Not everyone understands autism — including first responders. And if an individual on the spectrum is, say, pulled over, it may be difficult for him or her to act in a way society deems appropriate. To prevent any misunderstandings, the Autism Society of Alabama (ASA) has partnered with the Alabama Department of Public Safety to create autism identification cards (below) that people with autism can show first responders if need be.
Since announcing plans for the card (which has not been released yet), hundreds of parents and caretakers have requested one for a loved one, Bama Hagar, ASA’s Police and Program Advisor, told The Mighty in an email. Hager’s 14-year-old son has autism.
“The communication and delayed processing challenges associated with [autism] may be interpreted as noncompliance by an officer, for example,” Hager told The Mighty. “The card, kept near the person’s ID or non driver ID could be presented so a first responder is alerted to the presence of ASD symptomatology.”
Families who wish to apply for an ASD Alabama identification card may email Bama Hager at firstname.lastname@example.org or call the Autism Society of Alabama for information on date of availability.
“This is a win-win for everyone,” Lt. Bart Barta of the Coral Gables Police Department in Coral Gables, Florida, told The University of Miami. “It helps both sides in any given situation with law enforcement and first responders, when people might be stressed.”
You can head here to request a customized card from The Wallet Card Project.
Well, gang, I knew it was coming. My blogging wife finally came up to me and asked, “Will you write?”
Of course I will write. I have thoughts and opinions. Wait a second. I just agreed to write something thousands of folks from all over the world will potentially see. Hmm… issues? Nah. I’m going for it.
My line of work involves way too much windshield time. Alone with my thoughts, gas station breakfast and a lukewarm cup of coffee. This alone time is the key to me being there for my wife, Nikki. I’m doing my best to be the guy she needs me to be. Because here’s the deal — she’s not normal. Those of you reading this who just giggled out loud must know her. Those of you reading this who thought that was a strange thing to say about my wife need to meet and know my Nikki.
The simple deal is that my Nikki is my perfect. From the day I met her, I knew it. When I say she’s not normal, it’s actually meant to compliment her occasionally insane levels of compassion and caring. She doesn’t yell — ever. This is not normal and completely awesome at the same time. God’s plan? I believe He thought the world needs this combination of Nikki and our son, Tucker. He needs people who will power through the tears of struggle and dance their butts off every chance they get. They will live it. They will learn it. They will grow from it. Nikki often shares our story, and others will benefit from it. Tuck can’t have a normal mom so God gave him Nikki. She’s our angel.
We don’t believe in normal at our house. Honestly, it took me awhile to buy in to it, but the underlying truth is that everyone has their own story and labels suck. Therefore, you be you.
I know I’m supposed to be writing about my thoughts and feelings regarding autism, the spectrum, Tucker and my relationships with all those involved, but to get to that you’ve got to understand where I’m coming from. I came in late to the party. Nikki and I met and married after we had kids from previous marriages.
I wasn’t around for the initial early childhood trials and tribulations Nikki and Tucker lived through. I’d heard of autism but never had any direct interaction with kids or parents coping with it. I knew there was a spectrum but had no idea how stinkin’ big it was or what it all entailed.
However, in the beginning, I knew a couple things for fact.
I was head over heels in love with this woman.
This was a package deal.
I knew I’d better get dialed into this autism thing. She told me all about upside-down TV watching in the reflection of the window glass. She told me about heavy blankets. She told me about brushing his body. She told me about bumps and bruises. She told me about tags. She told me about socks. She told me about grounding and hugging. She told me about huge poop. She told me about all kinds of crazy business, and then I met Tucker and had about a billion questions. This is when I first had the spectrum explained to me in detail.
This is also when I first came to understand the incredible challenge facing everyone touched by autism.
This is also when I learned that autism is not something you cure but rather something you cope with.
Tuck is over on the high-functioning end of the spectrum, which means to the casual observer, he’s a naughty kid. Can’t sit still. Too loud at the wrong times. Obstinate. Guess what? Everybody has a story.
The old me would have thought the kid is a total sh**head.
Thanks to my guy, I now try to emulate my lovely wife’s goodness and leave my judgy-mcpudgy pants in the closet.
