Autistic Narrator Quotes
Quotes tagged as "autistic-narrator"
Showing 1-8 of 8
“Sometimes,
lots of times,
when people talk
I don’t hear the words.
Just the sounds,
strung together.
Up, down,
side, side,
hum, buzz.”
― Flying in a Cage
lots of times,
when people talk
I don’t hear the words.
Just the sounds,
strung together.
Up, down,
side, side,
hum, buzz.”
― Flying in a Cage
“Als ik niet begrijp hoe dingen gaan, wil ik dat de wereld ophoudt met draaien, zodat ik tijd heb om te begrijpen hoe het gaat. Maar de wereld houdt niet op met draaien. Terwijl ik één ding probeer te begrijpen, komt er een tweede bij, dat ik ook probeer te begrijpen, maar ik was nog niet klaar met het begrijpen van dat eerste. Alsof je met je linkerhand hete soep opschept en tegelijkertijd met je rechterhand een broodje met pindakaas probeert te smeren. En dan is er vaak een derde ding dat ik moet begrijpen, maar ik heb geen handen meer vrij.”
― Pauwl
― Pauwl
“Ten minutes after loading up her plate, when Iris is sipping pale apple juice, she asks Els across the table, “I’m told I should make myself useful. What are my options?”
Els spears a strawberry. “What can you do?”
“I organize.”
“Like your sister.”
“I organize people, events,” Iris says. “Denise organizes information.”
I absorb that. I never thought of myself as organizing anything. I think of myself as listening, coping, avoiding. The words feel good, rolled over in my mind: Denise organizes information.”
― On the Edge of Gone
Els spears a strawberry. “What can you do?”
“I organize.”
“Like your sister.”
“I organize people, events,” Iris says. “Denise organizes information.”
I absorb that. I never thought of myself as organizing anything. I think of myself as listening, coping, avoiding. The words feel good, rolled over in my mind: Denise organizes information.”
― On the Edge of Gone
“A smaller plate got mixed in with the large ones I’m working on. I’m tempted to put it back into the dishwasher by the other plates that size, but that’s—that’s probably weird, I think, and Mirjam is looking, so I just set it aside for a stack of its own. “We were selected early on. We couldn’t make it on board sooner.”
I have no idea if that lie will hold water, but Mirjam is nodding. “Gotcha. I was happy to move on board, myself. Someone broke into our house the other month—looking for food, I guess—and it didn’t feel safe after that. Plus, it was cold. We had to board up the window they broke, and couldn’t find anyone to fix it properly.”
“That sucks,” I say—usually a safe response.
“Tell me about it.”
I have a nice stack of plates now. I put my hands on each side of it, straightening the stack before reaching for the first batch of small plates. There’s a sense of relief when I add them to the single plate I set aside.”
― On the Edge of Gone
I have no idea if that lie will hold water, but Mirjam is nodding. “Gotcha. I was happy to move on board, myself. Someone broke into our house the other month—looking for food, I guess—and it didn’t feel safe after that. Plus, it was cold. We had to board up the window they broke, and couldn’t find anyone to fix it properly.”
“That sucks,” I say—usually a safe response.
“Tell me about it.”
I have a nice stack of plates now. I put my hands on each side of it, straightening the stack before reaching for the first batch of small plates. There’s a sense of relief when I add them to the single plate I set aside.”
― On the Edge of Gone
“I loosen my grip and take a tasteless bite. I don’t like bananas much—they’re so mealy—but they’re a safe fruit to eat, always cleanly wrapped in their own packages. As I chew, I crane my neck to check out the people around us.”
― On the Edge of Gone
― On the Edge of Gone
“That’s very trusting.” Iris watches Anke search our backpacks.
“We’re saving people’s lives. We thought we could be,”Anke says. I’m more fixated on her arm in my backpack than on what she’s saying, though. That bag is nearly empty, but it’s mine. She’s messing it up. Her hands might not even be clean.
When she does stop, I immediately wish she hadn’t. “Denise,” she says, “I need to search your bed next.”
My gaze flicks to my pillow. “I. I. Could I.”
“She doesn’t like people touching her bed.” Iris stands, guarding me.
