Illustration by Christine Wei
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My teenage son lives with a profound disability. He is autistic. He can communicate, but his language is limited.
Every afternoon at 3:30, he gets off the school bus and walks straight to the sidewalk in front of our house. There, he waits for his little sister to come home from school. He insists on this ritual. It is non-negotiable.
Inside, one of us watches from the window, laptop open, half-working, half-keeping vigil. If he starts to wander or if he unintentionally blocks a stroller or a passerby, one of us will step onto the porch and gently redirect him. But it rarely comes to that. He stands there, watching the world pass by and waiting. This small, ordinary routine is, for him, an act of love. It gives him a sense of purpose, of autonomy. In his mind, he is protecting his little sister.
One day, our local crossing guard pulled me aside. Someone, she told me, had asked about my son. Asked what was wrong with him. Then said she was considering calling the police. I froze. My heart dropped. Someone had seen my son – his movements, his difference, the way he doesn’t automatically shift aside – and found it unsettling. Not just unsettling but threatening enough to consider involving law enforcement.
He is 16 years old.
We live in an urban neighbourhood, but it is a tight-knit one. People are, for the most part, kind. They know him. They wave, say hi, talk to him and offer a high five. The crossing guard, who has known us for years and has a child with a disability, reassured the person who’d asked about my son that everything was fine. That he stands there every day. That he belongs here.
But the moment lingered.
Because while my son is different – visibly unmistakably different – he is not unreachable and unapproachable. He can tell you where he lives, why he is standing there, who we are. He can tell you our phone number. If this person had simply asked him, they would have received an answer. But she didn’t ask.
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Instead, my mind spiralled. Had he done something? Said something? I searched for a memory of him being aggressive with a stranger and came up empty. There isn’t one. The truth is, people with intellectual disabilities are profoundly misunderstood. They are also overrepresented in our criminal justice system – not because they are more dangerous, but because they are more vulnerable to misinterpretation.
My son is surrounded by support. He has a family looking out for him and a community that largely understands him. And still, he is not immune to being seen as a problem to be reported, rather than a person to be understood. I want to believe that this person thought they were doing the right thing.
That is the part that stays with me. Not fear, exactly, but the realization of how quickly difference can be mistaken for danger. We like to believe we would ask questions first. That we would extend curiosity or kindness. But too often, we don’t. Maybe the better instinct is a simpler one: to get to know the people around us. To learn what difference looks like. To pause long enough to see someone, not just react to them.
As I am writing this, I’m watching my son out the window. My beautiful, big-hearted son. What may look unusual from a distance could simply be something as ordinary as a brother waiting for his little sister to come home.
Tina Michaelidis lives in Toronto.