PERSONAL NARRATIVE huge words and talks about astrophysics and politics . The boy who never does what he ’ s told because he thinks he knows a better way . Who plays Lego and Minecraft and seems to be oblivious to their more grown-up interests . He ’ s 11 going on nine while his classmates seem to be quickly approaching 14 .
He ’ s alone a lot .
And then , a few years ago he made a friend . He liked Minecraft , too , he told me . They played video games together , had Nerf wars in the woods , talked about the animals they each had . It seemed like a good fit . At first . But this new kid had the color of someone who hadn ’ t been outside in a long time . His skin was like yellowed paper , fragile , and dirty . It made me sad . I wanted to give him a bath and take him to the beach .
After a while , little things crept up . He never took his shoes off unless I made him . When he spent the night , he never brought pajamas and next-day clothes and a toothbrush — even when the sleepover was planned . He always smelled a little like mildew and dust , and he never asked for things . Instead , he ’ d make statements : I ’ m hungry . I ’ m bored . I don ’ t want to play anymore .
I stopped feeling so sad for him .
His family lived at the end of a meandering mountain road which was overgrown and unpaved . There were no utilities out there . A satellite connected them to the rest of the world — sometimes . Their water came from a well . It might have been quaint if the property hadn ’ t also been littered with machine parts and broken vehicles , littered with bullet holes . There were five miles between their property and their neighbor ’ s . I know . I counted .
I took the boys to the science center once . Later , after seeing where he lived , I wanted to show him the bigger world . We saw a show at the planetarium . My son was so excited , but his friend didn ’ t care . He didn ’ t even look up . He just sat there picking his nose and eating it . Slowly . Methodically . There was something deeply disturbing about the blank look on his face . About the way he licked his finger . He was 10 .
I decided I didn ’ t like him .
I may have actually hated him . I never imagined myself capable of hating a kid . But I did . He was weird . Rude . He smelled , and his dirty shoes on my carpet made me crazy , and his parents were also weird and awkward , and I began to form this idea in my head of the kind of home they had . Of course , for all I knew , they felt the same way about us . I ’ m a realist . I know we may not be top pick either , probably not even middle . But there was something else . Something beyond just weird . They made me uncomfortable . They set off alarms inside me .
Sometime around the end of fifth grade , I ran into the boy ’ s mom in the grocery store parking lot . I don ’ t think she and I had ever really spoken . Maybe it was the place I parked . Or the way I loaded the groceries . Whatever the reason , she was compelled to stop . To speak . To share with me a story I have never been able to shake .
Two men had robbed her recently , she told me . Right where I stood . They stole her purse . She used the term conceal and carry . And permit . Hers . Not theirs . Conceal , it turned out , was her bag . And carry was a handgun . She never left home without it , she said , and “ felt naked now that it was gone .” She laughed here as if it were a joke . As if having a gun helped everyone to feel clothed . She went on to complain about filing a police report . Expressed annoyance at their blame . Putting a gun into the hands of criminals wasn ’ t her fault , she said .
In my mind , I tallied all the times my son may have been within reach of a gun . How many times had hers ? I wondered how many other guns they had on that property . How many times had the kids almost stumbled into one ? How many times did they not have to stumble at all ? I began counting the bullet holes in all the rusted metal in my memories .
The alarm bells sounded a little louder .
I decided my son was no longer allowed to be friends with the kid . That was it . They were dangerous . And not the “ kind of people we wanted in our lives .” But then , how would I explain to my son that his one friend in the whole world was now off limits ? These kids were caught in the middle of two conflicting ideologies . It wasn ’ t fair .
But what was fair ?
Was I expected to abandon my convictions about guns and gun culture so that my son could have a friend ? Was that friendship worth the risk to his life ? Whose beliefs trumped whose ? It felt disproportionally weighted to their side . After all , a home without a gun poses no risk to their ideas about rights and
Autism Parenting Magazine | Issue 72 | 47