Letter To Parents of Autistic Children
Dear Parents of Autistic Children,
All Ways is a story for you too. This story is about two Autistic brothers who find meaning when they get away from their parents by going on a road trip, but why is that? Before the story of York and Andreas is the story of Nova and Harlow: parents whose children did not turn out the way they expected. But your story does not need to end in fracture in the family.
No parent expects disability in their child. It is natural to mourn your child’s “normal” life. But understand that your child is not the thief of their own opportunities. The enemy is a society that says “unexpected,” “different,” “disabled” is incompatible with the things we associate with happiness: financial security, fulfilling relationships, an identity discovered through a process of becoming independent.
An ableist society is harder to fix than a “misbehaving” child, but fighting ableism furthers the goal of us all being able to live authentically.
Before my diagnosis at age 13, I was not able to live authentically. My childhood was not one of “suffering” or anything so dramatic. But I always felt… out-of-step. Why did other people seem to understand hand gestures? How come no one else cried when the fire alarm went off? How did other people make friends so quickly?
It was easier in the beginning, when social obligation said that you needed to invite everyone in your class to your birthday party. But somewhere between second and third grade, that all changed. I started to hear about parties that I wasn’t invited to. I reasoned to myself that it was fine; I didn’t like the person anyway. But it seemed like everyone else had been invited except me. For two years, I was able to justify myself in this way, but, in fourth grade, I knew once and for all that something was different — no, wrong — with me.
It sounds so silly. But that moment was when I saw a popular girl sitting on the heater, when we were lining up to re-enter our classroom after gym. Every adult had said that sitting on the heater was dangerous. It could fall! And this girl was wearing shorts. Didn’t the heat hurt!? So I did the right thing: I told her to get off the heater. I expected to be praised for remembering the rules. I expected to be thanked because surely this person forgot and was sitting on the heater simply because she was tired of standing — I could understand that. But that didn’t happen. Instead, she narrowed her eyes at me and said, “You’re weird.” And she remained sitting on the heater.
I couldn’t understand why she was still on the heater, but what she said? That, I understood. That was why I was excluded. I was “weird.” I heard it right from the horse’s mouth, and there was no evidence to dispute her assessment.
So I internalized it. I was “weird.” And I built walls around the weirdness, around myself: The problem was that she was jealous. They were all jealous. I was better than them — the teachers liked me better, and they were smarter than us, so they knew what they were liking–and my classmates didn’t like that, so they were mean.
Autistic is part of who your child is. It’s a part of who they are before they have words for it, because other words take its place: “annoying,” “childish,” “weird.” They are not a person with autism, just like no one is a person with blackness or a person with womanhood or a person with blindness. Autism is part of their identity. Autism is not a wall you have to collapse to rescue the person inside. The only way for those walls to fall is for ableism to be deconstructed, brick by brick.
Autism is already speaking. No, Autistic people are speaking, and you need to listen to them. As Michael J. Fox says, “The people living with the condition are the experts.” They’re speaking through organizations like the Autistic Self Advocacy Network. They’re speaking on YouTube, they’re speaking on social media — heck, they’re even speaking in political offices. And they’re not just speaking verbally either. Amy Sequenzia is just one non-speaking Autistic advocate.
But no one is born an advocate. Your Autistic child’s first advocate is you. Mourn the neurotypical, easier life that your Autistic child will not have, then celebrate the neurodiverse life that your child does have. Help them understand the world–as arcane as it seems to you, it’s even more confusing to anyone with a disability — and, yes, help them understand that they are Autistic. How would you feel if everyone treated you differently, but you were never told why? Because, trust me, Autistic people know that they are different. In the absence of words to explain that difference, though, guilt takes its place. They may never choose to share that information with others. They may never become a public figure. That’s OK. But that is their identity to share, not your secret to keep from them.
I did not base All Ways off of my experiences with my parents. That is true, except for one thing: They did not tell me about my autism diagnosis either. At first. And, yet, I still hold that anger for that year of space between my diagnosis and me being told. Because I may have been diagnosed between eighth and ninth grade, but I blamed myself from when I was not invited to that birthday party in second grade.
Thank You,
Kelly Coons, Autistic Author
I can be reached on these social media platforms. Kelly Coons on Facebook, Kelly Coons on LinkedIn, and @kellycoonswritesabout____ on Instagram.
If you are interested in All Ways, you can buy it on Amazon here! The eBook is currently on sale for $0.99!
NEW: Sign up for my author newsletter here!
NEW: Join my Discord server here!
