On Christmas Eve I went with M to return a fixed computer to a man’s apartment; the guy had autism and softhearted M had done the work for free. The man had all these vinyl albums hung on the walls, and each album had a painting or design on it. In another room he’d constructed 3-D sculptures from popsicle sticks and fuzzy dots and crafty pieces of all kinds of things.
It was all very cool. He had so many books and so much music. Joseph Heller and J. R. R. Tolkien, Mario Puzo and Thomas Hardy. His music was eclectic: Eric Clapton, The Beach Boys, Gordon Lightfoot, the Soundtrack to Grease. And he was very happy to have his computer back in time for Christmas.
He would ask random questions of us, and he could make good conversation. I asked him if he had brothers and sisters, and then he asked me. M and he were both the youngest, they discovered. I asked him about his music and books, and the artwork all over. “Oh, yeah,” he said enthusiastically.
“Were you born on July 30th?” he asked me. “1969,” he added: statement, not question.
I smiled. “No, but close. September 2nd. The 1969 part is right.” Then I asked, “When is your birthday?”
As if thinking weren’t you listening? – he said “July 30th, 1969!”
I liked him.
While we were there his mother called. Then he said his counselor was due to come over soon, so I asked him directly, “are we all done or do you need any more help?”
“Oh, yeah,” he said in the same enthusiastic voice. “We’re all done.”
Good thing I’ve read The Speed of Dark by Elizabeth Moon, because I don’t have a lot of experience with adults who have autism, and that book helped me see things through his eyes. You have to be pretty direct; subtleties and metaphors get lost.
That sounds like a Paul Simon song: Subtleties and Metaphors.
Andy brought Jonah up to my mom’s house on Christmas Day and then kept him for a long time after that. Jonah was very good at my mom’s, even though he paced a lot and wanted sandwich and bath and car ride in rapid succession, caring nothing for the presents. He is indifferent to everything related to Christmas except perhaps the lights and songs.
Definitely the lights and songs.
I am kind of okay, but for a while I couldn’t write because I was re-visiting the necessity, safety and camaraderie of last year mid-December, when everything changed forever. I love those peeps, even if I did only know them (in person) for 8 days.
Thank you to everyone who has written. I just don’t get to my e-mail as much as I want to. I read them but then I can’t reply. I hate bitching about shit, and I’m always bitching about shit. Today my mom and I spent hours sorting through like 15 bags of clothing into donation and keep piles for Jonah. I was agitated and tired.
I wanted to clean today. I cleaned and cleaned and organized and cleaned. There is still too much. I keep thinking of the man who was born on July 30, 1969.
It occurs to me that we are equidistant from Woodstock.
The Never Normal 