Chapter 16 - AUTISM WAS NEVER THE PROBLEM
Kipling learned the word autistic before he learned multiplication.
At six, he asked:
“Is autism why Grandma doesn’t come?”
“No.”
He looked suspicious.
“She said.”
“She said cruel things about autism. The problem was what she chose to do.”
“Autism bad?”
“No.”
“Hard?”
“Sometimes.”
“Good?”
“Sometimes.”
He thought.
“I like elevators more.”
“Yes.”
That was one of his traits.
Not a moral philosophy.
School accommodations helped:
Visual schedule.
Quiet testing area.
Transition warnings.
Permission for headphones.
Occupational therapy.
Nothing transformed him into a different child.
Good.
He had strengths.
Challenges.
Tantrums sometimes.
Joy often.
Not a saint because he was autistic.
Not tragedy.
Winona had turned his diagnosis into evidence that he did not belong.
We spent years making sure our response did not turn it into evidence that he was extraordinary in some inspirational way either.
He was Kipling.
At eight he told a teacher:
“My grandma was mean about autism, but she’s not allowed to decide what autism is.”
I liked that.
Graham became more comfortable too.
Earlier he had tried to soothe every public reaction.
Now, when Kipling became overwhelmed at a crowded museum, Graham simply took him outside.
No apology tour.
No embarrassment.
He texted me:
We’re sitting by the buses. He’s happy.
Good parenting.
No family vote required.
Then Winona completed her probation.
She requested contact.
Kipling said no.
At nine:
No.
At ten:
“Maybe a letter.”
The first letter was terrible.
I never meant for one difficult birthday to define us.
Kipling stopped reading.
“That’s not sorry.”
“No.”
He put it away.
Two years later another arrived.
Better.
I shoved you because I was angry that you were not behaving the way I wanted, and I blamed your autism because it was easier than admitting I wanted control.
Kipling finished.
Then said:
“Still no.”
May you like
His boundary.
Not mine.
