The Covid-19 pandemic that has swept through America has been quite a confusing experience, filled with a series of mixed emotions. It has been a period of time where I've been able to truly reflect on myself and my life— not because I never had the time, but rather because of everyone else's reactions to total isolation compared to my own. I am fortunate enough to say that my experience with this pandemic has been relatively okay, especially in terms of my education, compared to the experiences of those who I've talked to. For those that I know, their plight has not revolved around the virus going about, but rather the education system and its response to the national disaster. They are crushed under the weight of ginormous assignments with cutthroat deadlines; drowning in stormy seas of unusually terrible grades, circulating disappointment from their families and hardships at home, and merciless teachers who— despite their roles as guides for their students' futures— sneer at them for not being able to “do their jobs.” Their mental health withers by the mere second. Much of these people are mentally disabled. They'd rather be dead than continue their education under these circumstances. Oftentimes I find myself wishing to switch places with them, just to give them a bit of peace. Unlike my disabled peers, my plight comes from coping with the effects of this world's ableism while being in the pandemic. I am autistic. I was unaware of this fact for most of my life, and I did not get an official diagnosis until earlier this school year. I grew up in a neighborhood that had an extremely poor reception of my existence, and so I was ostracized, undermined and bullied by most of my classmates as well as my teachers. With that being said, I had become more comfortable within the walls of my own home rather than the outdoors where many children played. I never understood why the world seemed to be so against me, I had simply thought I was born unlucky. And so the norm for me became sitting alone on my bed, chatting with online friends who shared similar hardships of my own, completing my daily tasks, and then going to sleep. Every day was the same, and yet I never complained despite how obsolete my living situation was. I thought it was better than daring to ever step outside the lines where I was guaranteed safety. I never felt that lonely until the pandemic came around the corner in March, and everyone was on the internet complaining about a living situation they were forced into— one that I had long grown accustomed to since I was a little kid. It wasn't until then that I realized just how much of the lived experience had been taken away from me. Yet I still didn't understand why it was all happening, and I continued to not understand until I got my diagnosis in October. It was later that month that I was given the grace of being able to finally meet some of my online friends, who were either autistic as well or simply just accepting. It felt like I was able to breathe in fresh air for the first time I had been alive. I didn't feel chained to a specific way that I should act. I could move my limbs however I desired, I could speak in a way that was authentic to me, I could rest my eyes wherever was comfortable without being reminded of social “rules.” I was free to stim in any way my mind and body guided me to. I was free. For the first time in my life I felt free, and I mourned heavily that night when I had to go back to my daily life, confined to the bars of my room where I felt like I'd rot away. I was given a smidgen of freedom before being locked away again. My heart continues to yearn for just another taste, under the forced isolation and quarantine from the plaguing virus.

The weight of the world sat squarely on his back, pushing life free from his lungs with every passing second. Yet, even as he felt death's embrace, he showed them respect and kindness. He thanked them for their service and they squeezed the life out of him. That boy's name was Elijah McClain, and the Aurora Police Department murdered him. I learned about his death last year, but he had already been dead a year by then. As I stared at his face on my screen, all I could think was what if that were my son? When my son was born we planned on moving to Colorado, but the plan always got sidetracked. One minute we don't have enough money, the next the military called and then doctors diagnosed my son with Autism and we decided Colorado, the haven we dreamed about, was going to have to wait. What if it didn't? What if we moved when my son was born? We got a delightful house with a backyard where he and I would build a treehouse. I could watch him play and laugh from the window. Listen to him live his life to the fullest. Let's say we took the leap and ran from the racism that is the south for the beauty of the mountains. He would feel safe and we would feel safe. Then one night he'll walk to the store to get something to drink. A neighbor will call the cops because he's a young Black man at night. What if we went, and he lived his life to the fullest only for me to bury him? My son can't speak, he wouldn't be able to calm the police like Elijah. My son panics easily. He wouldn't have been able to understand the events like Elijah. It would terrify my son, like it did Elijah. He wouldn't have made it home like Elijah. What if I moved to feel safe? Only to find out there is no safety for people of my skin tone, wouldn't that be a terrible thing? So, I sit in the racist south. I hold my family close and I wonder what if that were my son?

