Why I Wish You’d See Autism First

I know you were annoyed.

It was a last-minute trip. He was home from his college program for Thanksgiving. He wanted to bake cookies.

I forgot to warn him that the store would be busy.

I couldn’t get to him in time. He cut ahead of you in line. Then he dropped a carton of eggs and swore loudly.

Seeing your face, I felt the familiar pit in my stomach. 

For once, I wish you saw the diagnosis first.

For nineteen years, I’ve wished otherwise.

For nineteen years, I wanted everyone to see my son before they saw autism.

Now, fear flutters beneath my heart like a caged bird.

This child of mine grew into a young man. And autism grew right along with him.

There is the briefest moment when he stands alone. Autism is nearly invisible.

Without it, he has no armor. No protection.

Yes, this tricky diagnosis has stigmatized him.

It has also protected him. 

It isn’t cute anymore.

What was once cute and quirky is now intimidating and worrisome. It makes people stand up straight and clear their collective throats. 

That’s autism for you. 

Sometimes it’s a mess. 

Sometimes it’s good. 

Mostly it’s baby steps forward, lots of reckless hope, and eggshells scattered on the floor.

Maybe you were having a tough day. Maybe you were running late or had a disagreement with your wife.

When it comes to my son and his autism, I have to consider everyone’s point of view. I have to look at things from every angle. I search for color and light within the glass prism that is the spectrum.

He is visiting for Thanksgiving.

If you’d told me two years ago I’d be saying these words, I never would have believed you.

For the longest time, I thought this boy may sit in our house forever—an exotic bird in a gilded cage of his own choosing.

Now, he lives hundreds of miles away, in a residential space with other kids like him.

My worry runs so deep, it’s as though it’s hardly there at all. 

I’m scared.

I’m scared in ways I can hardly articulate.

I’m scared he’ll become deregulated in public. Police will be called.

I’m scared that, at 6’5″, he appears intimidating when he is, in fact, a gentle giant.

The world has so much to learn.

So does this boy Jack.

Can each learn it in time?

It’s impossible to be lonely when you’re with him.

When you stand in the kitchen as he mixes the sugar and flour.

When he picks up the pan and delivers it into the oven like a silver package. 

You smell chocolate in the air and feel the warmth on your face and you smile. 

In that moment, it’s impossible not to believe in all that humanity has to offer.

I believe in him. 

And I believe in you.

I believe in second chances, and smiles of goodwill, and chocolate chip cookies.

I believe because I have to believe. I have no other choice. 

I have no other choice because one day I will die. 

This is me, small and afraid. 

For now, I live bravely. 

Bravely, I live.

I have no choice but to look to the sky and see sun instead of storms.

I hear notes of music and listen for birds gone free, carried upon a curious wind.

I smell incoming winter. The leaves on the trees are dying, floating, drifting, landing. Yet come springtime the branches will be green with newness. 

Newness. This is the light to which I hold tightly. There is always newness—even in the familiar pit, the busy store, the eggshells beneath our feet.

“No, go ahead, buddy! It’s fine. Looks like you’re making some cookies today.”

Thank you.