Every day I read my “autism” Google Alerts and hear about the troubling stories going on in our community. Between teachers who allegedly lock their students in cages to try to control them, to other teachers who allegedly show up hungover to school where they can get away with it because they have only nonverbal students, it’s clear to me that we need to do a better job of weeding out teachers who have no excuse being in our loved ones’ schools (it also takes attention away from the amazing teachers out there).
And then there’s you. The teacher who told a student that only white children could have autism so “you don’t have to worry.” You may have thought to yourself, “What was the harm?” No other adult was around when you said it.
However, I was there. I was 26 and working at an after school program. And I heard you.
For the longest time, I wanted to say nothing — to let it go like I misheard the conversation you had with the boy completely. Truth be told, I’m not sure what your intentions were, but what I want to tell you today, if you ever read this message is this:
Today, African-American and Hispanic children are diagnosed far later than Caucasian children, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. Still, I continue to hear the stereotype that autism is a “white person disorder.” As we continue to break barriers in our community, I hope this is one we can break as well. I want you to understand that in our society, so many students are falling through the cracks because of a lack of a proper diagnosis, and saying things like this will not help our community moving forward.
So, the next time you think of possibly stereotyping autism in this way I hope you can think of the person instead of their race. Could autism be more prevalent in white children than others? Absolutely. However, take a minute to think about our community. Take a minute to think about the autism awareness we’re building right now. Don’t let this ignorance lead another to think the same way. Today, I know children with autism who are Caucasian, African-American, Asian, Hispanic, etc. With 1 in 68 children affected by autism, it hits all of us in someway.
Even if you were trying to make this student feel better, you also did a huge injustice to a community that, more than ever, wants to be accepted for who they are as individuals. Trying to scapegoat a tired stereotype to comfort the needs of a student shows why we need to always be acknowledging autism as a difference, not a deficiency.
I hope the next time a conversation like this comes up with a student, you can instead encourage them to learn the signs of autism and help them understand how wide the spectrum of actually is. We need people today to see autism as what it is, which is simply…
“People with autism should eat more strawberries.”
“Too much automotive exhaust is a leading cause of autism.”
“Chemicals found on non-stick cookware may trigger autism.”
The one about maternal bonding is sort of painful for me. The truth is, I did have a hard time bonding with infant Jack. The little guy shrieked and whined and cried for a solid year. He started sleeping through the night at 6 weeks and stopped at 3 months.
I was exhausted, and my husband, Joe, and I were fighting constantly — bickering and arguing and long screaming matches. For the first time, I could feel my marriage slipping away from me like sand through my fingers.
And my first child, Joey— sweet, uncomplicated, good-natured Joey — was a year old at the time. His easy nature only highlighted his new brother’s fussiness.
But I’m certain there is no one on Earth more bonded to this boy now, and guess what? He still has autism.
I am happy to announce that I do know what caused Jack’s autism, and without further ado, I’d like to tell you.
Wait for it.
It’s kind of a big deal.
Drum roll, please.
Jack has autism because, as his 5-year old brother Henry says, he was “bornd-ed” with it.
Yes, I believe autism is a genetic condition. I believe that somehow Joe’s DNA mixed up with my DNA, and together we had a child who thinks Wednesday is orange. Perhaps his unique genetic coding makes him more sensitive to things in our environment like lead and mercury and plastic.
I don’t know about the strawberry thing though.
(For years I blamed Joe’s side of the family for the autism gene. But a few years ago I went to a funeral for someone on my side of the family, and I looked around the room and was all like, hmm.)
I was in a coffee shop last week, and a woman came up and introduced herself to me. She said her daughter, Lily, is in Jack’s fifth grade class. I nodded and smiled, took my cup of coffee — OK, OK, and my cupcake —from the counter and turned to leave.
“Wait,” she touched my arm. “I just wanted to tell you something. Lily told me that a boy called Jack ‘weird’ the other day in class.”
I cringed. “Oh, well, yes. That happens.”
“Lily said she told the boy that Jack isn’t weird. She told him he’s exactly the way he’s supposed to be.”
You can see my dilemma. If I start running around declaring autism an epidemic and screeching about how we need to find out where it’s coming from and who started it and how to cure it, well, that sort of contradicts the whole message of acceptance and tolerance and open-mindedness.
This fragile glass house we’ve been working so hard to build over the past decade will explode into a thousand tiny pieces.