When I was twenty six I was working as a behavior therapist for children diagnosed with Autism. The objective of my job was to correct mal-adaptie behaviors, increase self regulation and help the children learn how to connect with others socially and emotionally. One day when I was waiting for a pick-up order at a restaurant a handsome guy with long blonde dreadlocks asked me if he could sit down. I noticed he either looked down or out of the corners of his eyes when he spoke to me. He was mono toned and stoic and within minutes of meeting him I knew he had Autism. I had never met an adult with Autism before and so I was immediately intrigued by him and how differently he perceived the world we both lived in. Chronologically he was the same age as me, but at a very different place in his life. He was living alone in a studio apartment and didn't have a job. When I asked him what he did for work he told me he made tie-dye shirts. After a couple follow up questions I learned he had made one tie-dye shirt once. A man had requested he make him one and he never did. After getting to know him more I realized that Andrew had apparently slipped through the cracks at school. He was never identified or diagnosed as having Autism and as a result he never received any therapy or intervention for it and never learned how express his emotions in healthy ways. (Hence, his mother paying for him to live in a studio apartment by himself because she became afraid of him when he got angry). Andrew was the adult version of the elementary school and toddler aged children I was proving behavior therapy for, but with a formal education up to 12th grade. I quickly became determined to help him. My ultimate goal was for him to understand that he had a disorder and to start getting therapy so he could begin to live a happy and healthy life. The first time I tried to introduce a bridge between Andrew and the concept of Autism he immediately resonated with the description I gave of what Autism was, or at least the spectrum that he fell within. From then on though, he would fluctuate between believing he had Autism then not, as if struggling to decide whether or not he believed in the existence of Santa Clause. As the weeks flowed into a month Andrew grew to revere me and I grew to adore him. But unfortunately, the glitter was not all gold. The more time we spent together the more he would randomly become paranoid that I was trying to humiliate him and would verbally lash out at me saying the meanest things he could think of. His impulsive behaviors were not new to me because of my experiences at work, so I was usually able to handle it as I would my child clients. I would basically let him tantrum until he calmed down and then as if on cue, he would quiet down on his own and apologize. One day though, his over the phone tantrum was exceptionally bad and I realized it was no longer safe for me to continue spending time with him. After his apology through crying wails, I explained to him that I wouldn't be able to see him anymore unless he finally sought a therapist. He promised he would, but he never did. For my own safety I had to stay true to my ultimatum and I removed myself from his life. In many ways it resembled a break-up, only it felt more like sending away a violent but sweet and loving child that I ultimately knew I was not equipped to care for. It's been years since I last spoke to Andrew. I don't think about him as much these days, but when I do, I feel the small hole that exists in my heart from where he lived that summer. There is so much more to his psyche than a lot of psychology books would care to believe. I may not have been able to solve the puzzle, but I feel privileged to have been given permission to touch the pieces.

The world is a careful orchestration of facts and logics that lay onto each other to give varied results. Choices are invariably between few options, like video simulations, that pile onto each other to result in vastly different outcomes. The law of multiplication in its grandest application. Successful is he who can decipher these truths of the world to come up with his own. As a woman of logic, it baffles me, thus, how individuals can blatantly turn an eye away from the facts that stare them in the face. Certain advocates for equality like to harp on the premise that all humans are the same, a concept that I never understood. The very aspects that make us human differentiate us. From our genetic code which dictates our physical capacities to our appearance which segregates us on a visual level to our individual psyches that transcends measurable scales, humans are literally programmed to stand out. Which is why it is ignorant to assume that all of us are cut of the same cloth and fit into the same mould. However, an admittance of dissimilarity is not a translation to advocacy for injustice. There is a difference between seeing individuality and condemning others for it. These unwritten divides that segregate us into subgroups within a larger population are not the reason for the animosity that certain individuals feel. These malicious thoughts are viruses concealed in promising packets of healthy cells which cross the barriers within our heads to infect what lies beyond, to decay our minds. These trojan horses of malevolence implant themselves into our psyche without our knowledge, they start an unalterable process of gradual decline of our thoughts and of our perspectives. They turn dissimilar people into ‘them' who are deprived of the treatment and amenities that ‘we' should receive. Early interactions with non-neurotypical individuals normalised the concept to me that certain people have quirks or habits that may not resemble my own. The brain is akin to an ocean, it is uncharted territory that is not completely understood by individuals and hides secrets that are yet to be uncovered. It is unjust to box this super-machine with infinite capability into identical, restrictive containers. The world is filled with unique individuals and while we may have come a long way in the acceptance of individuals with varied physical appearances, we have yet to accept those who different from us neurologically. A moment that sticks with me took place when I was in ninth grade. The toll of the bell had indicated that we were free to go to the cafeteria to grab something to eat. On the food counter was a boy with autism who was working the counter to gain work experience. Unlike my usual, unsocial self I decided to strike up a conversation with him. Once I returned to my unofficially designated seat, I was bombarded with questions about my interaction with him by a friend of mine. This friend expressed her disbelief at my conversation, her primary question was 'why would I want to talk to him?'. This friend was considered social and accepting of all people, she was even working with students with autism for a project, which is why it shocked me to see her react this way, to take this fellow human as an alien creature who we could share no connection with. I came to the conclusion that dissimilarity scares us- the creatures of conformity. We very easily discard those who don't conform to our idea of normalcy. These preconceived notions make people tag non-neurotypical individuals as mentally deranged r dumb. This bubbling cauldron of emotions triggered me to work towards the acceptance of non-neurotypical individuals so that some day the need to ask the question that my friend had does not arise.

