More Than a Diagnosis: Lessons From My Autistic Neighbor

Author: Tara Janetzke

When I was seven years old, I moved into a house down the street from an eight-year-old autistic boy and his family. This began my first perception of what “autistic” was. I observed him walking around the neighborhood frequently, smiling and greeting everyone with a “Hi [insert name] and a smile. He attempted to give my sister brand-new toys he had just acquired on more than one occasion—and not just any toys. I’m talking about American Girl Dolls and Barbie Dolls still in their packaging. In elementary school, he had a birthday party and invited my family; sadly, we were out of town that weekend, but when we pulled into our driveway the following Sunday, we were greeted with two pieces of birthday cake on our porch. Unfortunately, the ants got to them before we could, but the gesture was received warmly, nonetheless. I noticed the differences between him and myself, of course. He talked a little different than me. He acted a little younger than I did, even though we were the same age. He wore shorts outdoors in the winter, and when asked how he wasn’t freezing, he would respond with “I’m cold blooded! I don’t get cold.” Even though I noticed these differences, I accepted him for who he was and thought nothing more about the matter.

It wasn’t until high school that I realized that not everyone was accepting of these differences. He and I were in the same graduating class, and our junior year we shared an aerobics class. One day, we were all walking laps in the gym. I was walking and talking with two other girls when my neighbor came up behind us. Just as I had seen him do a million times before, he greeted each of us one at a time. First me, then the girl to the left of me, and then the girl to the left of her. While the first two of us to be greeted responded warmly, the last girl did not respond at all. Not only did she not return the greeting, but she didn’t even look in his direction. Assuming she just didn’t hear him, I told her he had said hi. She responded with “I know. He’s always following me around and trying to talk to me. I’m ignoring him.”

With that statement, I suddenly realized that there are individuals in this world who will see someone who is even minutely different from the “norm” and immediately assign labels to them that have no veracity. Would this girl have considered his walking laps in gym class to be his “following her” if he didn’t show signs of having autism? Would she have thought negatively about his attempts to engage in conversation with her if he were a neurotypical boy? My neighbor was and still is a kind, generous, and loving individual. I still see him taking walks on occasion, and he still greets me by name and with a smile.

I tell this story not only to point out how difficult it can (and often is) for autistic people to simply exist in the world, but also to expose how society often sees any sign of cognitive or developmental delay as a reason for labelling someone as a social pariah. Autism isn’t bad. It doesn’t mean someone is going to hurt you, or that they’re weird, or that they aren’t just as worthy of love and attention as anyone else. Autism is simply a word we use to provide an explanation for why someone might navigate the world in a different way. Why is it that navigating the world in an out-of-the-box way is seen as a lack of intelligence, but inventing something out-of-the-box is seen as a show of intelligence? Of course, this is a hypothetical question, as I know the answer. The answer is senseless stereotyping. It comes from the notion that autism is all of a person rather than a part of a person. If we are more than our gender, race, profession, religion, etc., then let autistic people be more than their autism. Because when we accept the autistic people around us for who they are rather than who we think they are based on their diagnosis, then we give them the freedom to navigate the world without the judgements they’re so often the subjects of. In other words, we give them the freedom to do what neurotypical people have always been awarded the privilege of doing.

Tara Janetzke, RBT

August 2024