But on the other hand, it sort of is an epidemic. Other families are going to have babies and maybe they would like to have some idea of how to prevent this tricky spectrum disorder from striking. My own children will have their children, and if autism is indeed caused by automotive exhaust, it would be good to know so we could all buy electric cars.
At the same time, I don’t want to focus so much on the “what” and “when” and “where” and “how” that I forget about the “who.”
Because I don’t care where it came from.
But I am kind of curious.
It doesn’t matter to me why Jack has autism.
But it might be good information to have.
There’s nothing wrong with him.
Maybe there’s a little something wrong with him because he just spent the last 45 minutes talking about all the different kinds of gum that Wal-Mart sells.
I wouldn’t change a thing.
I might change a few things.
I celebrate autism and all of its spectacular wonder.
I hate autism because it makes my son talk about gum and Wal-Mart so much.
He is broken.
He is whole.
Autism is no one’s fault.
Maybe I should stop using Tupperware and make him eat strawberries even though he hates them and re-paint the house to make sure there’s no lead on the walls or the windowsills.
Maybe I should throw away our frying pan.
Maybe I should have loved him harder, deeper, more when he was a tiny swaddled baby squirming in my arms.
Maybe this is my fault.
As you can see, my feelings about Jack’s autism diagnosis are as complicated as a prism with a thousand colors and angles and light. Some days, my doubts are soft whispers within my heart, other times it’s as though someone is shouting in my ear.
I am not a scientist. I am not smart enough for that. But I am a mother. And although I am not really smart enough for that either, I do know autism from that angle. I know the rigidity and the obsessiveness and the rage over having an aide in school. I know the disappointment and the fear. I know the quiet longing that comes with being different or weird, because I see it every single day.
When you live with someone who has autism, you say the phrase for now a lot.
So, for now, I’m going to believe Jack’s autism is because of DNA and RNA and heredity.
For now, I will try to add broad splashes of green and blue and purple and orange to science’s black and white brush strokes. Together, we will fill in autism’s canvas until a clearer picture comes forward.
I don’t know exactly what that picture looks like yet, but I like to imagine it’s a utopia of sorts — the perfect intersection of science and people. There are strawberries and puppies and lots of peppermint gum in Wal-Mart (the kind in the blue container).
There are tall, blond girls named Lily and boys with glasses named Jack.
And if you look hard enough, you can see a glass house in the distance — almost on the horizon. It glints and sparkles in the sunlight, and it is breathtaking.
If you look closer, you will see a sentence etched into the front door. This one sentence — this collection of eight words — well, they are very, very big.
They are a shored wall against a flood of uncertainty.
They are a million bright stars in an otherwise long, dark night.
They are peace and forgiveness, power and pride. They are everlasting absolution.
The first time I heard them, I was in a coffee shop buying a cupcake.
My first job in disability support was as a physical education teacher for teenage boys with autism. The program was run at a prestigious private school, and we were given access to the school’s private swimming pool. This was always at the end of our fitness sessions and most of the parents would come into the pool area to watch before picking their children up.
This always made me nervous; I was new to this kind of work, and I was always a little on edge having parents watch me with their children. One day I walked the boys over to the change rooms before realizing I’d left one of their bags on the other side of the pool. I asked them to wait for me in the change rooms while I went to get it.
When I came back I saw one of my students casually chatting to an all girls swimming squad — completely naked! I sprinted over and ushered him back into the change rooms as quickly as I could. I felt terrible, realizing I’d let him down and caused an extremely embarrassing moment for him, as well as his father, who was watching on.
I was relieved when my student brushed it off as a simple mistake, but when I walked him back to his dad, my heart sank. He was holding his head in his hands and crying; I could see his whole body shaking. I began apologizing profusely. But suddenly, I realized he wasn’t crying. He was laughing.
He looked at his son and continued to laugh, shaking his head with a smile. He grinned at my panicked face and told me this kind of thing was a fairly common occurrence for them and not to worry about it.
I’m sure part of his amusement was derived from watching my frantic reaction, but the thing that stuck with me was the fact that he’d fully accepted this kind of thing as an honest mistake, which then allowed his son to do likewise, preventing any real embarrassment.