I was born in a hospital, I know not where, same as most people. My mother said that I had continuously hit my head on the way out. I don't know if that would have that had an impact on me but I think it might have. Growing up I was average, a bit smarter maybe, with two married parents, younger siblings, and no big 'Origin Story' worthy events. We moved in the third grade and that is where I started noticing that maybe my world was a tad bit off as opposed to others. We were given a test on finding patterns and sequences, and hadn't learned anything like it before. For me it took ten minutes, for the class, forty. Nothing bad, just off because the way I saw the patterns was different. It was about then that I started picking up on my idiosyncrasies. In social interactions I would notice I have trouble picking up on tone, in games I couldn't plan ahead. Touch extremely bothered me and I couldn't be around people for too long before I ‘expire' and have near panic attacks internally. I am almost entirely apathetic to what most people would gain excitement from, while being excited by other things. Even my cadence of speech is different, I say ‘Greetings' and not ‘'Ey what up boi!'. I say, ‘Mother, Father' rather than ‘mom, dad' and am generally more formal in my speech. When I was in late middle and start of high school the words that had meaning but no context came into play, hetero, homo, pan, trans among others. The majority would talk about intimate situations and I would be left confused, why would people make themselves vulnerable and emotionally compromised for a few moments of pleasure. It just sounded pointless and sticky to me. Dating made no sense to me because we all know it wouldn't last. ‘Ace' my friends tell me. ‘Logical' I call myself. Again, nothing bad, for I am Ace and fine with that. However it was different because I know no others with the orientation I have, and didn't even know my view would be a whole separate orientation. It was a few things that didn't affect my life copiously, but it was enough to make me feel inadequate about myself for being different even if I was in the gifted programs, had friends and a passing grade. If I would ever bring up feeling different to my parents, they would pacify me with all the achievements that I had made. They would say, ‘Oh honey how could there be anything wrong with you? You have a job!', and ‘Darling you were in every gifted program, and came up with great solutions to problems there, how is that “wrong”?' I knew something was different with me though, I got into the gifted programs because I saw things differently, and if I wasn't there maybe people would be more suspicious and I would be evaluated for a discrepancy. It was as though everyone was viewing life through one lense, and me another. Like we were looking at the same object but were different distances apart. Even I would start doubting what I know is true simply because I had made it so far into my life without anyone pointing anything out. ‘High Functioning Autistic' the doctors told me, when my parents did get me examined. I asked what that meant and the doctor responded with the apropos statement of, ‘It's like you're looking into a room and you see that the objects as about a ¼ inch off from where others see them. Your sight isn't more or less correct, it's not flawed, it's just ¼ inch off from where everyone else sees things.' It helped a lot to gain that closure, and to know that I am not messed up or wrong. It's just the way my brain chooses to see things is ¼ inch different from how everyone else's brain sees things.

