I just scrapped a draft that I was trying to write on this subject. I had gone into an in-depth look through my life that was trying to argue the following: autism is no clear and exact entity. There is no such thing as a singular autistic identity, a singular way of being autistic. In her book titled Deaf in Japan: Sign Language and the Politics of Identity, Nakamura argues this exact point, except in relation to deafness rather than autism. She argues that what it means to be deaf can change "based on the context [deaf people] found themselves in." When we try to restrict identity to a singular form, Nakamura says that "the nature of the effort is similar to a fractal pattern: the closer we get, the more forms of identity appear" (186). Nakamura's writings on identity in 2006 were attempting to address a problem she saw in Deaf political movements grounded in American identity politics. There was a tendency in these movements to restrict the meaning of what being Deaf meant to the point where this excluded those who wanted to join these communities, but who also didn't fit the rigid and narrow identity category (i.e. must be born deaf or become deaf early in life).

Does this sound familiar at all? These very same problems Nakamura mentions have also occurred in the autism community (which, I should add, isn't a single monolithic community either). There has been no shortage of gatekeeping in the community, whether it be from non-autistic parents telling autistic advocates they are "too high-functioning to be autistic," or from the autistics themselves. I've even heard suggestions in some online autism forums that entry into these communities should require proof of diagnosis. While this suggestion is obviously exclusionary to those who can't get a diagnosis, it also hints at a deeper existential insecurity in autistics. It almost seems like being diagnosed as autistic doesn't rid a person of the sense that they might not be autistic after all. This insecurity causes these individuals to create a sharp line between what does and doesn't count as autism. The doctor or psychologist's diagnosis provides the security required to prevent the diagnosis from becoming porous or even meaningless.

In a sense, this insecurity is justified. As the decades have worn on, we don't have a solid consensus on what autism is. The DSM-V doesn't help in this matter either; not only is the definition of autism provided extremely broad, but it also neglects the individual's relation with the diagnosis. Being diagnosed with autism early in life, for example, is very different from being diagnosed later on. The degree of identification with the diagnosis can greatly vary. In Deaf in Japan, Nakamura mentions an individual who didn't view themselves as deaf, even if they experienced some degree of hearing impairment. The same thing occurs with autism. Just because someone is diagnosed as autistic doesn't mean they view themselves as autistic. The diagnosis might matter very little to them, regardless of how they've been viewed in other's eyes. They might say they struggle a little with socializing, or they perhaps lined up marbles in a row when they were younger. Does this make them autistic?

Ido Kedar and Mel Baggs, from what I recall of their writings, both mention that being autistic doesn't necessarily mean you're going to relate to every other autistic person. Kedar mentions that a person with Asperger's who interviewed him struggled greatly to relate with his experiences, almost as though they'd struggled with two completely different disorders. Kedar, unlike other autistics, doesn't experience any issues with social communication. Instead, their primary problems lie in motor issues and verbal communication. The person with Asperger's, on the other hand, struggled greatly with social communication and had trouble comprehending why this wasn't the same case for Kedar. Baggs recounts that sie had poor experiences with an autistic therapist because they automatically presumed that their experiences were similar to hirs. However, sie also recounts that were autistic individuals that sie could relate to better than others, to the point where they could read each other's body language. Donna Williams, in Nobody Nowhere, also recounts a similar phenomenon with a man she met named Shaun. His father explained that he had meningitis when he was a baby and apologized for any actions he did that seemed strange. Williams, in response to Shaun's father, said that there was nothing wrong because the man was just like her (183).

All this to say that autism isn't one singular thing that's clearly definable. Just as those with the same diagnosis can strongly relate with one another, so can they feel deeply alienated from one another, whether cognizant of this fact or not. Like other disability categories, autism is a diverse phenomenon, and we can't make easy or singular conclusions about the people within it. I hope I've made my point here clear!

