I’m not like everybody else

I guess I should start at the beginning.

I was born January 4, 1966 in Columbus, Ohio. I cannot remember a time when I could not read. It wasn’t something I consciously tried to learn to do. The ability was just there.

I did not see anything unusual about that. I was the youngest of five children, with a 10-year gap between number four and me. I was never around anyone my own age until I went to school, so I had no reference point for my abilities. What do you mean, most 3-year-olds can’t read? Like, it’s hard?

I think I started to sense that there was something unusual about me by the way my family treated me. My older brothers would bring their friends over to the house and have me read books to them. These books would be far beyond my reading level (if there is a reading level at age three)—more on the order of my sister’s college textbooks than Dr. Seuss. I didn’t necessarily understand what all the words meant, but I could read them.

When I started going to school, I was tested and found to be reading at a fifth grade level. The original plan was to put me in kindergarten in the morning and first grade in the afternoon. This did not work. I came out of kindergarten with the idea that school was a place for play, and, so, I had no interest in listening to anything I heard in first grade. After a few weeks, I was given an IQ test for placement in a learning disability class, and…surprise! The new plan: let me finish the year in kindergarten and put me in second grade the next year.

Being skipped a grade in school defined me for many years afterward. Even in high school, I was known as “the kid who skipped a grade” (even though I went to school with at least two others who had also skipped grades). I suppose it was necessary, but there was also a down side to it. As an adult, one year more or less doesn’t make much difference, but it means everything when you’re young. 

I remember it being especially hard to adjust to middle school. Elementary school was a breeze—the teachers were happy if I showed up. Middle school was a completely different game. What is this “homework” of which you speak? Looking back, I understand why middle school was so hard for me. When I started sixth grade, I was only 10. Most of the eighth graders in the school were 13. There’s a big gulf between the two. 13-year-old boys coat themselves in Axe Body Spray and try to impress girls. 10-year-old boys bathe once a week and can’t say “Uranus” without laughing.

High school was better in some respects, but still had its challenges. Imagine how it feels when all your friends are learning to drive and you can’t. And dating? Aside from the prom, forget about it. 

My main consolation was living in my own world. Give me a pen and paper and I could build you a city or start my own baseball team. Give me some records and I could be a DJ. Give me a Racing Form and I had my own racetrack. 

At the same time, I was not completely oblivious to my surroundings. I actually yearned to be popular. I entered high school with a bit of a swagger. Hey, I’m smart, so, of course, I’m going to be popular…right?

I thought I had arrived when I somehow managed to be elected president of the freshman class. All that accomplished was painting a big target on my back. Kids would make ridiculous demands (Throw the class a party! Take the whole class to Kings Island!) that I couldn’t possibly meet, because the position had no real power. (You don’t think high schools really want the students to run anything, do you?) But the kids still blamed me when they didn’t get what they wanted, so it didn’t take long for me to go from hero to zero. I’ve often wondered if my election might have actually been an elaborate prank my classmates played on me. Or maybe I’ve seen Carrie too many times.

After incidents like that, and the inevitable bullying that you’re bound to read about if I can stand to write about it, I hoped that I would have my revenge in college.

If only.

But that’s a rant for another time.

You go back, Jack, do it again

Well, here I am again. I have returned to this blog many times, only to abandon it again despite my desire to keep it going. Time is certainly a factor. I work a full time job, sometimes six days a week, which leaves me little time to blog. Then there is the question of whether anybody even pays attention to blogs in the age of podcasting. My past attempts at blogging didn’t get much of a response.

The real issue, though, is whether I have anything important to say. The best writing, after all, is sparked by some kind of passion. You have to have something to say, and really feel like saying it.

I have also become aware of the limits of life. I am now 59 and becoming more aware that I am not going to live forever. I will be retiring soon (provided that certain people stop twiddling with the stock market), and I really want to leave something on this earth that speaks to who I really am. 

I feel as if I have developed a passion worth writing about—something that will be of value to the public.

Thirteen years ago, I was diagnosed with autism*. That diagnosis changed the way I look at my life. Suddenly, my life story made sense. As I looked back on my life and many of the problems I’ve had, I can’t believe it took until I was 46 to figure it out.

At the same time, that awareness has led me to be concerned about the misconceptions people have about autism and the lack of resources for autistic people. I hope that this blog can draw attention to the challenges autistic people face, and help some people.

It’s not all about autism, though. There’s also horse racing, pop music, progressive politics, TV, pop culture, and the words to every Monty Python routine. Be prepared for strong language, adult situations, and unpopular opinions.

So get on board and buckle up. Probably.

*Milder forms of autism such as mine are often referred to as Asperger’s syndrome. I prefer not to use this term because Hans Asperger, for whom it is named, was a Nazi doctor who played a role in the deaths of autistic children.