lamb wearing the costume of a wolf. Can you look past my long, yellow teeth and matted hair, and find the soft, gentle child underneath?
Because of me, Mozart wrote long, complicated symphonies. His hearing was rumored to be so sensitive, he could hear the difference in the slightest tone. His concentration so fierce, he would skip meals for days to finish a piece.
Historians explain the way Michelangelo made sketch after sketch until the final pose was perfect in his rigid, unbending mind. Because of me, the Sistine Chapel explodes with light and color.
Records show that Albert Einstein did terribly in school. He didn’t learn the same way as all the other kids.
And Sir Isaac Newton of the fallen apple had no friends. He didn’t understand people, and he insisted on a strict, unwavering routine.
You see, a still mind can still have great thoughts, and within even the quietest person, there is a voice. A painting, a song.
I am hope and possibility. I am music and dreams, kindness and color. I am gravity.
So please, before you panic or judge—before you race for a cure or rush to call me weird—try to remember my value. Remember my goodness.
I will teach you the real meaning of unconditional love. A love so powerful and strong it will rearrange your heart.
At first, you probably won’t even realize that you are learning from me. I am subtle.
But every hour, every day, every year, you and I will make our peace. You will step carefully over the long rows of trains, and admire the complicated cities in Minecraft. Every Thursday at dawn you will turn on all the lights in the kitchen, reach into the highest cabinet, and bring down the waffle iron for a boy who at last said Mama.
I am autism. And I will make you better. I will make your family better.
If you let me, I will make the world better.