The Autistic Voice Blog

It is written by Alex Haley, and it was originally published in the October 1986 issue of Reader's Digest . J ohn N ewton was born in London on July 24, 1725, to a pious and shy mother and an authoritarian father. To the boy's relief, his shipmaster father would spend only a few weeks at home between year-long voyages. When John was seven, his mother died of tuberculosis, The shipmaster, practical man that he was, remarried before his next voyage; for John, however, the loss of his mother was devastating. He became stubborn, disrespectful and difficult, and soon was packed off to a boarding school. There he was confronted with a headmaster who wielded a cane and a birch rod. The experience "almost broke my spirit," he later confided in a letter. But more torment was in store. At age 11, John was put to sea as an apprentice sailor on his father's ship. During this time he strayed further and further from his mother's religious teaching...

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...

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 ...

By Kerry Magro, from kerrymagro.com   If you knew me…   You would know I was nonverbal at 2 and a half   You would know I was diagnosed with autism at 4   You would know I got kicked out of two preschools   You would know I had extreme sensory-integration difficulties   You would know I would lash out to get attention when I couldn’t communicate on my own   You would know I twirled my hair   You would know that when I was in school, my peers labeled special education “wrong” instead of “special”   You would know I spent hundreds of hours a year in therapy to get to where I am   You would know I spent hundreds of hours being bullied because of my diagnosis   You would know that being institutionalized was a possibility.   But if you also knew me…   You would know I graduated grade school   You would know I graduated high school   You would know I gradua...

I was so worried about having the perfect father-son relationship that I almost missed the incredible gift in front of me. By Ron Fournier from the book Love That Boy Photo: Glenn Glasser/Reader’s Digest My wife, my children, and I stood in front of a white, seamless wall, our noses practically touching its surface. Suddenly, the wall opened—it was a hidden door to the Oval Office. “Come on in, Fournier!” shouted George W. Bush. “Who ya’ dragging in?” It was my last day covering the White House for the Associated Press, and this 2003 visit was a courtesy traditionally afforded to departing correspondents. I introduced my wife, Lori, and daughters, Holly and Abby, before turning to my son, Tyler, five. “Where’s Barney?” Tyler asked. The Scottish terrier ran in, and Bush said, “Let’s do a photo!” As the most powerful man on earth posed, my son launched into a one-sided conversation. “Scottish terriers are called Scotties; they originated from Scotland; they can be trace...