In the fall of 2002 I came home one evening and my wife, Susan was upset to the point of tears, which was not like her. She said there was something wrong with our two-year old, Luke and we needed to start figuring out what to do. This wasn’t the first time we had this discussion. Since the previous Thanksgiving, when on the beach in Nags Head he literally refused to stop staring out at the ocean, transfixed to the point of immobility, our concerns had been steadily increasing. Yet and still, I stubbornly maintained kids developed in vastly different ways, and despite a growing number of odd eccentricities, he was still our Luke; mislabeling a kid was a terrible disservice. Give him time, he’d find his way. I was sure of it.
Sue told me the staff of Huckleberry Cheesecake, the Rolls Royce of DC daycares, had expressed concerns to her that day when she picked Luke up. It wasn’t simply her worrying too much anymore, others saw things similar; and they advised seeing a developmental specialist. I angrily scoffed at the notion. BS, I said, he does everything other kids do, just because he likes to play by himself more often, and enjoys some odd types of entertainment doesn’t demand a clinical diagnosis! Give him a chance I fumed! Sue calmly suggested I stop by Huckleberry next time I was downtown and observe how Luke was interacting with peers. I agreed to it, still certain the whole thing was a fishing expedition.
The next afternoon I swung by the daycare. Luke’s playroom had a large observation window where parents could sit and watch their children while chatting with staff. Ms. Colleen, a wonderful administrator, told me I had arrived just in time for the afternoon storybook presentation. I sat down and looked into the room, which offered a comfy corner book area complete with arena seating that allowed the tots to sit in tiers and listen to one of the attendants read a story while asking questions and encouraging participation. The kids were already seated with their backs to us. I focused intently on the sandy blonde boy in the front row.
As the story began he laughed and clapped, sometimes interrupting a bit inappropriately, others looking off before refocusing, but on balance seemed not vastly different from the other kids. I glanced at Colleen, who had a very sad, empathetic look on her face, like she wanted to hug me. I was confused, even humored by this, and exclaimed I saw nothing much out of the ordinary, and asked what I was missing. Now it was her turn to look confused. I motioned to the kid in the front row and again demanded she tell me what he was doing that had her so concerned. Mr. Carey, that isn’t Luke, she said, he’s over there, pointing to the other end of the room by the kitchen. I looked over to where she directed and there was my son, walking on his tip toes, staring vacantly at the lights in the ceiling, having a conversation with himself, wholly disinterested in the group he had abandoned.
I’ve taken a couple of bad beatings in my life, and actually been hit by a car, but nothing ever slammed me worse than the truth of that moment. From that image on my son had autism; nothing was ever the same again. Reality had pummeled me to a pulp, knocking to kingdom come every last bit of denial. My son’s life was going to be different… that was simply a fact I could no longer spin away.
I’ve thought about that day more than a few times over the last two years or so, wondering when, or if ever, Trump supporters will experience some similar epiphany capable of knocking them to their senses and forcing a reckoning with the truth that reasonable millions recognized long ago. What will it take? When will it happen?
Unhinged rally monologues have only seemed to increase enthusiasm. Bundist wannabes marching through Charlottesville were prevaricated. A ghastly meltdown on the world stage in Brussels was ignored. Treason in Helsinki failed to do the trick. I was sure human rights violations at our southern border would force a good many to gasp and reassess, but no, seems not. A near year-long investigation by the New York Times that chronicled the foundational lie of Trump as a self-made man, instead of a sponge for $413 million in today’s dollars of daddy’s wealth raised not an eyebrow, failing to survive even one news cycle. Multiple bombs sent to his enemies list, the result of his relentless stochastic terrorism, only invites “false flag” denial from his wretched core, or the false equivalence that “the left’s hate” invites what they get. And now eleven more innocents dead in a Pittsburgh synagogue, literally gunned down by a Nazi, who a torrent of Fox News site commenters swear is a liberal!
Trump has made the results of next Tuesday’s balloting a referendum on him. Anybody asserting anything else is as much in denial as the hordes he loves to incite. Next week we will have a better idea whether the myriad of his outrages have snapped anyone at all out of the stupor responsible for our predicament.
Thus far, nothing seems able to budge the arrow. Regardless, one thing is unfortunately certain, this Administration will not be bashful in pushing the envelope of its supporter’s tolerance for uncharted ugliness. Those of us cognizant of Trump’s moral and intellectual vacancy are left to hope that some pivotal moment will provide the body slam necessary for a relevant portion of his heretofore entranced adherents to finally blink and recognize their grevious misjudgment. Of course as time passes and each opportunity is discarded such hopes grow increasingly dim. But really… what else is there? Don’t answer that! BC