look me in the eye, written by my son John Elder, is his New York Times best-selling memoir about growing up with Asperger’s. It has now been released in paperback.

















JOHN ELDER

This is John Elder, all dressed up for a school picture.
This is the boy, once a baby, whose first word was car.
A toddler who insisted on going to bed with his shoes on,
Who clutched an old toothpaste tube like a treasure.
Who delighted in the bright fall leaves in Philadelphia.
This is the boy who rode his sled on Mount Rainier’s base.
The boy who sat on a stone in Seattle and thought and thought.
Who was sad and puzzled because no one would play with him.
This is the boy who learned to ride his bike by pedaling
From his father to me and back again
Between the Heinz Chapel and the Cathedral of Learning
In Pittsburgh where his brother was born. This is the boy
Who was tender and loving with the baby.
The boy who camped in the woods in Massachusetts
And built his first car from parts found in a dump.
This is the boy who dropped out of high school to become
The man labeled, “The Electrical Wizard of KISS.”
Who designed talking toys for Milton Bradley, and worked
For electronics companies. The man who finally
Returned to his first love—cars.
Who created a business servicing, selling
And restoring them—Mercedes Benz, Rolls Royce,
Jaguar, BMW, Range Rover, Porsche. This is the boy
Who was born with Asperger’s Syndrome
Before it was called by that name, the boy
who became the man who wrote the book
Look Me in the Eye: My Life With Asperger’s.
This is my son.

Margaret Robison © 2007



















FIRST SON
—for John Elder
No hope, my neurologist said.
Lying in my hospital bed, my left side
lead-heavy, still as death,
I remembered you at three—
first child of a troubled marriage,
working to fix things—toy cars, trucks,
the family with its broken heart.
Bedtime, you’d ask me to read
The Little Engine that Could.
You never tired of hearing
that small engine’s uphill struggle.
I think I can, the engine puffed. I think I can.
Words coming back to me during my months
in the hospital as I struggled,
with my damaged brain and paralyzed limbs.
I thought of you—little boy
squatting on the floor, hunched over
a car or truck fiercely banging
with your bright wooden hammer
or twisting your make-believe wrench,
determination locked in your clenched jaw.
The same jaw now hidden by your thick beard
that flashes so red in the sunlight.

Margaret Robison ©2006
Photograph by Jack Robison ©2006