By Deanna Niles McConnell

Dear Auntie,

I love you. Even if I can't always vocalize those words or vocalize any words, I do. There are so many ways I can show you that. I need you to pay attention to my body and to use all your senses to hear me. My hands, my legs, my torso, my actions. They are all are speaking. Learn the language of my body.

Read about me. Not fear-based, "cure"-based rhetoric or stereotypes, or things written by those who claim to represent me without talking to me, but the me of the future. Read the words of autistic adults—the Autistic Self-Advocacy Network, the Loud Hands Project (share the book with my family!), the Autism Women's Network—and see the joy and pride of autism. Read about why they say "autistic" instead of "has autism" because autism is a part of their identity, not a problem to be solved that is separate from the person. See how their neurology shapes how they think and feel, and know that the world is better for having diverse neurologies in the course of history and invention.

Embrace my parents. Know that they are being inundated with information but that they also need to be reading the words of autistic people because it will fill them with hope and pride. If they read nothing else, tell them they need to read "Quiet Hands" before their next school meeting. Know that they are living with so much passion and intensity, and do whatever practical things you can to make their self-care possible. Encourage them to use whatever platform they have to change the conversation from tragedy-based "awareness" to hope-filled "acceptance." And my parents are probably really tired from the daily logistics of family life, Auntie—point out things about me to celebrate.

Don't be sad for our family. Be sad about ableism: the attitudes of those who will infantilize me, diminish me, or patronize me by saying that if I were only "cured" I could live a happy life or that I just need to "get over" certain things. Tell them my truth. Tell people that if I am nonverbal, alternative communication can be facilitated. Tell them that if I experience issues like stomach problems or epilepsy, those can and should be treated but that my neurology itself is not a disease. Help them to understand that there are possibilities in the world that they cannot even imagine when they accept and include difference.

Be angry at people when they use hateful, dismissive words like "crazy" or "retarded." Tell them you love me and that you would not change me. Ask them to talk to me—not around me—or other autistic people if they want to know more. There are a lot of people out there who don't understand that. And of course, there are people who don't want to understand. Because of them, this is the most important thing you can do for me:

Be safe for me.

What is a safe Auntie? Safe never judges, and it doesn't talk about me like I'm not in the room. Safe understands that I need to “stim” (i.e., flap or spin or move in a way soothing to me and not harmful to you), and lets me. Safe always assumes that I am competent and not in need of babying. Safe is a gracious host, with a basket of fidget toys offered instead of mints on the pillow. Safe doesn't force me to make eye contact or keep asking for hugs I don't want to give. Safe knows that I do my best but that sometimes I reach my limit and that is not the same as "misbehaving." Safe takes time to let me type or think of a verbal response before asking the next question, and truly listens when I answer.

Most of all, a safe Auntie knows that I work hard, and doesn’t ask more of me. Safe accepts me without condition, finds a way to include me that's comfortable for me, and celebrates me the way I am.

Safe knows I am full of love and of joy. Thank you for being my safe Auntie.

Love,
Your favorite autistic kid

Published: April 23, 2013