After a series of short cold days and long cold nights, a particularly cold day had arrived. This didn't come as a surprise to me until I went outside after holing myself up in my room throughout the morning. For a brief moment, I denied it. But the realization came soon enough; it was cold. Even in the afternoon, with the sun at its brightest, I couldn't deny this fact. I went on my bike, and forty-five minutes or so had passed before I came back to the point I had departed from. I rode through a few neighborhoods in what had became a routine for me, a routine tested by the time span of nearly three years. As the mundane creature of habit I am, I then recognized that it was Friday. And this Friday, unlike the previous weeks, would provide us with a nice and clear sky, the same sky that allowed for such forbidding cold. Since there were no clouds on this day, our local observatory would open up for stargazing. I could hardly resist the opportunity.

Evening arrived, and then came night. The temperature plummeted to even further depths than it was at earlier that afternoon. My excitement grew greater and greater as the time approached. After weeks of dreadful rain, followed by a period of desolate and cold sun, I'd be finally exiting my mundane routine to look up and above at the stars. I rode up those silent roads with my father, who accompanied me, and we eventually arrived at the parking lot. I was bundled up in layers and wearing a pair of gloves. As we wandered up the path to the observatory, creeks meandered under the paved trail, taking on the same hue as the cold and desolate sky above us. We found ourselves in what would appear as a grassy plain in the daytime. There were trees in the horizon, but they would hardly obscure the view of the telescopes.

If it weren't for the chatter of crowds as they made their way up, and the stars above us, it would've been a lonely night. I always find myself quite paranoid at night if I'm not accompanied by anyone. Darkness obscures my surroundings, and only the warmth of other human beings beside me provides me with comfort during the dark. In those unique and special moments at night, when I'm surrounded by the company of those I care for, I feel like anything is within reach, however far it may be. When we arrived telescopes were already pointed at the stars. Volunteers from the community assisted those that had arrived. Those who came were often accompanied by the rest of their family, but there were some solo visitors as well. I watched as one kid made their way up to the eyepiece. The volunteer gave them instruction on how to look through it, telling them not to get too close and to close one eye while observing. They eventually got the hang of it and were able to look at a binary star system. Sadly, I forget this beautiful system's name.

I cautiously approached. "Can I take a look, please?"

"Sure!" The volunteer, an older man, showed me to the telescope and briefly looked through the eyepiece. He wanted to make sure the object was still in view.

I peered through the scope and noticed, at the center, two bright dots. They were so close to one another that they almost seemed to be one star. Even through the eyepiece, the two stars appeared to be quite bright.

"This is a binary star system. The two stars orbit around one another--they're interdependent on each other gravitationally," he said.

"What kind of stars are they?"

"I'm not sure," he replied after a brief pause. Later he asked another volunteer the same question I had posed. I thanked them for his time and checked around the other telescopes. These two telescopes were positioned on the outside of a small building which itself housed another two telescopes. These latter were far larger and heavy-duty. They could be moved via remote control. All the volunteer had to do was find the object they wanted to view on their tablet. From there, they could tap the object and the scope would automatically move where they wanted it. Each time they moved the scope, the volunteer would shout "Scope moving!" to make sure that everyone stayed out of the way. Apparently someone had hit their head on the scope once since they weren't aware of its motion. Ever since, the volunteers have announced when the scope is moving in order to prevent further casualties.

I was gradually overwhelmed by the sea of people entering the observatory grounds. I'm not accustomed to crowds and too much commotion stresses me out. I shuffled around inside and outside in an attempt to find a telescope that was relatively unoccupied. In the midst of the chaos, I eventually found myself back inside the building that I was trying to get away from before. I found myself in front of a monitor with a picture of the Horsehead Nebula. Behind me was the big telescope taking image and after image. One of the volunteers adjusted these stacked images with various filters on the computer software. The technology baffles me, but I can't question what I see--a beautiful view of the grand Horsehead Nebula. The light we see in the scope from the Horsehead Nebula takes over a millennium to reach us.

People gradually crowd around the screen, and I found myself trapped in their midst, unable to venture somewhere quieter. Although I wasn't paying too much attention to who was coming and who was going, I noticed a young boy accompanied by an older woman. The boy immediately drew my eye. He seemed incredibly excited to be present at the observatory.

"This must be like going to the zoo for you, huh, Anthony," the old woman said. (I have provided the boy with a pseudonym to protect his privacy.)

