HEAL YOU | JENLISA

SIXTEEN

JENNIE

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THIS WEEKEND, WHEN I’M NOT PRACTICING, I’M FEVERISHLY researching autism, consuming information in all possible manners—books, articles online, videos on YouTube, podcasts, postings in autistic people groups on Facebook, even a made-for-TV film about Temple Grandin starring Claire Danes. The more I learn, the more certain I am that this is me. This is where I belong.

I want to tell people, my family, my friends, my fellow musicians at the symphony. I want them to understand me at last. The key to me is right here, in these books and media.

It’s early evening, and I’m nervously waiting for Lisa to arrive for our last date and reading an autistic woman’s personal blog entry about proper terminology. Apparently, Asperger’s syndrome is no longer used diagnostically in the United States. In 2013, it was grouped, along with other former neurological conditions, under the broad umbrella of autism spectrum disorder. Many in the autistic community prefer the use of descriptors like with low support needsas opposed to high-functioning, which was how Jennifer described me. I’m mouthing the words autistic with low support needs and getting used to the feel of them when my phone rings. It’s Priscilla, so I pick up immediately.

“Hi, unnie.”

There’s noise in the background, like she’s at a restaurant or a party. She’s perpetually “networking” and doing social things. I could never live her life, not happily anyway. “Hey, I had a free minute, so I thought I’d call you. What’s up?”

“Not much, just reading,” I say as I scroll past the terminology blog entry to one about poor spatial awareness. There’s a picture of the blogger’s bruised legs, and I compare them to mine. Aside from our skin tone, we look the same. Just like her, I’m constantly running into table corners and chairs and door handles and things, but the worst for me is glass cases in department stores. I get distracted by the shiny things inside, and seven times out of ten, I bang my face on the glass as I lean close to get a better look—one of the many reasons why I hate shopping.

“I spoke to Mom earlier. She said Dad’s not feeling great. You might want to check up on them one of these days,” Priscilla says, and there’s censure in her voice, as there always is when it comes to this topic.

“What’s wrong?” My dad is on the older side—sixteen years older than my mom—but I never noticed until recent years, when congestive heart failure forced him into retirement against his will.

“He’s just really tired. Mom says he’s napping today, and you know how he feels about naps,” she says with a subdued laugh.

“I’ll try to make it home next weekend.”

“You’ll try?” she asks, and I look up at the ceiling as my fingers flex into claws. I loathe being told what to do like this, absolutely loathe it, and it’s worse when it involves doing things with or for my parents. They’re close to Priscilla. They wanted Priscilla. Me, I’m their accidental second child, the result of a Mexico vacation and too many piña coladas. Worse than that, I’m overly sensitive, difficult, “lazy,” and, quite frankly, a bit of a disappointment—except for my relationship with Jihyong1, the son-in-law of their dreams, and my accidental Internet fame.

Things with Jihyong aren’t looking great, however, and the fame isn’t lasting. I’m getting upstaged by a twelve-year-old. I admit I watched videos of her playing with trepidation. I didn’t want to be impressed, but she’s genuinely amazing. I’ve never seen bow work that fluid. She deserves the accolades. Still, now I don’t have anything to show my parents, no great news, no fresh accomplishments, nothing my mom can humble-brag about to her friends, and I know she craves it. I don’t know if it’s better never to be successful at all, or to have success for a short while, only to lose it.