As a cheerful non-believer, the mere mention of treating autism through prayers sends shivers down my spine. My stance on churches is a bit like Jose Saramago’s – he doubted Church salvation as much as a rat would doubt the allure of cheese in a trap. Currently on vacation in Brazil, a love-hate relationship unfolds. The Brazilians’ open interactions and perpetual smiles warm my heart, but the noise, heat, and lack of personal space play the villain – a cultural quirk, they say.
Today’s escapade involved an Uber ride with a Christ-following cabbie in his fifties. Instead of steering me towards salvation, he enthusiastically delved into his church’s projects. I, being a listener more than a talker in such scenarios, observed silently. Surprisingly, one project aimed to enlighten fellow churchgoers on handling autistic kids.
The cabbie, aware of the rising autism cases, shared an anecdote about a child devouring raw chicken from the fridge. Concerned yet boasting, he stressed that all kids, regardless of their conditions, behave differently and mentioned the importance of a psychologist’s insights. He went on to say that they were organising a talk with a psychologist to help the parents deal with their kids, specially, the autistic ones. Adorable, really, his recognition that autism manifests differently in children. While he may not grasp the intricacies of the spectrum, acknowledging varying traits reflects progress.
Reflecting on the past, being labeled autistic meant complete dependence. Communication hurdles and self-feeding challenges characterised those days. Now, autism is categorised into three levels. It’s like a diverse playground, where we’re all finding our place in the world of neurodiversity. Level one, where I reside, is like the VIP section – we can juggle life solo, with only the occasional need for a quiet workspace to avoid a sensory overload meltdown. Level two brings a touch more chaos, like trying to wrangle cats at a catnip party. These folks need more assistance, but they’re still rocking the spectrum runway. Then, level three, the thrill-seekers of neurodiversity, require more support than a wobbly Jenga tower. It’s this lively place where we each have our own way of playing.
I might not fancy certain types of food, but the spectrum hosts unique individuals with diverse cravings. It’s a quirky journey through the levels, where even us level ones occasionally contemplate fridge adventures. Just a dash of neurodivergent spice in this human stew, proving we’re all hungry for something, be it understanding or that midnight snack. Cheers to the spectrum, the fridge, and the chaos of being human.