You’ve Always Been This Way is a column written by Taylor Harris, a late-diagnosed neurodivergent woman and 1980s preschool dropout, who identifies every moment from her past that filled her with shame, and mutters, “Yep, that tracks. I see it all now.”
Before 2013, no one could be autistic and have ADHD. Back then, the DSM followed the one-drop rule for neurodevelopmental conditions. Got a touch of the ’tism? It is settled, then. No hyperactivity of the mind for you! It’s a little ironic, this clutching of the binary, considering black-and-white thinking is what neurodivergent folks get dinged for all the time in our society, known for its rich history of embracing nuance and flexibility.
Me, happy and goofy and relaxed at home.
Do you ever wonder who writes and updates the DSM? Probably a bunch of smart doctors in white coats from Yale, but isn’t it more fun to imagine a dozen or so men with stale beer breath and sweaty hands, under the bright lights of a Buc-ee’s late at night, debating the possibility of AuDHD:
“You can’t just go and have miscegenation of the mentals!”
“It’ll be utter chaos. Like hoarding, but with disabilities.”
“God never intended for one man to desire structure and spontaneity.”
“We’ll need a rule!” (said every autistic person ever).
This Order of Men with Belly Hang and Concave Butts voted, and JD’s wife, Usha, was allowed to break the tie, on account of the magic she works with Wet n’ Wild eyeliner. And that’s how autism and its cousin ADHD became a house divided.
Now, back in the 1980s, no one would’ve diagnosed me with autism or ADD, as it was called then. I couldn’t even get a nod to selective mutism. Heck, I would’ve taken a rude but accurate, “She’s a strange little bird, isn’t she?” But there were signs I was on the verge (That’ll catch on, like fetch):
Did I babble as a baby?
No. Truly, I have zero regrets. I still don’t get the appeal. What is dah dah?
When I did speak around age three, was it the words of Lion-O from ThunderCats, calling on spirits while wielding an imaginary sword?
Sword of Omens, give me sight beyond sight!
Did I yell at my mom like Will Ferrell in Wedding Crashers if she smeared butter on the wrong side of my wheat toast?
Ma! Butter goes on the darker side. NOW! Sorry, Mom. Not my rules.
Did my parents enroll me in a church preschool for socialization, and did I escape graduate from said program, socialized?
Let’s circle back (does anyone circle forward?) to that. First, I’ll set the scene:
My preschool teachers—let’s call them Miss Pat and Stacy, the twin panopticons with a conjoined heart for pasta necklaces and “native” headdresses—have lined us up like little ducks or San Quentin felons, outside the bathrooms. The misses have just one unbreakable rule. While they’re in the stalls checking hands for fecal matter, stomping out dysentery before it stomps on us, we must promise to never ever climb the stairs to our left. For they lead to a dangerous place of white and gray marble, commonly known as a landing.
Family day at my preschool. I played in the sandbox so I didn’t have to interact with peers.
I don’t know how long I’ve been in preschool by this point, but it’s dumb. God has a calling on my life, and it’s not to sit amongst snot-licking kids at an adjustable table and dip my fingers in globs of paint. The paper is slick, so it doesn’t even work. Perhaps my teachers planned this as an exercise in futility, meant to break my fingers’ spirits. I could be home watching Press Your Luck and eating Doritos. Catching up on Love Connection. That Chuck Woolery is somethin’ else. For why am I gluing cotton balls into a cloud, Miss Pat, and why does it make you grin like a cheetah?
I do not feel like an alien. More like a hypervigilant observer, a tiny Jason Bourne with a side braid, scanning the room, locking it all in. If I can be still, do everything right, and avoid breathing in through my nose at lunch when some jerk unwraps a sandwich with mayo—or worse, mustard—then maybe no one will touch me or talk to me, and the misses will release me ahead of schedule.
At home, Mom already teaches me how to read with note cards we cover with contact paper, hole punch, and fit with silver rings to make books. When I earn enough foil stars on the back, she rewards us each with a kiddie scoop of ice cream from the neighborhood shop. So, what is this gathering of people with stringy hair and spitty mouths and questionable taste in shoes? (I wear turquoise Weeboks [baby Reeboks]) and cannot fathom wearing hard shoes on a weekday or letting one’s toes spread about in sandals for the whole world to see.
Anyhow, my teachers, a couple of future lovers of SnackWell’s cookies and grocery stores that sell pajamas, are nowhere to be seen, and, across the way, I spy a couple of kids horsing around, shoving each other, and laughing, on—
The Landing
One kid is Tony (either his given name or his name given by me on account of his bowl cut and tan skin reminding me of Tony Danza, and Who’s the Boss slaps). The other kid’s face warrants no memory, but he’s fighting my crush, and there are rules, gentlemen.
What should little Taylor do? Choose all that apply:
- Grab some popcorn and watch this unfold.
- Run to the bathroom like a snitch.
- Rip my shirt, put on sackcloth, and pray for their rebellious souls.
- Recall Lion-O’s bravery and transform into the Silent Rule Enforcer.
Tony, dreamy in his navy sweater and ruddy cheeks, has no idea I even exist, let alone that I exist to save him from the penalty of loitering on an emptied bowel. Hold on, my love!
Tender love, my Weeboks, and a zeal for the law carry me on wings up those forbidden white stairs. The details of what happens next remain blurry, but I try to get the boys’ attention, maybe throwing an arm between them and finding my voice long enough to say: “Stop… not supposed to… stairs… No Whammies!”
The boys pay me no mind—She’s a strange little bird, isn’t she? they’re thinking—as they He-Man their bodies around.
But you know who does pay attention? Pat and Stacy wheel around that corner like there’s a BOGO on chuck roast and elastic trousers. One of them races up to us while the other gets control of the yard.
There’s stern talking, lots of breath, and a peach, hyper-extended arm. We are to descend to the back of the line. And spend indoor recess watching the others play.
My little OshKosh B’gosh body burns with shame, and then holy indignation. I am my brother’s keeper, I try to tell her in so many words, and my brother happens to be cute, but I probably whisper and look down and state my defense as a question, and Miss Pat says: The lady doth protest too much, only in central Ohio dialect, which is light on iambic pentameter, and heavy on the r in warsh. So I learn something new that day: Even if you break the law to save someone—like Rahab in the Bible, hiding those men in her apartment—you don’t always receive grace. If Miss Pat or Stacy are the judges on that day, it’s locusts for you.
But guess who got the last laugh? I went straight home and told my mother, and my mother pulled me out of that Presbyterian jail, and got me off the assembly line of culturally appropriated art. I don’t remember my last day of school, but I know I must’ve snatched up my Gremlin backpack with gusto, took one last look at the wardens, and, in the words of my father, whispered: “And I’m NOT one of your little friends!”