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First published March 31, 2026
Books can’t teach you to be a human being. I have listened very carefully to the books my mother has read to me, but there are surprisingly few clues about how to be a human. I struggle with so many of its requirements. Humans are supposed to look out for each other, like poor Dorothea cares for her dear, sour Mr. Casaubon. Good humans communicate with each other in the way that the Misses Bennet, Elizabeth and Jane, did. Exemplary humans fight for something larger than themselves, like Count Nikolai Rostov and Prince Andrei Bolkonsky. But I can’t take care of my own damn self, and I can’t communicate in a drawing room or anywhere else, and no one would let me near a battlefield. So what constitutes humanity for someone who desperately wants to give but is only devised to take? There is no sweeping novel, no War and Peace, not even a Pride and Prejudice, by or about a seriously autistic person. I am unrepresented in the canon. I have found zero role models in literature.
It wasn't until his mother was long gone that he realized it was the last thing she gave him. That wasn't why he always knew where it was, either in his pocket or behind his bed. It could comfort him when he fussed with it, when he rolled it around his fingers. He would stick it on the end of his finger and tap it on the bedstand gently. As he got older, he left it behind his bed more and in his pocket less. He often draped his arm over the side of the bed and held the little thing as he went to sleep. As a teenager he was embarrassed by his connection to his object. Seemed like dependence to him, and he wasn't anyone's dependent. But since working at Upward Bound, especially since getting to know Jorge, Carlos had become aware that everyone has needs, and that being tolerant can be applied to oneself.