I hangout with him three days a week, my boy. I call him my boy, although he doesn't belong to me. My boy is twelve. He is smart. He is kind. He is compassionate. My boy is just like every other boy, except my boy has Autism.

My boy does not see race as an issue. He doesn't even recognize that it exists. My boy comes in the door with a smile on his face. He doesn't know sadness. My boy sings Christmas carols all year long. He doesn't see Christmas as just a season. My boy lays on the floor for three hours at a time just to watch his train go around in the same circle nonstop. He doesn't get tired of the "same old stuff."

I thought my job would be to teach my boy about life and help him live it out. My boy has taught me more than I could ever teach him. My boy has taught me patience. My boy has taught me to eliminate race. My boy has taught me that it's okay to stick with the same things. My boy has taught me that a hug can cure just about anything. My boy has taught me that getting dressed isn't so simple for everyone.

So, my boy is a little different than most. I'm okay with that, and so is he. My boy HAS Autism, but he IS NOT Autism. He is Josh, and he is my boy.