Believe

Very late on Monday, Charlie and I took a red eye flight back to New Jersey from San Francisco. He set his mouth, clutched my dad’s blue jacket to his chest and handed it back just as we got into the line for the security check. No crying or painful encounters with airport security personnel. Charlie grabbed a plastic bin as I told him and took off his shoes and put them and his backpack in it (I slowed us up, with a bag, a backpack, and a laptop). The plane was slightly delayed—storms on the East Coast—-and I decided that, though Charlie was years beyond the 4-year-old age limit for pre-boarding, that we would get on early, so he’d know, we’re going home, just like I said we would, just believe me…..

After a last-minute request for a drink of water, Charlie was yawning. I helped him put his seat back and then I heard it.

A soft meowing.

I had seen a passenger with a white cat in a carrier in the boarding area and he, and his feline charge, were apparently a few rows behind us. Charlie’s past, sometimes intense, fears of four-footed animals entered my mind and as quickly faded. The meows continued and Charlie, seatbelt fastened and an airplane blanket over his lap, fell soundly asleep.

I needed to sleep too—I had to be in Jersey City at 11am Tuesday morning—but I found myself glancing on and off at the in-flight movie, The Spiderwick Chronicles. I didn’t listen via my headphones; I could tell what the plot was after reading fantasy book after fantasy book after fantasy book (those are only a few titles) in my childhood. Children, often with one parent missing, arrive at mysterious old Victorian sort of house—one, younger, curious child finds a dusty old book with old-fashioned writing and pictures of fantastic beings, elves and goblins and all the rest.

Charlie doesn’t listen too long to these sorts of stories; I’ve been thinking his interests in stories and books are more aligned with those of Jim, a historian who prefers non-fiction, biographies, accounts of actual stuff that actually happened. I tried to close my eyes, but couldn’t resist opening them to see what was going on and watched enough to note there was a magic round glass that the main character learned to look through, and suddenly he could see so much more than the average human: He could see that what appeared to be an empty tree was populated with small winged beings, or that strange monstrous troll-creatures (the mythic, not the spamming, type) were dragging his brother across the grass. He could see a whole other world of beings that were there but unknown to the naked eye, until that eye was taught to see.

Sort of how, once you know what autism is, and how to look for autism, you start to see autistic persons everywhere. In old friends with endless record collections and a collection of their paintings in the basement;  who lived with their mothers until they died, and work a string of odd jobs (caddying, sexton for the local Episcopal church, lounge piano player, airport limo driver). You start to realize, your not so typical little boy is not the “only one” on the block or on the beach. You start to understand why the post office clerk never makes eye contact and almost goes to pieces when you fill out the label wrong; you stop feeling mad, you feel a deep patience. (Just to clarify: I do not mean to in anyway equate autistic persons with the types of beings—elves, fairies—-that are only visible to the eye thanks to the magic glass that the boy in The Spiderwick Chronicles finds.)

Until I knew Charlie’s diagnosis of autism, I did not—could not?—see autism and I often think that prior to Charlie’s diagnosis, my world was shades of gray, and now it’s got every color in their fullest glory. I thought back to those tough moments last Friday morning in the Newark airport, when I knew Charlie was crying and calling for his dad and expressing those deep feelings that it was once thought an autistic child did not have. To some, it looked like Charlie was being bad, annoying, and without disregard for another people. Frankly, I love him all the more for communicating what he felt, and for his love of others, and for how hard he was trying to stop crying and to stay in control of himself. Mr Ojugbuna, the father of an autistic girl, Wendy, says this in the June 16th All Africa.com:

“socially people see [autism] as a stigma, but I don’t. I have had occasions where I go out with her to supermarket, church and social gathering and you notice people looking at you in a particular way, but I don’t care because she is my daughter. I give her all my love and I display it publicly. I want her to know that she is one of the must loved children in the world. I think people react the way they do because they are not enlightened and instead of getting angry, I pity them because it can happen to anybody.”

Mr Ojugbuna continued, Children with autism or Down syndrome are part of the society. They are not mad as people think. Autism is confused with mental illness due to our culture. In the United Kingdom, you see people who are not physically endowed, as you and I, but they excel in art, sports and some vocational skill, because the society accepts them. I think people should be educated about it. Because autistic children and children with Down syndrome can contribute significantly to the society ,if only they are accepted. When we are at home for instance, we help her with her school work by showing her what to do and what behaviour is proper. Of course, like any other child she may go off the track but we help her to do the right things. She is very warm, pleasant and outspoken such that when she is not at home you miss her. I’m not supposed to say this as a parent, but sometimes I miss her more than the other children. When my friends come around everyone asks of Wendy. I think there is something glowing about her. I see her becoming someone great in future,” he said, beaming with smiles. “I place no limitations on her. She has shown enough traits to me and her mum, to make us believe she can get to great heights. For instance, she loves music. If you play any song on radio or on CD and ask who sang it, whether American or Nigerian, she will tell you the name of the artiste. How she knows the name of the artiste and their songs, I don’t know. So if she wants to take that line, I will encourage her all the way. Wendy to me, is one in a million and for me she is a normal child.” From this discussion with Mr Ojugbuna I saw the picture of a father who believes in his child and that was reflected in the behavior of Wendy [my emphasis].

(There’s discussion of the All Africa.com article over at Left Brain/Right Brain, too.)

Charlie slept for the whole transcontinental flight and was not awakened even when a flight attendant issued an urgent message: Would the passenger who brought on the cat wake up immediately, your cat is roaming the aisles. I could hear the cat’s soft purrs until she or he was found and brought back safe, and Charlie’s even breathing.

The plane had left late but landed on time. Charlie got up slowly, then—backpack gripped in his left hand—followed me to the baggage claim area and he hoisted it tightly all the way until Jim drove up in the black car and, with a big smile, Charlie got into the back seat and said “Dad!”

Just like the Unicorn said to Alice:

“‘if you’ll believe in me, I’ll believe in you. Is that a bargain?’”