THOUGHTS ON THE SPECTRUM

Sorry, You’ve Got The Wrong Autism

You can’t name all the presidents or do miraculous math? Then what good are you?

by author

My son is an artist. He’s a camouflage artist, a shape shifter.

Mr. Mimic.

• He laughs when others laugh.
• Smiles when they smile.
• He nods and shakes his head in time with all the nods and shakes around him.

Masking, they call it. Blending in.

Only people who strain their eyes to the point of discomfort have seen him.

They cry out “Hi!” and “Hello!” and give a high five, then away they go. Quickly.

My son’s so good at his art, he can turn himself into a prism.

Eye lines strike him — they go through him. The light of eyes hits my son, bends, then flies away to share its many colors elsewhere.

This passage of sight occasionally leaves people with a feeling about the silent, smiling boy:

“He’s so sweet!”

My son is not sweet.

Dogs turned into pacifists by treats and couches are sweet.