It’s Not Us It’s Them
Charlie and I lay in our hammock the other night listening to Amy Winehouse. He turned 6 last month. Even though he’s young it’s like having an adult body next to mine.
As a parent, autism can either be trivial or substantial depending on the time of year and the circumstances. I recall 4 years ago, after his initial diagnosis, feeling like I would wake up with it and go to sleep with it every night. Fear. Doom. A sense that everything was in crisis.
Eventually that all went away. Charlie and our family adjusted to what is essentially every normal family dynamic. None of it feels “odd” anymore because nothing is lacking. There’s no “open wound” or sense that my son isn’t providing me the reciprocal love or intimacy that a parent would receive with any other child. He just doesn’t do it the way other children would. So he grows, develops, has things he looks forward to, goes through hobbies and burns out on toys, and we’re just here. His parents.
But then there are other times of year (holidays especially) where the need to deal with other people makes our life with autism feel like living as less-than’s. Not because of anything Charlie does, but because of the things he doesn’t do that the rest of the world feels entitled to receive from him.
“Why can’t he talk? Why isn’t he talking?”
A young boy and his friend followed Charlie around the playground the other day, asking the question over and over again like two yapping puppies.
“Why aren’t you talking? Why can’t you talk?”
They got close to invading his personal space, which from a parenting perspective made me feel uneasy, but Charlie just laughed. Amused at this human parade he was leading as he went about the playground. He climbed the jungle gym and they followed. He went down the slide and they followed.
When it was clear Charlie wasn’t going to give in to their demand for attention they spread out to the rest of the playground, pointing to him as they informed every parent and child that this boy over here can’t talk. A public service announcement.
This was an unfair accusation, as he had given them a smile and a “hi” when they first greeted him moments earlier. It was brief, but polite. It felt appropriate. What you as a grownup do. Tip your hat to a stranger in a public place but not obsess over striking up a conversation with someone you don’t know because how fucking weird would that be?
But it wasn’t good enough. Because he chose not to have a conversation they took it upon themselves to run through a bully routine of social shaming.
It felt uncomfortable. I kinda wanted him to run away. To come to me for help. To do something. If at any moment Charlie displayed duress I would have no problem grabbing his hand and walking him to our car. Or stepping in and talking to the boys on their behalf (or if they weren’t total latchkey, their parents). Over time you develop a ton of crisis strategies to deal with situations involving assholes in public. But Charlie didn’t care. It was like flies buzzing around him. Did. Not. Care.
So why ruin his good time?
He continued to have fun. A few parents gave the kids sour looks. I think one even told them they weren’t being very nice. They eventually took up some other dumb form of play.
I say this often, but the challenges with having an autistic child are frequently created by other people and rarely belong to your child. There’s a multitude of projections that we politely deal with. People’s desire to be inspired. Their desire to feel comfortable. Their desire to be validated. Their desire for meaning.
Charlie is either pitied or resented, rarely envied or assumed as something ordinary as he swings back and forth in a hammock with his father. Amy Winehouse on the stereo. Closet full of toys. A stack of video games in his room. More than enough for us to be happy.
