Throughout my childhood, I viewed my family as average: four kids, stay-at-home Mom, ranch house in the suburbs, public schools.  The drama of my youth was equally banal: broken arm, awkward teen years, best friend moved away. Utterly typical, except for the elephant in the room. I was so used to living with it that I didn’t see it. 

My older brother has autism. Not Asperger’s, not mild autism, but the head-banging, knuckle-biting sort. He cracked the plasterboard wall of his room with his head. He’d whack it so hard I was convinced that the front of the forehead has no feeling. I’d touch mine sometimes, but I could feel my fingers. Maybe the senses there are only superficial? I did a few test bangs, which barely hurt (and barely hit) but I never had enough conviction to slam my head full force against the wall and test my theory.  Besides, what if I didn’t hit the sweet spot?  

I need to say that my brother’s eruptions of frustration never hurt anyone. On the rare occasions when my sister or I provoked him beyond endurance, he’d pound the wall, holding me (or her) with the other hand so I could feel his anger in every wham, wham, wham against the wall next to my head. Most of the time, we avoided getting cornered, so we scampered off while he lashed out his frustration on the wall.  We had spats over the usual stuff, who empties the dishwasher or gets the bathroom next. No kid is going to let their brother get away with always having his way because of a label that no one understood. 

My parents were not members of the PTA nor girl or boy scout troop leaders. They didn’t organize camp-outs or hiking trips. They belonged to organizations like the MARC -- the Massachusetts Association for Retarded Children (now called The Arc) and organizations devoted to understanding autism. They campaigned for the passage of Chapter 766, the groundbreaking Massachusetts law that required public schools to provide education for the developmentally disabled --- and allowed my brother to leave his private boarding school and live at home.  That was merely the first of many local, state and federal laws to help the mentally ill they fought for.  

Despite the passage of many laws, my brother has always required an active advocate. The maze of regulations for disability benefits, housing, jobs are complex. Keeping my brother from dropping through the cracks takes endless vigilance. 

Along with political action and personal advocacy, they’ve worked with my brother. My father’s tireless devotion and behavior modification have made the explosions and head-banging a dim memory. I think it’s been nearly thirty years since my brother banged a wall or his head. He’s grown much more tolerant of the accidents of chance that can lead to disruptions to his schedule. Until this latest recession, he’s been pretty much continuously employed since aging out of education.

If I were writing this in my twenties, I’d have written about how normal my life was. After all, elephants don’t hang in suburban living rooms. 

If I was writing in my thirties, this might be an essay about the profound impact of living with a tragedy*. After my brother came home, my parents had much less time for the rest of us. My sister recalls when my younger brother got in some trouble at school.  It kept escalating with messages from the school. It didn’t register with my parents until they got called into the principal’s office --- serious stuff in those days.  They paid attention long enough to figure out my younger brother was not going to jail and not going to be expelled. After that, it dropped off their radar screen. They had real problems to worry about. 

Our feelings weren’t on the list. My sister and I had each other, but my younger brother was left to founder on his own. At the same time, we were expected to excel. We were the normal ones, nothing was stopping us. Or encouraging us. We underachieved regularly. My younger brother had a particularly hard time; he was expected to make up for my older brother and for the achievements that might have been my father’s if his job and not my older brother had been his priority. Anything less than outstanding was a disappointment. 

But, I’ve lived a little longer. Aspects of my character may have been forged  from minor emotional neglect. Or from living in a family with stressed parents. Some people might even call it a dysfunctional family. Yet, I’ve never doubted my parents’ love. At a fundamental level, I knew that if my needs were as great as my brother’s, they’d fight for me as fiercely as they fought, and are still fighting, for him.  That is what makes a family strong and healthy.

 * Not only is my brother a tragedy for my parents, but my brother is an unhappy man. He lives in a world that he doesn’t understand and which constantly frustrates him. So much of what brings other people happiness is out of reach for him.