I’ve continued working in various disability support jobs over the past few years, and I have always tried to remember it’s not my job to make my clients behave in a way that will make others comfortable but to teach others how to react in a way that will make my clients comfortable. Just like that dad taught me.
The Mighty is asking its readers the following: Describe the moment a stranger — or someone you don’t know very well — showed you or a loved one incredible love. No gesture is too small! If you’d like to participate, please send a blog post to [email protected] Please include a photo for the piece, a photo of yourself and 1-2 sentence bio.
We’re quickly approaching the one-year anniversary of my son’s autism diagnosis. This has been a busy year filled with change and learning. I think that out of our little family, I may have been the one who changed and learned the most. Some of these lesson have been painful. I want to share some of it with you. Hopefully you can learn from my mistakes. Or at least find comfort knowing that you aren’t alone. Because you need to…
1. Be kind to yourself
Yes, I did think at a year old that my son might be autistic. Instead, he was almost 6 when he was diagnosed, making him ineligible for all of the early childhood interventions. I have felt way too much guilt over it. I have had to let it go. The only thing the guilt was doing was sapping my much-needed energy from the here and now. I did the best I could with what I knew. That, my friends, is the only thing that we can do.
This leads us to…
2. Listen to your gut
I can’t stress this enough. I’ve learned this the hard way. If you feel these’s something up with your child, then push for an evaluation. The worst case is that you can be wrong. Best case is that you are saving everyone from unnecessary misery. You bypass number one. It’s a win/win. There will be times that you will be the unpopular voice. Everyone may doubt you. We as the parent some times pick up on stuff that no one else may see. The last piece that led me to seek an evaluation for my son was another blogger’s journey. I found my self saying far too often, “Wow her daughter is just like my son, and she is autistic.”
3. You are your child’s best advocate
If you see your child struggling, speak up. If you see a big change in behavior, find out why. Don’t be afraid to ask questions. They need you to. Many of our children have a hard time communicating with words. You have to become a professional at understanding their form of communication. Verbal and nonverbal. I always think of Grover from Sesame Street: ” I will unleash my powers of observation!” Be quiet and watch. They will tell you what is wrong even if it isn’t with words.
4.You are not alone
One wonderful thing about the internet is that you’re able to connect to a whole world of people who have been there, done that. No judgment, no questions, just love and acceptance. If you look and are patient, you will find your tribe. I had spent six years of not knowing why. I was doing everything right. Why was my son so different? Why was our family so different? It turned out we/he isn’t/weren’t; I was just looking in the wrong place.
5.The Golden Rule is not for the weak
Treating others the way that you want to be treated includes folks with a different opinion. That includes on the internet. Yes, you have arrived at your opinion through research and careful thought. That doesn’t mean that people with opposing views haven’t gone through the same means to form their opinion. I am not saying there aren’t absolute truths. What I am saying is that the other person deserves respect, just like you. Walk away if necessary. If you don’t want people using hurtful words towards you, then don’t use hurtful words towards others.
This is a big one, so hear me out…
6. Autism is not the worst that could happen
My initial response to my son’s diagnoses was, What can I do to fix him? After spending time reading the writings of adults with autism and families living with autism, my paradigm has shifted. I realized he is who he is and it is OK. He isn’t broken. He just needed new ways to navigate the world around him. I am always telling my children that everyone is different, and that it is good. I want to be clear. If your child needs speech therapy, get them into speech therapy. If they need help to learn how to deal with sensory overload, then get them occupational therapy. Yes, you should help them be the best them they can be. Just like you would do with any child. Autism, however, is not an affliction.
Yesterday I was told how much my son’s classmate loves my son. I was told it’s because my son is always kind to him. Of all of his accomplishments, I am the most proud of the kindness and love in his heart. When I was pregnant with my son, my husband and I used to talk. We decided that out of all of our hopes and dreams for him, there were two supreme things. He would always know we love him unconditionally and he would be able to love others. I feel like in its own way, things have gone full circle. How can that apply to you?
7. No matter the path, the goal is still the same
You may have just been told your child is autistic. Maybe you are a year in, like me. Or you may be the seasoned, warrior mom who is smiling at my naivety. Whoever you are and where ever you are on your journey, my goals,(yours, ours) as a mom don’t change with a diagnosis. I still want the same things for my son. The path has just changed.