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2010 SECOND PLACE / NO ENTRY FEE CATEGORY
"The Pot of Gold at the End of the Autistic Spectrum"
By Amber Herrick
It is a common enough thing for writers to chronicle their trials and
tribulations in excruciating detail. The result is frequently what I like to
think of as the “O” Magazine School of Writing—a glamorization of victim-hood.
If I wrote about Asperger’s in that style I would depress myself beyond words.
My brother has Asperger’s, and I write about it. I have to, or we would both go
crazy. In the process, we are both inspired: My brother to view his unique
brain-wiring as something to be proud of, and myself to just keep my hat in the
ring.
It’s an apt analogy: Helping my brother cope with Asperger’s is like going ten
rounds with a heavy weight champ, with me as the canvas. I’ve had to comfort my
brother as he sobbed on the floor, curled up in a fetal position (he was having
a hard time finding a job). Until you’ve lived with the autistic, you don’t know
what “difficult” is. Permanently elevated levels of dopamine in the brain
translate to non-stop intensity, and that can be tiring to a peaceful homebody
like me. If I wanted to write about the dark side of autism I’d have enough to
fill a library, but I just can’t do that.
There is a strong dread among those with high-functioning autism of being a
“burden” to their friends and family, to the very people they most want to help.
My brother is so proud of my writing; how would he feel if I were to write about
him as if he were a millstone dragging me under a tidal wave of troubles?
Instead, I have chosen to write about his astounding abilities (he can take a
computer apart and reassemble it from memory) his greatness of character (he
literally cannot tell a lie) and every triumph and milestone we reach together
(like when at long last he went to work for IBM, fulfilling a childhood dream).
I extend this viewpoint when writing for children, sending out articles that
highlight the fun kids can have if they give autistic kids a chance. And it can
be fun—especially when your new friend programs all the computers in your house
to talk to each other and invites you to play unreleased video games on
unreleased equipment sent for free by companies desperate to get your new friend
to review their product. Intense sensory function, which could be viewed as a
curse, becomes a blessing if you want to know if the meat you bought yesterday
is in danger of spoiling. My brother can taste off flavors with remarkable
accuracy; and what’s more, he can tell me exactly what is happening chemically
in my meat to make it degrade. He is a walking scientific encyclopedia. Forget
Wikipedia; I only need to ask a question like “What exactly is air pressure?”
and I will promptly receive a text-book quality explanation off the top of his
head. I want to write about that.
He once asked me timidly to call his HR Director for him. I had to speak on his
behalf to a woman whose apathy, sharpened to a razor point, made my hands shake
by the time I got off the phone. I wrote about that. People who spend their free
time volunteering can be cruel to my brother, whose disability is invisible to
the eye. I write about that. But mostly I write about the victories and his
amazing qualities, making myself a sort of field naturalist with my sole subject
the odd and wonderful young man who shares my apartment. He is also hilarious,
prone to spouting unexpected statements like “I have always loved energy
efficiency, even as a child!” and smugly announcing to me that his TV “runs on
the noble gases.” And you never know when you’ll need someone to recite the cast
of “The Great Escape” (I’d be stumped after Steve McQueen.). I’m hoping we end
up on a game show.
So I write about him, and he reads my writing, and he feels encouraged and proud
and less like an alien from planet Unwanted, and I feel inspired to carry on.
Because it is hard. But greatness is hard. And as he always reminds me, normal
is boring.
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A Carolina Slade Mystery
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