I've finally mastered the art of compartmentalization. I've learned to silence that little voice in the back of my head. That voice that is so full of self doubt, the fear of what's to be and all the regret that comes with it. I can only do what I can do in the here and the now. I'm done looking back. I'm done wallowing in bad choices, could have beens, should have beens and what ifs. I'm also done worrying about the future. Of course dreams may come, but I intend on relishing in today. I will never fail to notice all the wonder of today. I've seen more sunsets than I've yet to see and I will observe each of them as if it's my last. Maybe this sounds morbid, melancholy even, but this frame of mind allows me to appreciate being in the moment. I tend to focus on doing all I can to help my child navigate obstacles her Autism brings. But I ensure every day includes moments of fun and laughter. Of course when you have a child you can't help but tentatively imagine all their tomorrows in your head. You dream about their future. You rarely narrow it down to a specific occupation or educational level necessarily, but you have every intention of providing the support and encouragement to help them achieve their dreams. You attempt to map things out for your child. Then you realize there are some things that probably won't happen. Not every child will develop a skill set to allow for a traditional education. Not every child grows up to be a doctor or lawyer or a cashier for that matter. So you spend your days helping your child embrace their life as best you can. No map or compass, no knowledge of approaching storms. There are plenty of books. Many are too specific to apply or fail to focus how varied the autism spectrum can be. Plenty of unsolicited advice is available also. Sometimes the advice is solid and sometimes it's not applicable or just plain ridiculous. Plenty of bumper sticker philosophy to guide you along as well. Sometimes your head spins because you hear “consistency is the key to success" or "a foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of small minds”. Maybe it's "the definition of insanity is repeating the same behavior and expecting a different outcome"? I might prefer "improvise, adapt and overcome". But the only bumper sticker philosophy I've found to be absolutely true is "it is what it is”. In time you realize all you can do is love your child unconditionally and comfort them and provide for them. There are so many variations when defining the needs of a child. You don't want to under estimate their abilities. You know the next milestone could be coming soon. But while some children are learning fractions and studying world history you're still trying to teach your child to communicate and to cope. You want to teach them to cope with the stressful moments when there is too much going on around them. Sometimes all you can do is ride it out with them. You can't let tomorrow rob you of today. The most important thing to keep in mind is to always bring it back to the moment.

I've finally mastered the art of compartmentalization. I've learned to silence that little voice in the back of my head. That voice that is so full of self doubt, the fear of what's to be and all the regret that comes with it. I can only do what I can do in the here and the now. I'm done looking back. I'm done wallowing in bad choices, could have beens, should have beens and what ifs. I'm also done worrying about the future. Of course dreams may come, but I intend on relishing in today. I will never fail to notice all the wonder of today. I've seen more sunsets than I've yet to see and I will observe each of them as if it's my last. Maybe this sounds morbid, melancholy even, but this frame of mind allows me to appreciate being in the moment. I tend to focus on doing all I can to help my child navigate obstacles her Autism brings. But I ensure every day includes moments of fun and laughter. Of course when you have a child you can't help but tentatively imagine all their tomorrows in your head. You dream about their future. You rarely narrow it down to a specific occupation or educational level necessarily, but you have every intention of providing the support and encouragement to help them achieve their dreams. You attempt to map things out for your child. Then you realize there are some things that probably won't happen. Not every child will develop a skill set to allow for a traditional education. Not every child grows up to be a doctor or lawyer or a cashier for that matter. So you spend your days helping your child embrace their life as best you can. No map or compass, no knowledge of approaching storms. There are plenty of books. Many are too specific to apply or fail to focus how varied the autism spectrum can be. Plenty of unsolicited advice is available also. Sometimes the advice is solid and sometimes it's not applicable or just plain ridiculous. Plenty of bumper sticker philosophy to guide you along as well. Sometimes your head spins because you hear “consistency is the key to success" or "a foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of small minds”. Maybe it's "the definition of insanity is repeating the same behavior and expecting a different outcome"? I might prefer "improvise, adapt and overcome". But the only bumper sticker philosophy I've found to be absolutely true is "it is what it is”. In time you realize all you can do is love your child unconditionally and comfort them and provide for them. There are so many variations when defining the needs of a child. You don't want to under estimate their abilities. You know the next milestone could be coming soon. But while some children are learning fractions and studying world history you're still trying to teach your child to communicate and to cope. You want to teach them to cope with the stressful moments when there is too much going on around them. Sometimes all you can do is ride it out with them. You can't let tomorrow rob you of today. The most important thing to keep in mind is to always bring it back to the moment.