What I Learned From My Son’s Obsession With ‘Twilight’


My son was 15 when the “Twilight” frenzy reached a peak in our little corner of rural Maine. I was content to let it pass by us. My son is nonverbal and immerses himself in train videos on YouTube, so I assumed he shared my apathy for vampires and pouty school girls.

That’s when it happened. That thing I didn’t see coming.

He needs support with using his electric razor, due to tremors and low tone in his hands and fingers, so I was assisting in shaving off the scruff of the weekend. As he guided my hand, he steered clear of the areas around his ears. I reasoned that his ears were sensitive to the buzz of the razor. I suggested he cover his ears while I trimmed that area, but he took the razor from me and softly said, “No.” It’s the only word he can say clearly, so when he used it, I respectfully followed his wishes and left the fuzzy sideburns. It was strange, but life gets busy and I didn’t think much more about it.

The next day he came out of the bathroom after his shower, his dark, damp hair looking even more wild than usual. My attempt to comb it was met with another soft, “No.” When it was time to go outside for the bus, he quietly refused a hat or to put his hood up. I was concerned. It’s Maine. It’s cold. Maybe he had an ear infection? I made a mental note to ask his ed techs and community support staff if they’d seen signs of an ear infection. If so, I’d schedule an appointment with his pediatrician.

Later that night we went out on an errand. The car was low on gas, so we pulled up to the pumps next to a car with a group of teenage boys in black leather trench coats. Immediately, my son began making his happy noises — smiling and rocking back and forth. He was clearly excited, but why? “Do you know those boys? Do they go to your school?” I asked. As usual, my son’s severe autism and communication disorder prevented him from answering.

By the time I finished filling the gas tank, with the car rocking from his excited movements, I’d managed to sneak a few sideways looks at the boys. What was it about them? Something familiar… and it hit me. The sideburns. The longish, tousled hair. They looked like they’d just been at an audition for the latest “Twilight” movie.

Back in the car, I asked him a more direct question. “Do you want to look like those boys? Do you want sideburns and to have your hair like that?” Big happy sounds erupted! Big, big, BIG! And flapping. I’d solved the mystery. Unfortunately, there was no PECS symbol for it.

We drove directly to Wal-Mart, where I showed him the display rack of gossip magazines, each glossy cover with Robert Pattinson splashed across the front. “This?” I asked, still doubting what I was hearing from my sweet, introverted, train-loving boy. “SAHH!” he said loudly, signing “Yes” vigorously. “Sah” is his version of “Yessah!” He is a Mainer, after all.

Hair cut. Brush-on blond highlights. Hair gel. I never in my wildest dreams would have thought my son, the one with sensory integration challenges, would have tolerated any of it. But he did. Every day. And he was happy with his new, in-style Edward Cullen look.

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Eventually, “Twilight” dwindled away, and one day my son took my hand and guided the electric razor to cut those sideburns. The blond highlights are gone, but the lesson stayed with me.

My son has hopes, dreams and fantasies that I’ve never even considered. I don’t know everything about him, and I never will. He will always be autistic, but first he is a person.

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