I hope my brother has autism . . .

“I hope Harrison has autism,” my 8 year-old said of his 2-month-old brother last night.

Not exactly what most second graders say about their siblings, but Dalton isn’t a typical kid. He’s a high functioning autistic himself.

Intrigued by his pronouncement, and hoping to give it the correct spin, I asked, “What do you like about your autism?”

“Oh, you know,” he said casually, “it makes me smart and creative, and I see things different than other people. I want Harrison to see things different, too.”

In his eyes, seeing mold grow is one of the life's miracles.

I felt like shouting, “Yes!”

Part of the madness of the world is that it insists on seeing everything the same way. If a group of people don’t see things the same way we see them, we become suspicious of their “different-ness.”

Then we talk about them. 

Then we imagine and misunderstand and misrepresent.

Then we persecute, then suddenly we have holocausts and jihads and forced democracies and strange election outcomes and countries that make everyone to wear the same-style of jumpsuit and . . . well, you get the picture.

Seeing things “different” is what has made all the differences in the world. Seeing that lightning is electricity, for instance: what if Ben Franklin never made that connection? How long would it have been until someone else did? 

People who see “different” graduate from place like MIT and become computer programmers. They see the world in pictures, and people like me would be lost without them.

Autistics like Temple Grandin see the world through the eyes of cows, which makes all the difference to cows. And to the people who watch Temple Grandin.

Artists, musicians, inventors—all of them see things “different” and go on to create imaginative structures, emotional overtures, and nifty gadgets that cause us to stare for hours at bits of plastic and buttons that light up in our hands just so we can take out irritated avian.  

Dalton, always looking for places where he “fits in,” loves the Redwoods: “I can think there, in the trees." 

Literally, "in" the trees . . .

But his other favorite place in the world, where he feels “peaceful and calm,” is Yellowstone National Park. Yes, an active volcanic caldera—in his “different” seeing eyes—is a serene heaven.

We need to let people see “different.” Different ideas, different ways of putting the toilet paper on the holder, different beliefs in God—different gods, even—different foods, different ways of folding socks, different clothes, different homes, different opinions, different lives . . . 

I can believe that Star Trek is better than Star Wars without causing a battle with my sons. I can let all kinds of people in the world see things “different.” I don’t have to force my opinion, nor do they need to force theirs. I still love my sons even though they erroneously feel Yoda is “cooler” than Captain Janeway. Just different.

And yes, my son in the above picture was wearing a Star Wars shirt.

The world becomes monotonous when everyone sees everything exactly the same way, like junior high girls. That’s not a world I would want to live in.

I don’t exactly hope I have another autistic child, but I do hope I have another child that embraces being different . . . just like everybody else in this mad family.