It was his shirt that first caught my attention, but I only had to read a few of the words to know what it said. He was staring at something deep into the earth at a point no one around him could see, and he was rocking back and forth slowly. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth.
Stimming. Obviously.
I was waiting for my bag to be checked by the security guard. She stood with the backpack wide open, but continued to look at the woman beside me as they conversed. They discussed Kennywood's procedures for lost children. The helpful security guard directed the concerned mother to pick up a bright yellow bracelet that could have a name and phone number written on it. Going the extra mile, the security guard also explained a little bit about a local program for "sensitive" animals for autistic children.
The mother was a seasoned veteran, but she was still very interested in the security guard's words. Her son was probably 8 or 9 years old. According to his t-shirt, he was autistic, mostly nonverbal, and likely to behave in ways that may not be expected by some people. His shirt explained that he may throw temper tantrums for no reason and that he sometimes doesn't understand how the world is supposed to work. There were a lot of words on the shirt, practically a novel.
The near-novel started with bold type that declared, "I am autistic . . . "
A simple statement.
I'm not entirely sure how I feel about that statement.
On one hand, I completely understand why the mother would want to educate the world. It's not about making excuses, it's about teaching people that sometimes the unexpected is actually the expected. It's about keeping her son safe. It's about helping people understand a little bit of his perspective. It's about doing whatever she can to make a day at an amusement park a little bit more enjoyable for everyone around her.
But it's also a label. How much must it suck to feel like you need to slap a label prominently on a shirt? Shouldn't that little boy be able to go to an amusement park and just have fun like anyone else, free of judgements and strangers' stares? Does he really have to explain himself? Can't he just *be* for a day and not worry about what everyone else thinks?
What if we all wore shirts that explained why we may behave differently and what might set us off?
I admire that mother for accepting her son so fully and for caring so deeply that she made that shirt for him, but I wish we lived in a world where it was completely unnecessary.
And I hope that entire family had as much fun as Alexis did that day.