“You’re touching it,” Captain Van Zand’s brother says.
Iris shoots him a withering look. “I sat at the foot, which is the only place that’s OK for even me to touch, and I’m her sister.”
Anke’s sigh sounds closer to a hiss. “Look, we have more rooms to search.”
I squirm. No. Not squirm. I’m rocking. Back and forth. “Wait,” I say.
“You can’t—” Iris goes on.
“Just ’cause she’s too precious to—” the man argues.
“Wait,” I repeat, softer this time, so soft that I’m not even sure Iris hears it. “Can I, can I just, wait. I can lift the sheets and mattress myself. You can look. Right? Is that good? Right? Is that good? If I lift them?” I force my jaw shut.
No one says anything for several moments. I can’t tell if Anke is thinking of a counterargument or if she really is trying to make this work. Her lips tighten. “OK. If you listen to my instructions exactly.”
“You’re indulging her?” Captain Van Zand’s brother says. “She’s just being difficult. Have you ever seen an autistic kid? Trust me, they’re not the kind to take water scooters into the city like she did.”
“Denise, just get it done,” Anke snaps.
I don’t stand until they’re far enough away from the bed, as if they might jump at me and touch the bed themselves regardless. I blink away tears. It’s dumb, I know that—I’m treating Anke’s hands like some kind of nuclear hazard—but this is my space, mine, and too little is left that’s mine as is. I can’t even face Iris. With the way she tried to help, it feels as though I’m betraying her by offering this solution myself.
I keep my head low and follow Anke’s orders one-handed. Take off both the satin and regular pillowcases, show her the pillow, shake it (although I tell her she can feel the pillow herself: that’s OK, since the pillowcases will cover it again anyway)—lift the sheets, shake them, lift the mattress long enough for her to shine her light underneath, let her feel the mattress (which is OK, too, since she’s just touching it from the bottom) . . .
They tell us to stay in our room for another hour.
I wash my hands, straighten the sheets, wash my hands again, and wrap the pillow in its cases.
“That was a good solution,” Iris says.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
“For what?”
Being difficult. Not letting her help me. I keep my eyes on the sheets as I make the bed and let out a small laugh.”
― On the Edge of Gone
“We’re saving people’s lives. We thought we could be,”Anke says. I’m more fixated on her arm in my backpack than on what she’s saying, though. That bag is nearly empty, but it’s mine. She’s messing it up. Her hands might not even be clean.
When she does stop, I immediately wish she hadn’t. “Denise,” she says, “I need to search your bed next.”
My gaze flicks to my pillow. “I. I. Could I.”
“She doesn’t like people touching her bed.” Iris stands, guarding me.
“You’re touching it,” Captain Van Zand’s brother says.
Iris shoots him a withering look. “I sat at the foot, which is the only place that’s OK for even me to touch, and I’m her sister.”
Anke’s sigh sounds closer to a hiss. “Look, we have more rooms to search.”
I squirm. No. Not squirm. I’m rocking. Back and forth. “Wait,” I say.
“You can’t—” Iris goes on.
“Just ’cause she’s too precious to—” the man argues.
“Wait,” I repeat, softer this time, so soft that I’m not even sure Iris hears it. “Can I, can I just, wait. I can lift the sheets and mattress myself. You can look. Right? Is that good? Right? Is that good? If I lift them?” I force my jaw shut.
No one says anything for several moments. I can’t tell if Anke is thinking of a counterargument or if she really is trying to make this work. Her lips tighten. “OK. If you listen to my instructions exactly.”
“You’re indulging her?” Captain Van Zand’s brother says. “She’s just being difficult. Have you ever seen an autistic kid? Trust me, they’re not the kind to take water scooters into the city like she did.”
“Denise, just get it done,” Anke snaps.
I don’t stand until they’re far enough away from the bed, as if they might jump at me and touch the bed themselves regardless. I blink away tears. It’s dumb, I know that—I’m treating Anke’s hands like some kind of nuclear hazard—but this is my space, mine, and too little is left that’s mine as is. I can’t even face Iris. With the way she tried to help, it feels as though I’m betraying her by offering this solution myself.
