My Autistic Pride Shirt

I had an interaction with an acquaintance a couple months ago that has stuck with me. We were standing on the steps at our kids’ school, waiting for dismissal, not really interacting with each other, when he turned to me and said “so, your shirt says you’re autistic.”

As is often the case when I’m thrust into unexpected social interactions, I fumbled. “…yes?”

Undaunted, he plunged onward. “Isn’t it interesting that there are so many more people saying that now?”

I’d like to say that I stood up straight, stuck my chin out proudly, and said something like, “Well. You know. It’s just like left-handedness, or being gay or trans; as autism becomes more socially accepted, and more people realize that the label matches their experience, more people start to claim the identity and it seems like there’s “more of us.” ”

In reality, I think I mumbled something awkward and the conversation lapsed back into silence. Because I’m not good with improvising. Because my hyperlexic autistic brain often doesn’t know what I want to say until I’ve had a chance to fiddle with the words a little first. (This fantastic post from Lyric Rivera talks about how writing is their first language. I relate SO HARD.)

So here’s my attempt at a more thoughtful response to the well-meaning dad on the stairs, only two months late.

Hi there! Yes, you’re right, my shirt does say I’m autistic. I have a few autistic pride shirts that I wear in pretty heavy rotation. I talk about autism and neurodiversity all the time. Here’s why.

First of all, I’ve got two autistic kids. One of them was diagnosed at 4, the other at 7. They show different combinations of autistic traits; their support needs are very different; doesn’t change the fact that they both have hyperconnected brains just like I do (fun fact: autistic brains don’t prune neurons the way neurotypical brains do, and process 42% more information “at rest” than NT brains. No wonder we get overwhelmed sometimes!). And I want them to know I’m proud of our neurotype, because there’s still a huge amount of misinformation and negative stereotypes out there about what it means to have an autistic brain. I want them to know that being autistic isn’t something they need to be ashamed of or to hide.

Secondly, by publicly outing myself, I open the door for conversations (even if I don’t always handle them as well as I’d like). I know that many people still believe autistic adults can’t be “normal,” or imagine that they fit very particular profiles (Raymond Babbitt from Rain Man, Arnie Grape from What’s Eating Gilbert Grape, Sheldon Cooper from Big Bang Theory). If someone sees me—an upper-middle-class white woman with an advanced degree, two kids, friends, a partner, a house—wearing a shirt that says yes, I’m autistic, I figure that might shift their definition a little.

Thirdly—talking and thinking about my and my family’s autistic experience *is* a big part of my life. Realizing I’m autistic has been one of the biggest lens shifts I’ve ever experienced. It’s changed how I think about my childhood, my friendships, my messy house, my unconventional work history. And it’s given me a cause to put energy toward that feels deeply meaningful. Whether it’s advocating for my own child at our school, or trying to point teachers and administrators toward ways to educate themselves to better support all of the school’s neurodivergent community members, or keeping an eye on our local parent groups to respond to requests from parents of newly-diagnosed kids looking for resources—I feel like I’m helping. Being a “knowledge distributor” has long been one of my favorite roles. Distributing knowledge that might help other adults understand themselves better, or help kids have a more positive experience and sense of how their own brains work—that feels fantastic.

And finally… I *am* proud to be autistic. For all the hassles that come from having a minority neurotype—and there are plenty—there’s a tremendous amount of joy here, too. Just for starters:

• The joy of finding a new special interest, or returning to an old one. One of my family’s family values (which I talked about last week) is that “The world is amazing.” This wording was meant to capture a particular type of joy that I think might be unique to autistic folks, that everything—everything—is more wonderfully complex than it looks at first. That there’s always more layers and more details and more context that you could add to something. And the research process is SO MUCH FUN. Whether I’m doing a deep dive on names or languages (any time in the last 35 years), or a movie (ask me about The Wizard of Oz, or The Sound of Music, or Rocky Horror), or details for a writing project, or nature education for kids—you can bet I’ll be enjoying myself, and then I’ll want to tell you all about it.

• The joy of stimming. Sure, I swing my arms, and click my tongue, and flap when I’m nervous—but I also hum constantly, something I’d forgotten about until a friend’s child asked me about it a few years ago (I used to get the question all the time as a kid; I guess most adults are too polite to comment). If I’m not talking, listening, reading, or writing, I’ve got a song playing in my head—and if I’m unguarded, I’ll sing snippets out loud. And it’ll be glorious.

• The joy of order and structure. Planning makes me happy; neatly ordered bookshelves make me happy; having a tidy to-do list makes me happy. Yeah, this one hasn’t been happening so much lately with two young kids and no time, but I know it’ll come back.

So yeah, you’re gonna see me wearing an autistic pride shirt, because I am proud. And even if you’ve caught me off guard and I’m fumbling to answer the question, I’m still glad you asked—because it means you saw me. My sometimes-awkward, sometimes-carefully-scripted, always-autistic self.