Love is So Not Fair

Let's Keep It Blind

Yesterday, an unattractive man walked down my street, bobbing his head to something I couldn’t hear. I didn’t see any headphones, but he wore a sloppy T-shirt, baggy jeans and crocs. His wild curly hair and rather tubby torso brought out my immediate judgment. He’s a loner. Poor guy probably has no friends and is lonely.

Just after the lonely guy passed by, a huge monster truck with a confederate flag and Don’t Tread on Me signs roared past. The driver gunned it down our residential street as if he owned the place. I literally jumped out of the way in case he swerved toward me. I felt angry, but then I caught myself. What if both these dudes were only needing love from a fellow human? And what if they each rejected my outstretched hand?

Then I remembered that when I point my finger, three are busy pointing back at me. I’m the lonely one at times, and oddly, I rather like it that way. I do have friends, but they probably think I’m way too intense—like how I don’t love small talk. The moment I meet someone, I have this urge to converse about the deepest things in life.

No, I don’t flap my arms or bang my head (although this week after the election it might have helped). I actually hold a degree in Special Ed but have never identified with any of this. So what if I have synesthesia (the blending or crossing of sensory clues—like assigning colors to numbers or associating music to abstract concepts). So what if I hate crowds and need to “stim” by picking at my cuticles? I’m reasonably smart but I always thought my superlative memory was just another part of l’strange me.

But here’s the shocker: I was researching autistic behaviors to better understand my Middle Son. And I had to admit that I fit the majority of them.

Could I be autistic too? And what does that mean for my ability to love others as I would want to be loved?

I also dislike hugging and I’ve discovered that maintaining eye contact is difficult. I prefer to communicate in writing and I have such sensitive tastebuds that I can’t stand strong flavors. Which makes me a bit strange, I suppose. But I can still choose love.

Because of my disability, I’ve assumed all the weird stuff was a result of those awful hospital stays in childhood, of me masking my inability to be normal out of fear of rejection. Maybe not? Either way, it’s dangerous but I can choose to love.

I doubt I’ll run out and be tested for Autism Spectrum Disorder as it’s now called. My coping mechanisms are so ingrained—and I daresay they serve me well. But I do think I can learn about how I love others and how I process the world’s unfairness.

I tend to feel very deeply, but I rarely cry. Still, I’m always drawn to those who suffer and want to help make it right. My best days are when I can love those I disagree with—and right now that’s a mighty steep hill to climb.

Whether you’re gloating this week because your side prevailed or you’re hunkering down for the next four years, you can still love. Not all of us are autistic, but every one of us can find unfairness in life—from all the times your mom told you life isn’t fair to the times you get left behind by society.

If you’re standing at a crossroads today, weighing whether to end relationships over disagreements about politics or religion or what brand of bread is best, think about what love does. It brings together the head-bopper and the monster-truck driver, the autistic, the maybe autistic and the normie. Those in the out group and those in the in group can each choose love.

Love doesn’t try to persuade or strongarm or putdown. Love listens and lends a hand. I may always be a sorta kinda weirdo (autistic or not), but I will try to understand others who don’t fit in. And I’ll possibly fail a thousand times holding space (and nose) for those whose choices gag me. Let love be blind as all of us reach out to each other in this fractious time.