I keep my head low and follow Anke’s orders one-handed. Take off both the satin and regular pillowcases, show her the pillow, shake it (although I tell her she can feel the pillow herself: that’s OK, since the pillowcases will cover it again anyway)—lift the sheets, shake them, lift the mattress long enough for her to shine her light underneath, let her feel the mattress (which is OK, too, since she’s just touching it from the bottom) . . .
They tell us to stay in our room for another hour.
I wash my hands, straighten the sheets, wash my hands again, and wrap the pillow in its cases.
“That was a good solution,” Iris says.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
“For what?”
Being difficult. Not letting her help me. I keep my eyes on the sheets as I make the bed and let out a small laugh.”
― On the Edge of Gone
“She unwinds her scarf, taking so long about it that I wonder if she expects me to respond. “You were following the rules,” I offer after a minute. It makes her words no more pleasant. Resentment. Was that how she’d looked at me? Then how am I supposed to trust how she looks at me now?
My words elicit a thankful smile. “Mostly, though, I knew you could do the job. Did you ever know other autistic people?”
I shake my head. I’d heard rumors about one teacher, but never asked him. Mom had encouraged me to find a local support group, but I’d never seen the appeal—or the need. It wouldn’t change anything. I had friends, anyway. Peopleonline, my fellow volunteers at the Way Station. I even got along with Iris’s friends.
“Well, I did, and I feel like a fool for never recognizing your autism. I had autistic colleagues at the university. They were accommodated, and they thrived. One researcher came in earlier than everyone else and would stay the longest. I saw the same strengths in you once I knew to look for them. You’re punctual, you’re precise, you’re trustworthy. When you don’t know something, you either figure it out or you ask, and either way, you get it right. I wanted to give you the same chance my colleagues had, and that other Nassau passengers got. One of the doctors is autistic—did you know?” Els silences an incoming call. “Does that answer your question?”
―
My words elicit a thankful smile. “Mostly, though, I knew you could do the job. Did you ever know other autistic people?”
I shake my head. I’d heard rumors about one teacher, but never asked him. Mom had encouraged me to find a local support group, but I’d never seen the appeal—or the need. It wouldn’t change anything. I had friends, anyway. Peopleonline, my fellow volunteers at the Way Station. I even got along with Iris’s friends.
“Well, I did, and I feel like a fool for never recognizing your autism. I had autistic colleagues at the university. They were accommodated, and they thrived. One researcher came in earlier than everyone else and would stay the longest. I saw the same strengths in you once I knew to look for them. You’re punctual, you’re precise, you’re trustworthy. When you don’t know something, you either figure it out or you ask, and either way, you get it right. I wanted to give you the same chance my colleagues had, and that other Nassau passengers got. One of the doctors is autistic—did you know?” Els silences an incoming call. “Does that answer your question?”
―
“I mean: if you’re going outside to look for your sister, I get it.” Max goes silent. Maybe Mirjam’s death is hitting him now, maybe his voice will choke—but he goes on. “But if you’re going outside to help your mother . . .” He gestures helplessly at my injured arm. His fingers stop a centimeter away, hovering in midair. “Don’t risk it. Don’t risk you.”
“She’s my mother.”
“The captain will never let her on if she doesn’t even try. Not when there are so many people who haven’t had thechance to try. People we can use on the ship. People who have been on that waiting list forever.”
There are a dozen things I want to say. But she’s mymother—as though that means as much as people pretend it does.
She is trying, just in a different way—as though I’m convincing myself.
I wasn’t on that waiting list, either.
I might not be someone the ship can use, as much as I’m trying to be.”
― On the Edge of Gone
“She’s my mother.”
“The captain will never let her on if she doesn’t even try. Not when there are so many people who haven’t had thechance to try. People we can use on the ship. People who have been on that waiting list forever.”
There are a dozen things I want to say. But she’s mymother—as though that means as much as people pretend it does.
She is trying, just in a different way—as though I’m convincing myself.
I wasn’t on that waiting list, either.
I might not be someone the ship can use, as much as I’m trying to be.”
― On the Edge of Gone
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