As it is almost Autism Awareness Month, I have recently been reflecting on what the word “autism” means to me. It’s not some distant entity, only seen on television commercials or in the special-needs section of a school cafeteria. No, for me autism is a palpable and real thing, because I have lived with an autistic kid for 16 years.
There is no one poster child for autism, since along the autism spectrum there are varying degrees of developmental delays. Not every autistic child is a closeted genius who can memorize every state in the U.S. and its capitol. When you look at my brother, you would think he is a normal 16-year-old. He has bright green eyes that are always excited about one thing or another, and he has just reached the six-foot-tall mark. He towers over me now, his voice three decibels lower than mine but still filled with the immaturity of a 4-year-old. It is a strange contradiction. It is only when my brother starts to talk about his interests that you realize something is a little off. Shouldn’t 16-year-old boys be interested in cars and girls (or something like that)? Garrett likes to talk about Justin Bieber, Disney movies and food. He will tell anyone he meets that he looks like Justin Bieber, and we call him the “human garbage can” because he will eat anything and everything on his plate.
There is more to my brother than just the word “autism.” That word has often felt like a negativity, a burden. It’s as if society labels my brother, places him into a category and he is forever judged by his behavior. There are times, like when he is having a tantrum in CVS and people give us odd looks, that I wonder what it would be like if Garrett were “normal.” But I appreciate his differences, and he has taught me so much.
He has taught me to laugh and to be completely and wholly myself. Garrett doesn’t care what others think about him—he texts with his index fingers instead of his thumbs, his favorite movie is "Beauty and the Beast" and he likes to sing “What Makes You Beautiful” by One Direction in public. He has made me more independent, because I have learned to take care of someone other than myself. I have come to appreciate his quirks and the quirks of others.
Sometimes having my only sibling be autistic is difficult. I can’t say that everything is sunshine and roses. Just yesterday, Garrett was at a Special Olympic Meet and wouldn’t jump in the water because it was too cold, delaying the event. Everyone in my house was exasperated, as Garrett thundered around the house, asking to go back “and do the race all over again.”
But then there are the good times. Sledding with him in the winter, when as a 15-year-old he got so excited about the snow that he started giggling and twirling around in circles. When I read him "Harry Potter" because he still likes to be read a bedtime story. Whenever I’m home from college and I jump on him—he pretends that he isn’t excited to see me and says “Err, get off me,” but secretly I know that he’s smiling because he’s happy I’m home.
