My Autism, A Legacy

Grandpa’s Garden Now

Autism is surrounded by much controversy as to what causes it. Is it vaccinations, no. Autism predates vaccinations. Is it abuse, no. The best parents in the world can have an Autistic child. Environmental, weak at best. As soon as a family changed environments they wouldn’t have another Autistic child yet often they do. Pollution, no. Autism emerged when pollution was drastically lower than it is now. Then what causes it?

In 1943 Leo Kanner, the first person to openly observe and publish studies on Autism, also noticed the same eccentricities in the parent’s of the child that the Autistic child exhibited. Mr. Leo Kanner correctly thought that the condition was genetic even though he would waiver to and from that belief throughout his lifetime.

When I hear that the person who first recognized and studied Autism originally thought that Autism was a genetically inherited uniqueness, I get chills. I can recall, quite clearly, the two people who raised me from the age of two to the age of eight. My Grandparents. They are the perfect example for the argument that Autism has a strong genetic component. Both of them were loving and introverted, for the most part.

My Grandma was a quiet and compassionate woman. She didn’t have many friends but she did have her routines. Up in the morning, coffee, breakfast, daily obligations. Then she would rock in her rocking chair while watching the same shows she did the day before and the day before that, as she sipped her wine. Her Rocking chair, that was her favorite chair. The only place she sat. My dear Grandmother also walked on her toes, a trait I possess. As an adult knowing the quirks of Autism I now know that those were her stims and I smile. She is part of me.

My Grandmother had additional symptoms such as Sensory Processing Disorder, undiagnosed, but with twenty-twenty hindsight it’s obvious to me. She had an exaggerated startle reflex to loud or unexpected sounds. They clearly gave her anxiety. She had moved out of my Grandfather’s room, or removed him from hers, I’m not sure which, because his snoring kept her awake. (In all fairness he was a champion snorer and you could hear him everywhere!) However, everyone assumed it was because she held a grudge but no one knew what it was, I’m thinking it was just about the snoring. Grandma’s bedroom also had blackout shutters turning her room unnaturally dark, even in the daytime. These shutters were also installed in my room as they probably recognized my sensory processing issues as well. Even if they didn’t know what it was they knew I needed more darkness than other people night to be able to sleep. As a young child I would climb into bed with her. I have faint, but happy, memories of her carrying me down the hall back to my own room. Now I know it was because she couldn’t sleep with a tossing and turning 4 year old in the same bed with her. 

She also had a peculiarity with collecting bread bag tabs, twist ties, and plastic tv dinner trays when they became more common. She claimed it was because she was a child of The Great Depression and they kept everything just in case. But bread bag tan closures? I think it was Autism.

Grandma was also very logical for a woman and applied knowledge to life. There was a time when nonverbal me was fussy because of a tummy ache. So what did she do? Instead of fawning over me and trying to appease my irritability she crouched down to my level and gently put pressure on my stomach and on my back with her hands. This caused the gas that was giving me pain to escape in a rather loud passing. This caused her to smile and asked me if I felt better, I nodded, I did. When I was 17 and “dating” I showed her a picture of the boy I was seeing and referred to him as my intended. (I was really into older works of literature so I’d borrow archaic terms and words from them). Grandma didn’t get “girly” like other women by saying he was cute or asking how we met and wanting every emotional play by play. No, she instead infomed me on the meaning of the term “my intended”. It was only after my telling her I was aware that it meant the person I was going to marry that she became upset because I was too young.

Oh, Grandpa! Grandpa was intelligent. Scientific. Loving. A collector of objects, lover of radios, and a fan of knowledge. A believer that faith and knowledge could exist in harmony. My grandfather loved fishing and everytime he would go he would bring back gravel from the locale he had visited. He would store his collection of gravel in coffee cans in the Garage on a shelf above his work bench. Each one labeled with masking tape and Magic Marker what it was, where it came from, and what beach. All uniform, all organized. 

My Grandpa was also the collector of knowledge. It was he who taught me about the Greek Gods. He had books on everything from fish to mushrooms. I used to look at his books in awe at the array of color that this world has provided for us through flora and fauna. My favorite was the book of fish and pictures of the deep. I was a water baby, loving the sensory control it provided when I was submerged. So I would imagine what it was like down there at the bottom of the ocean. Safe and alone from the world above.

Grandpa had extensive knowledge, no doubt about that, but he had two narrow interests that I can vividly recall. His garden and his radio. He would spend hours on both of them. His garden had everything in it. Tomatoes, squash, eggplant, green beans, corn and more. It was magnificent! He’d spend summer days picking bright green, horned, worms out of the tomato plants. Behind the garden were orange, lemon, and grapefruit trees. A Loquat tree and strawberries also had a place in the yard. He knew everything about gardening and even had made the side yard into a greenhouse complete with a compost bin. My Grandpa loved different vegetables and even would brine his own olives. Perfectly content to be by himself. Like I am.

When he wasn’t gardening you could hear Grandpa on his radio in the garage. Click, click, click with the Morse Code. The crackle of the static. Maybe a beep or two. He would make friends this way. Much like the Autistic community has found connection in chat rooms and on Twitter my Grandfather found connection through the air waves of the 1980’s. I know he had a friend in Russia and a few in Canada. He was of Hispanic descent and loved learning about different cultures and sharing his. Much to my Grandma’s dismay, he also treated me to freshly fried, hot, chicharrones. Fried pork rinds which she thought were disgusting! They were delicious.

