Center of the Maze: Being A Man With An Autistic Son

There was a game we used to play in elementary school. It was unsanctioned. We played it at recess. In England they call it “Muckle”. In other places it’s called “Destroy the Carrier”. It was a boys game.

The game was simple. One child had an object (usually a ball) and the rest of the boys beat the shit out of the child until he relinquished the object to another child, who then became the carrier we beat the shit out of.

The game is a cruel kind of hazing ritual into growing up as a male because it teaches boys a valuable lesson. The carrier serves as the weakest link. It’s the herd’s job to single that one out and destroy them. If that sounds over dramatic, keep in mind that in America we called it “Smear the Queer”. Even the name is indoctrinating.

I remember having my head slammed into lockers when I was in Junior High. It was a difficult time. Most of my school days were spent dreading the classes shared with kids in grades above. The older boys would pick on the younger ones, and in a lot of ways I believe the teachers encouraged it. Always conveniently looking the other way. And there was nothing you as a child could do about it. You were forced into an institution that encouraged violence and humiliation to make you less weak.

One of the more difficult things about having a child with autism, as a man, is understanding that your child’s condition will be perceived as weakness as they grow up and they’ll be made to suffer as a result. There are too many instances I can recall growing up, even as far as into my twenties, where minding my own business resulted in dealing with some kind of confrontational asshole looking to utilize me as an opportunity to become a preening peacock for anybody within range. As much as we supposedly hate bullies as adults, we’re still surrounded by them. From locker rooms to boardrooms they continue to exist.

There are very few men amid the droves of autism advocate parents online. The landscape is comprised almost exclusively by mom bloggers or what is referred to as the “warrior parent” moms. Their collateral is all very cutesy with soft multi-colors. The messages very quaint (“This mama hearts someone with autism!”). But dads are relatively silent when it comes to their autistic children. You don’t see a message of strength or grit or any of the other “Cowboy up!” male tropes used to promote other causes. There is nothing masculine in a landscape checked with powder blue puzzle pieces.

I believe this has a lot more to do with the aforementioned than any gender bias toward activism. Even championing your child, who may be tough as nails when they’e smiling back at a dangerous world, can be perceived as weakness, and most men don’t want to risk owning that label. It’s deferred to moms as though it were as naturally feminine as holding a purse.

It wasn’t until I had a child that I actually felt like an adult. And often times I feel like a shitty adult and by extension a terrible parent. I have hesitations when approaching public outings with my son, fearful of how his behavior may attract negative attention which I’ll need to manage. It requires putting on the armor to go to places like the grocery store or the park. In those instances I’m not an adult. I’m still that child holding the ball. The carrier, ready to be assaulted by the herd, holding the hand of a child who smiles fearlessly and doesn’t understand why his father seems so tense. In these moments I don’t know what side of the glass either of us is on.