The Autistic Voice Blog

A savant's story reveals the complexity of snowflakes and the simplicity of snow. By Daniel Tammet from the book Thinking in Numbers   Getty Images Outside it is cold, cold. Ten degrees below, give or take. I step out with my coat zipped up to my chin and my feet encased in heavy rubber boots. The glittering street is empty; the wool-gray sky is low. Under my scarf and gloves and thermals I can feel my pulse begin to make a racket. I do not care. I wait. A week before, the trees’ bare branches stood clean against blue sky. Now the sight of falling snowflakes makes me shiver; it fills the space in my head that is devoted to wonder. How beautiful they are, I think. When will they stop? In an hour? A day? A month? The neighbors, who’ve lived in Ottawa far longer than I, tell me they have not seen this snowfall’s like in a generation. Shovels in hand, they dig paths from their garage doors out to the road. The older men affect expressions of both nonchalance and ann...

By Patricia S. McCormick WHEN RUMORS had spread through London about the play, a lollapalooza of five sets, actors playing a dog, a crocodile, pirates and Indians and a slew of other characters, some Of whom flew in and out of windows by means Of an unreliable mechanical contraption. Spectators, including many professional critics, packed the Duke of York’s Theatre on opening night. The theater’s lights dimmed. Behind the last row of seats, a small figure paced nervously. At first glance, he appeared to be a boy in an oversized greatcoat. But the face was that of a man—J. M. Barrie, the 44-year-old Scottish playwright whose Peter Pan was being performed for the first time. Although one of London’s most celebrated playwrights, Barrie was sick with worry. The improbable story of a boy who refused to grow up was a risky and expensive theatrical venture. Barrie had rewritten the script a dozen times and was aware of talk that he had gone mad. But now the playwright knew that ...

I will always remember how it felt when she spoke up for me. As told by Colin Ryan from The Moth . Reader's Digest , July/August 2016 When I was in fifth grade, you could have told me, “Colin, it’s not cool to wear the same pair of sweatpants every single day of school,” but I was comfortable. And you could have told me, “Colin, it’s not cool to go to the school dance and do the Macarena for the entire duration of Guns N’ Roses’ ‘November Rain.’” I would not have stopped. You could have even told me, “Colin, it’s not cool to be an active member of your local church’s clown troupe.” Then I went to sixth grade, middle school, and all of a sudden, it was clear there were only two options. I could somehow be cool, or I could somehow be invisible. And I have to say, I was doing pretty well at option two. Until third period on the first day, when a teacher had us fill out a questionnaire with “get to know you” questions. I assumed that she would be reading the...

Performed by Rachel House and Auli'i Cravalho From Moana: Original Soundtrack [GRAMMA TALA] I know a girl from an island She stands apart from the crowd She loves the sea and her people She makes her whole family proud Sometimes the world seems against you The journey may leave a scar But scars can heal and reveal just Where you are The people you love will change you The things you have learned will guide you And nothing on earth can silence The quiet voice still inside you And when that voice starts to whisper "Moana, you've come so far" Moana listen, do you know who you are? [MOANA, spoken] Who am I? (sung) I am a girl who loves my island And the girl who loves the sea, it calls me I am the daughter of the village chief We are descended from voyagers Who found their way across the world They call me I've delivered us to where we are I have journeyed farther I am everything I've learned and more Still it calls me And the call isn't out there at a...

It was snowing, and we are stranded. By Jeanne Marie Laskas from the Washington Post Magazine Reader's Digest December 1996 I PULLED MY RENTAL into a slot at O'Hare, having braved a Chicago snow and a major Friday evening rush. I trudged toward Terminal B, dragging my brand new Travelpro suitcase like a kid with a new sled. Inside, there were people, bags, packages, babies, strollers, sour faces, a line circling around and around and USAir representatives waving their arms. A monitor above our heads said "Canceled" a lot. And "Delayed" a few times. I found myself on the Delayed team and got in line. Three hours. That's what my USAir representative said regarding the delay of my flight to Pittsburgh. Three hours. I had two choices: I could lie to myself and say this was a great opportunity to catch up on paperwork. Or I could plunge headfirst into a bad mood. Soon I was at a snack bar, munching on a piece of vegetarian pizza with br...

Inspired by her autistic son and his love of the outdoors, this special ed teacher created a magical village in the woods near her home. By Liz Vaccariello Photograph by Matthew Cohen for Reader's Digest There’s a place near my home where fairies live. I’ve seen their wooden houses, knocked on their tiny doors, marveled at their itty-bitty bedrooms. It’s a neighborhood, really, a magical trail in our local nature reserve where several dozen structures are tucked into nooks, crannies, and tree hollows all along the one-mile loop. It’s a place where acorns are pillows, fungus becomes decorative siding, and a log might hide a miniature dining room. On a Sunday afternoon, you can hear children squeal, “I found another one!” And if the animals or the elements—or vandals—harm a dwelling, someone will mysteriously take it home, replace some hinges or string, and return it. That mysterious someone is Therese Ojibway, 60, a special education teacher from Millburn, New ...