Big Brother: The Reality Of People With Autism- Chp 1

~CHAPTER 1- BIG BROTHER~1

Davey Eugene Hendricks. Born September 15, 1983. He has wavy brown hair, blue eyes, long, curled eyelashes, tan skin, tall. He graduated from high school a few years ago, a couple years earlier than expected. Plus, he skipped a grade when he was younger. He’s a smart guy.  He likes video games, surfing the Internet, basketball, watching movies, going shopping, and working. He’s my cool older brother. He happens to be autistic. 2

My mom had him when she was seventeen-years-old, my father was twenty-one. They’d been married for a year. At fifteen, I can barely manage my own life and my pets, I can’t even fathom the idea of giving birth and raising a child. Now would be the time when I should say, “especially a challenging autistic child,” but I’m not going to. All children are challenging, some more so than others, and who’s to decide what makes a child more challenging than another? Are ADD kids less difficult than ADHD children? Are ‘normal’ kids easier to raise than kids in wheelchairs? Are regular kids in wheelchairs easier to take care of than paraplegic children? Are paraplegic kids as difficult to take care of as autistic children? Who knows? 3

What’s difficult for one parent is simple for another. When my mom was a kid, she told her adoptive mother that she wanted to have a disabled kid, and that she could take care of it. Her mom wasn’t too keen on the idea, and was surprised by the comment. Some years later, my mom’s wish came true, but she didn’t know it for almost four years. It took them that long to diagnose Davey with autism. They called him deaf, and mute, people said he was stupid, or stubborn. Some told my mom to ‘give him away’ (what is he, a puppy?) 4

My mom’s one of the toughest people I know though. She stood up to those incompetent, pushy  people, and she kept Davey. From the sounds of it, my dad wasn’t ready for fatherhood, and he’s one of those people who’d agree that raising an autistic child is much more difficult than a normal child. He was ready to run away with his tail between his legs, but he stayed. Maybe because Davey has his eyes. Or because he has his hair. Or because when he looks at you with his pretty blue eyes, through his long, thick eyelashes, you just want to huge him, because he’s Davey. Just because he’s Davey. Not because he’s autistic, or you feel bad for him. 5

I’ve never felt bad for Davey, because he’s autistic. I felt bad for him when he put one of my stick-on earrings up his nose, and it got stuck, but all kids do stuff like that, not just autistic ones. I feel bad for him whenever he stubs his toe, or he has a bad day, but those are things we all do. But to feel bad for him because of a disability he has, because of a part of who he is, is absolutely absurd to me. Do I feel bad for people who are schizophrenic? No. Do I feel bad for the difficulties their schizophrenia causes them and their family? Yes. It’s the same for my brother. Unfortunately, other people don’t view it that way though.6

Though he’s four years older than me, I learned similar things as Davey was learning when I was little. He went to school at the age of three. By the time I was three, he was seven, and had been in school for four years already. I was a slightly precocious (and persistent, and annoying, and jealous) child, and wanted to learn everything he was learning, and I was able to, despite our age difference and the fact I wasn’t in school. My amazing parents managed to teach both of us a lot. Neither of us learned much in school, we learned everything from my parents, then went to school mostly to socialize (and give my parents a break). 7

If Davey wasn’t autistic, I wouldn’t have learned half as much as I did as a child. My parents wouldn’t have nearly as much patience, especially my dad. I wouldn’t want to be a special education teacher. I probably wouldn’t know what autism is, and I might not care. 8

My parents love to remind me of my sleeping habits as a baby. As they tell it, I would lay on the floor of our living room on a blanket, and Davey would run circles around me. He’d run right along the outside of the blanket, often humming. I’d slowly fall asleep, and sleep the entire time. When he’d stop running, I’d wake up. When I’d cry, Davey would try to be helpful, and throw diapers and powder at me. Instead of crying more like I would if it was anyone else, I’d giggle. If David did it, it was okay.9

I ate pickles for many years, just because Davey did. He loved them, he still does. He use to eat a few pickles a day. He’d walk over to the fridge, grab the pickle jar, take the biggest pickle out, and munch away. As soon as I saw that, I’d go over to the fridge, grab the pickle jar, take the smallest pickle out, and attempt to much away. It turned out I didn’t like pickles very much, they’re pretty gross, but I didn’t care. If Davey liked them, they must be good, I figured. So, I kept eating them for years, hoping eventually they’d taste better. They never got any better, so I gave up finally. 10

Thousands of kids are just like me. Mimicking their cool older sibling. Trying to do everything they do, and be like them. The problem is, their siblings get into drugs, alcohol, partying, skipping school, rock ‘n’ roll. I admit, Davey’s into rock ‘n’ roll, but it’s really my parents who got me into listening to Poison and Def Leppard. Really though, my parents never had to worry about Davey being a bad influence on me, he’s one of the best influences I’ve had, because he’s such a good guy.11