“Wait, I have autism?” This was the question that got thrown at me, all of a sudden, Wednesday night. Isaac had found something that J.D. had written about him for school; something that was beyond sweet. “Yes, yes you do, buddy.” I told him. “Oh.” was one of his only responses followed by “I think I’m going to go take my shower now.” This was how I knew he needed time to process. He never, ever, independently just up and takes his shower. I told J.D. what Isaac had found and, per usual, his response was spot on; “Well, I guess it’s time he knew.”
“Do you have any questions?” I asked Isaac when he rejoined us, all clean in his summer pajamas. “Well, what is it?” he said. “It’s just how your brain works and it’s why you’re amazing at certain things but also why you had some trouble talking when you were very little. It’s what makes you you.” I told him. He was a little extra snuggly that night and I could tell that he was quietly trying to make sense of what he just took in. For years, I have felt that being completely upfront about this diagnosis with Isaac was the way to go. Why was this truth being withheld from the one to whom it mattered most? J.D. has known for years and only because he needed an explanation after an epic meltdown day that he had to deal with. Somehow, he already knew but never had a name for it. A name helped him process and be a better brother. We’ve kept the truth from him for long enough. I don’t like to lie if I can help it —the selfish relief I feel from this discovery is real.
I was always a strange little kid, probably because I was 10+ years younger than all my siblings and spent an inordinate amount of time wandering the woods behind my house alone. I slowly made sense of the world I fell into and I see so much of myself in Isaac and Isaac in me. Last year, he was sitting in a camp chair, fidgeting no doubt, when the chair suddenly fell to the right, rested on something next to it, and somehow got stuck in that position. “When the world suddenly tilts in your direction.” was the first thing out of his mouth when that happened. I mean, I got what he was saying but how many would? Is this autism or is this just seeing the world differently and loving that view a little more with every passing moment? Does it matter?
Labels are a funny thing that we humans tend to get all hung up on, Americans in particular. White, black, brown, Democrat, Republican, liberal, conservative, gay, straight, bisexual, pansexual, male, female, nonbinary, Christian, Jew, Muslim, married, single, husband, wife, mother, father, daughter, son, neurotypical, autist, nudist, artist, atheist, activist, Marxist, idealist, realist, humanist….the list goes on and on. Although labels are helpful to a certain degree, the bottom line is that humans cannot be sorted and categorized like nuts, bolts, and screws in a hardware store. Let’s face it, our species is kind of like the junk drawer of the universe; we can try to organize ourselves neatly but we know we’ll all end up being a jumbled mess again.
Yes, Isaac, you have autism and I hope that label, for what it’s worth, leads you on a path of self-discovery and awareness. Your brother J.D. has been a huge part of your success—he pushed you to enter his world by first entering yours. There’s no shame in autism, it is just a part of you like my hazel eyes are part of me. What does it look like for you today? Well, right now you just opened a can of Pilsbury Grands flaky biscuits, screamed when it popped, and came running into the room where I write. I feel the same way about these explosive baked goods. Seriously, dough boy people, there has to be another method of delivering such deliciousness. Like I said before, my dear Isaac, you are you and that’s more than enough. Label, schmabels, we’re all in this junk drawer together.