The Difficult Conversation

by Kiara Chong Bayview Glen School

I glanced at the backseat to find my six year old son staring intently out the window. Not ever one for many words, he seemed eerily silent. Something was definitely wrong.

“How was school today? Was it ok?” I asked.

“I guess,” he replied as he stared far off into the vacant distance. He seemed farther adrift in his thoughts than usual. I watched him carefully as he began his customary twirling of the lock of hair by his right ear. Round and round it went in miniature swirls around his index finger.

“Do you have any homework Mark?” I asked as we walked into the house.

“I guess,” he replied monotonously.

“Well, if you get it done, you can play some Xbox before dinner. How’s that sound?” I said trying to drum up some enthusiasm.

“Um, okay…” he replied softly as he disappeared into his room while twirling and twirling his lock of hair.

“Perhaps he’s just tired,” I hoped to myself as I prepared dinner.

It was one of Erica’s late work days and I was left to prepare dinner. Attempting to stay positive, I told myself he would be better once he had some food.

“It’s dinner time!” I called out as I set the plates onto the table.

Mark came down the stairs, washed his hands and took his usual spot at the table. I gave him a smile before turning around to wash my hands.

“Bon appetit,” I said cheerfully as I dried my hands and took a seat.

“Thanks Dad,” he replied.

We ate in silence for a while. I watched closely as he twirled strands of pasta around his fork, mesmerized by the patterns he created.

“Hey Dad?” he asked, breaking the silence.

“Uh huh?” I replied.

“Am I autistic?” he asked abruptly.

His words sliced viciously through the air, destroying in mere seconds the fragile bubble we had spent years creating. I could hardly breathe.

“That’s an interesting question. Why do you ask?” I replied as carefully and calmly as I could.

“I heard some kids in class say that I am. They made fun of me. I don’t even know what that means,” he said looking down at his plate while he created small swirls of pasta. “Some of them even called me a weirdo. I know what THAT means.”

“He’s too young for this,” I thought in a silent panic. I had known this day would come. I just never imagined it would come this soon.

“Just ignore them, Mark. If anyone makes you feel uncomfortable you should talk to the teacher or have me talk to the teacher,” I said as I masked my anger and pain with calmness.

“Yeah I know that, but why do they keep calling me autistic? What does that even mean?” he asked, now avoiding my gaze. “It’s something bad…isn’t it?”

“Well Mark, when someone has autism it means that he’s a bit different – he’s special. People with autism have brains that are wired in special ways. It isn’t bad. It’s just different,” I replied nonchalantly, trying my best to sound casual.

“So am I?”

I could feel my throat tightening into a knot as I said, “Special and different? Of course you are,” I smiled.

“Special, different and autistic,” he said in a near whisper. “I don’t want to be. I don’t. Is there something wrong with me Dad?” he spoke quietly, sounding fearful of my answer.

“Of course not Mark, you -“

“Then I don’t get it!” he said, tears pouring down his cheeks as he dropped his fork onto his plate.

I walked over to him and hugged him, struggling to fight back my own tears. I felt certain that my heart was breaking into a million sharp pieces. I wrapped my arms around him tightly.

“Mark. Mom and I love you just the way you are.”

“Why do the kids pick on me?” he asked in sad confusion. “Why? It isn’t fair.”

“You’re right. It isn’t fair.”

“Aren’t we all special? You and mom always say that everyone is special – special in their own way. So why are the kids so mean to me? We’re all different because we’re different people, right?” he argued in frustration.

“Mark, sometimes people don’t understand that we should appreciate our differences – the things that make each and every one of us special. There’s a saying that some people march to the beat of a different drummer. While most people march to a similar drum beat, some people like you march to a completely different and special beat. Some people just don’t realize this.”

After a few of minutes of silence, he began to wipe away his tears.

“…I have my own drummer?” he questioned. He looked unconvinced.

“Yeah,” I stammered. “Your own unique drummer.”

“I like having my own drummer,” he said looking into the distance.

“And that’s what’s most important Mark.”

“Actually,” he began.

I held my breath anxiously, waiting for him to continue.

“I don’t want my own drummer. I want to be the drummer.”

I exhaled with relief and smiled. “Mark, I know you’ll be an amazing drummer.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna make my own special drum beat,” he beamed.