In His Shoes: Understanding Autism in My Family

When I was little, I was told that a mother loves her children equally. But I realized what a lie that was. After all, if it were true, my mother would not have spent all her time with my youngest brother, Justin, doting upon him, while I received only a tiny fraction of that affection. It didn’t make sense to me, how all my family could devote all their attention to my brother who was just a few years younger than me. Wasn’t I the one who made sure that I was at the top of my class, who never yelled or complained, while my brother squandered away his days at school?

One October afternoon when I got home from school, I witnessed a horrible crime
orchestrated by Justin. My handwritten history essay, which I believed would be the
best-researched piece in the sixth grade, was vandalized by my brother’s scribbles. The essay was due the next day but now I lost all my hope. I felt silent tears down my cheeks as I observed the mess. Then I heard my mother’s footsteps behind me, opening my bedroom door. My back was faced towards her, concealing my red puffy eyes and the vandalized essay.

“Priya,” my mom said, “remember how I told you that Ammachi (grandmother) fell and had surgery? She’s not doing well, so I have to go to India.”

My heart stopped as I heard this news. I had heard whispers of my grandmother’s condition but I hadn’t thought it would get this bad. That’s when I made up my mind.

“Amma (mom), I have to go with you. I wanna be with Ammachi too,” I pleaded.

“No, you have to stay here. The hospital is way too small and crowded. Keep your dad
company.”

“What about Justin?”

“He’ll be coming with me.”

“What!” I cried. I couldn’t believe she had chosen my brother again. Clenching the essay in my hands tightly, I started to protest saying, “How come he always gets to go with you? He’ll only cause trouble for you. Look what he did to my paper.”

With my shaking hands I revealed my essay, the paragraphs I had woven, just for it to be defaced with his scrawls. My mother examined the pages of writing and looked at me sadly.

“I’m so sorry this happened. I’ll make sure Justin doesn’t come into your room again. I’ll stay with you while you rewrite this essay.”

“But you won’t scold Justin? You won’t say anything to him?”

My mom gave me a confused expression, “Mole (daughter), his autism prevents him
from understanding us. We’re working on getting ABA therapists to help him so things like this don’t happen in the future.”

I’ve heard the words Justin and autism being put together in the same sentence for a
while now, but I never thought anything was wrong with him. After all, it didn’t look like anything was wrong with him.

“What do you mean, Amma?”

She explained what autism is and how it affects Justin. She went in and out of doctors’ offices with Justin to get the resources he needed. This explained why she had to spend so much time with him. She explained that sometimes he has this pent-up energy inside of him that he needs to release by drawing, so that is why my essay was scribbled on. Because of all this, he needed to go to India with her so that she could always keep an eye on him.

Standing for several moments, processing all this new information, I became ashamed of my reactions toward my brother and my family. It wasn’t their fault, but they were doing their best. I thought of the leaves outside my window, starting to turn red, and I listened to the kids joyously shrieking in the nearby park, undoubtedly playing tennis for the first time. Change wasn’t awful and wonderful things come with new experiences.

With a smile to my mom, I said, “Okay, you can sit here and I’ll write my essay. After
that, I’m gonna go play with Justin. I’ll let him use my markers so we can draw!”