To me, in my memories, both of them were clearly on the Spectrum. They both had narrow interests, routines, and stims. They both were perfectly content in solitude. Neither were especially physically affectionate but they knew when to give hugs and when not to. They were incredibly loving and empathetic in a way that I understood even if others didn’t. I saw evidence of Masking (a form of “acting” that Autistic people assume so they fit in with Neurotypical people/society better) in pictures and other relics of family history. Like my Grandma attempting to sell Mary Kay. My Grandfather portraying himself as a ladies man in old home video reels. All of it. Them. They are where I come from. They are my genetic code. They are the people in which my Autism flows from. Autism is my heritage, my legacy and I cherish it because it connects me to them. 


Life at the Corner of Ableism and Sexism

Wasabi Horseradish is not a Pea!

Six or seven years ago I had a little disagreement with my significant other and a familial male of mine. The contested information was that Wasabi is a Pea. Which it is not. Wasabi is a type of horseradish that grows in Japan. Most of the Wasabi in the US is regular horseradish dyed green with food coloring. My SO sided with the other male when the other male doubled down on his statement. I dropped the subject and shut my mouth because that is what I am supposed to do. Right? Don’t question men and look pretty.

As a female assigned female at birth I have learned by trial and error that women aren’t to correct men. If women are right and men are wrong we aren’t to point it out. When men make a mistake because they didn’t listen to the woman’s advice we are to tell them they were right anyway. Men lead, we follow. It’s a tale as old as time. However, when it comes to Autism in the eyes of the world it decreases your credibility despite evidence to the contrary. When you have a vagina, it’s worse.

Many people on the Spectrum have an average to genius IQ including the women. However the way our brains process information and auditory delays lead people to believe our perceived “slowness” is equivalent to having lower intelligence. You include the fact that I’m short, cute and curvy in the mix and we have a cocktail that is disastrous. 

I know things because I have the same hunger for knowledge that men on the spectrum do. I knew the information on Wasabi was wrong because I had read about the rarity of Wasabi that naturally grows along the rivers and streams in Japan. (Fun Fact: Most people in the US have never eaten actual Wasabi!) I’m a Sushi lover and if I love something I will research the everloving heck out of it! But that didn’t matter. Instead of hearing me out I was shut down. This is a pretty normal thing for me to experience. I hate it.

I feel for my Aspie Sister’s and how we have valuable information to share with the World yet we are marginalized by society. First and foremost because we are female. Second because we present information in the common Autistic format. Straightforward and factual. Which then makes us seem like a disagreeable female. Which is heart breaking and it needs to stop. 

While I would like to say I have a revolutionary plan to change the World once and for all, I do not. The best advice for the World is to assume egalitarian ideals across the board. The old adage of not judging a book by it’s cover comes to mind. A pretty face can have an equally intelligent brain. Slowness might not be a sign of lack of intelligence but the work of a mind that has so much information in it that it might take longer to produce an answer. Like a computer with a full memory. The two together can be a deadly cocktail or a wonderful resource. Ultimately it’s not up to women or Autistics to decide. It’s something the World has to embrace. I hope they choose wisely. 

I Am Not “With Autism”

Woman With Hat

With child, with a broom, with her husband, with a hat, with the flu. What do all these imply? Something that is temporary condition, choice, or result of something that has happened to you such as choosing to have a child or being pregnant, picking up a broom, getting married, donning a hat, or contracting a virus. All of them are not permanent options. After all you give birth, you stop using the broom, you may get divorced, you can take off a hat, and recover from the flu. However, I was born Autistic. 

My Neurology is Neurodiverse, I’m Autistic. 


Autism has defined every aspect of my life since my first breath. I was very quiet as a baby and didn’t speak until about four. I was and still am extremely shy. I have to sleep with earplugs, a weighted blanket, two blackout curtains layered, zero ambient light, and Google Home’s rain or storm relaxation sound on to drown out any noise that may bleed through my earplugs. I have a very Sensitive Nervous System and it is tied with my heart, as in it’s an organ I absolutely cannot live without. My Neurology is Neurodiverse, I’m Autistic. 

While we, humans, have an endoskeleton throughout the majority of our body. Our mind or brain, the consciousness that is us, lives inside our skull. Some think that this can be considered a sort of exoskeleton one we are protected by and essentially exist in. In a way that is true. The brain is the headquarters of the entire body’s Neurological System. If I were able to remove my Autism I would be removing the very thing that allows me to live, to be me. I cannot set it down like a broom, nor is it something contracted, or temporary. I will have it until death. 

When we first started to use person first terminology it was to help destigmatize those with AIDS and HIV because having contracted HIV and having AIDS is not a reflection on who they are as a person. HIV/AIDS is a condition, even though currently considered permanent, was something that happened to the person, and was not a choice nor did it make them a victim to be pitied they were people with AIDS. If and, if recent news reports are correct, when we have a cure; when we cure it and remove the virus, the same person remains because it was not part of the person to begin with. I look forward to the day that we have a cure for this acquired affliction. 

Meanwhile my Autistic Neurology is not something I caught nor is it a disease that needs to be cured. It’s who I am. The way I pause for a few seconds before I answer a question and can’t make eye contact so I seem reserved and shy, that’s Autism. Autism is why I need a small chest of sensory items to go to sleep. My Atypical Neurology is why I couldn’t speak at the March For Our Lives, it overwhelmed my nervous system and I went non-verbal. It’s why I crave to stim by chewing hard candy or pin rolling my fingers. You cannot remove my Autism without removing who I am. I am Autistic.