Man with a briefcase

Perry Hoffman

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I observe the man with the briefcase and I wonder, "Where is his destination? What kind of life does he have?" Neatly dressed in business attire, he seems to me to be very important. The man with the briefcase probably drives a car, wears good clothes, engages in regular conversation with his girlfriend or spouse. Does the usual things with his wife or children. He is clean — polished. Smooth. Slice of Jimmy Stewart Americana. Down to earth, all-American guy. I'd love to meet him. Wouldn't anyone?

I look at the man with the briefcase with envy. I want to be just like him. One thing is for certain — he's not autistic. You won't hear echolalia from this man. He doesn't need routine. Doesn't need time for Judge Wapner at 6:30 like Rainman. I sit in my room, a prisoner to my autism. Mom and Sis doing their loving best to get me out. I wanted to get out — really get out. I wanted to love, to feel, to connect. But I couldn't. I was stuck. So I continued to look at the man with the briefcase and say, "How do you do it? What's your secret to relationships?"

Flashback December of '78. Cute red head girl caught my eye. Looking to impress. If she liked me, I would get boarding pass to real world. Closer to having a relationship. Closer to my dream of becoming the man with the briefcase. Closer to being a regular guy.

Through my shyness and awkwardness, I summoned the courage to get her number. I did it. I had arrived. I started becoming a pen pal to her. She started telling me intimate details about her hopes, dreams, and aspirations. Perhaps this was an opportunity to tell her what I was- that I was autistic.

Wrote about autism in Christmas card. Days and nights passed. No response. Was it something I did or said? I turned to my friend and he decided that we should go over to her house. In excited anticipation, I bought her a little Christmas gift.

When we arrived, I looked into her soft, sweet face. Upon seeing me, she turned to my friend and said loudly, "Now why did you have to bring him and his autism over here?" I was devastated. The Christmas Present I had for her shook in my hand. I walked to the nearest garbage can and threw it away.

"Boy was I stupid," I said, crying. "Why in God's name did I have to tell her that I was autistic as a child?"

From that point on, I denounced my autism. I buried it, vetoed it, denied it, cursed it, exorcised it by putting a stake in its heart. I never tried harder to become the man with the briefcase. Read the New York Times. Glanced at the Wall Street Journal. Personified cool, like Miles Davis and Frank Sinatra. Be suave like Tom Cruise. Be a sophisticate like Denzel Washington. Observe how the regular people act at singles clubs and parties. Act like a businessman. "Good morning sir- pleased to meet you. Here is my card. Let's negotiate the deal."

Man with a briefcase. Man with a position. Man with a condo. Man with a red Ferrari in his driveway. Bring him into a social circle and he'll astound you with his facts and figures. Man who knows leaders of Ghana and Greece. Man who knows Troy Aikman's passing percentage. Man who knows the exact number of games Cal Ripken played. He's the foremost expert on relationships. Go ask him. One thing's for certain – he's not autistic. Ain't no echolalia from this man!

I tried to act like the man with the briefcase. Took on intellect and coolness. Raised hand in classroom – decorated language with sophisticated tongue. Impress friends with my knowledge of restaurants, art, movies, music, books, and sports. Goal: to become multicultural man.

Bury autism in layers. Don't reveal anything. Deny my past. Always remember to be phony and plastic. Don't be true to yourself. The man with the briefcase would do it that way. One thing's for certain – he's not autistic. Doesn't need time for Wopner at 6:30 like Rainman.

I was slowly dying. There were days I truly wanted to end it all. If any days were good, I didn't deserve it. I shouldn't be happy. Autism teaches you that – because it's a life sentence. In my jail, the nights were always cold, dark, and lonely. Relationships were going nowhere.

By the time I hit my late twenties, I had enough of the carnage, the hate, and the self-pity. Perhaps there were autistic people who pretty much went what I went through. Instead of absorbing, let me give –- let me share – let me help others who were stuck in their own darkness.

Fast forward to '96. Clinton in White house. Chicago Bulls rule NBA. Independence Day in the cinema. WWW Dot Com universal language. Man offers experience and help to parents. Man seeking to guide and teach others.

Today I write this to all my autistic friends to say, "Yes, I have been there. Did that. My story is your neighbor's story. Our story is Temple Grandin's and Donna Williams'. It includes all the speakers at this conference. It also includes the four-year-old who is about to be diagnosed with autism. It's all about us."

We've all had that awkward moment. From that heartbreaking dating experience to that personal rejection. It hurts. It stinks big time. We want to love, cherish, heal and champion our partners. We can do these things. I know we can! People, thought, just won't give us that second look because we are, or were, autistic.

I said good-bye to the man with the briefcase a long time ago. I have my own life to worry about now. Facing up to myself is indeed rather scary. I don't know where this will lead me. I still feel quite alone. I feel practically naked that I revealed so much. Every person I tell constitutes great risk for me. Will they accept me, hug and embrace me, or will they run away- afraid of what I was? I ask myself in the realm of relationships: is this an act of courage – or blind faith?

Mel Gibson's "Wallace" character in Braveheart said, "Every man dies, but not every man truly lives." If that's the case, let me truly live. To work, to play, to engage in a conversation with a friend, to go off to faraway places, to share a pizza with someone special. I can do that. You can do that. As a matter of fact, we can all do that.

Courtesy of MAAP