I noticed that, as Anthony spoke, he rocked back and forth in a gradual swaying motion. Immediately various thoughts bubbled into my mind, and these thoughts rapidly made connections with other ones. The word autism flashed in my mind, but I dismissed that as hasty. I brushed the idea off and decided not to think about it. The whole ordeal only briefly surfaced into my consciousness before fading away back into unconscious oblivion.

Anthony made his way closer to the screen. As the volunteer lectured about some spiral galaxy, Anthony raised his hand and would wait for the volunteer to call on him. After the volunteer did so, Anthony would attempt to guess the names of the objects on the screen. Although he had strong knowledge of the names of many celestial objects, he still made his share of mistakes. I wondered how he memorized all those names. When I was young boy passionate about astronomy, my memorization stopped at Pluto. Like Anthony, I also raised many questions to the volunteers when I was younger. I caused one a great deal of annoyance by wondering whether Pluto was composed of the element plutonium. To my young mind at the time, the guess seemed more than logical.

The older woman behind Anthony kept a close eye on him. It was vague, but I could sense the smallest hint of concern mixed with embarrassment. It was one of those emotions that come off like weak aromas, vague scents that originate from nowhere. The aroma was so weak that I assumed it was only the tension I felt. I wondered how Anthony was treated at school. Had he ventured into middle and high school? I knew the kids in the schools he would eventually make his way into weren't typically kind. Most of the outcasts at my school were disabled in one way or another. They were typically viewed with either pity or annoyance. The bullying could become ruthless. Meanwhile, those, like me, who were too scared, would not dare stand up for them, focused as we were on keeping the small shreds of social status we had.

Anthony raised his hand again. After the volunteer finished his brief lecture, he called on Anthony.

"Can we look at the Andromeda Galaxy," Anthony asked.

"We certainly can," the volunteer replied. "Once we get to the Andromeda, I'll have a question to ask you, Anthony." He asked if everyone was done with viewing what was currently on the screen. After we all said yes, the volunteer shouted "Scope moving!" and we could hear the noise of the shifting mechanism of the scope as it journeyed its way to the Andromeda. On the monitor, we were greeted with a bright flash of color and light. As the image rendered, we were greeted with the sheer scope and grandeur of the Andromeda.

"What galaxy do you see here, Anthony?"

"The Andromeda!" he shouted excitedly.

"That's right! You can see two galaxies that orbit around the Andromeda. Which ones do you think they are?"

Anthony was briefly puzzled, but he answered the question with an authoritative tone: "If I were to make a guess, I would assume that those are the Large and Small Magellanic Clouds."

"That's a good guess Anthony, but those are actually two galaxies that orbit the Milky Way."

I was unable to catch the rest of the conversation. The crowd was growing larger, and my attention shifted in and out of my thoughts. Eventually, Anthony was no longer in the crowd. I didn't know where he went, and the thoughts that had briefly ventured into my mind before were no longer there. I wasn't thinking about Anthony any longer. I wasn't wondering about how he was doing at school. Instead, I soaked in the atmosphere of the stars. I moved my way around the observatory. I continued my cycle around the various telescopes. Before I left the observatory, I even managed to get a view of Uranus, a planet I don't get to see too frequently. One of the volunteers explained that, despite common belief, both Uranus and Neptune have rings.

My father was growing tired, and he was also my ride home. I too was growing tired, and our orange tabby was waiting for us at home. When I came home, I knew he would hop up on my lap and lie down on the couch with me. This is exactly what he did. Like me, our orange tabby is quite a mundane creature.

--

"Did you think Anthony was autistic?" my father asked me the next morning.

This wasn't the first time I had gotten this question after coming back from the observatory, as kids that my father believed were autistic did come quite frequently to the observatory. It was no wonder my father pointed them out to me so frequently: I was autistic. It only seemed logical that that would give me a special knowledge of whether those around me are autistic or not. However, whenever I'm asked this question, I always feel a hint of discomfort and disagreement. It's not that I know for sure that these kids aren't autistic; it's that I wonder whether I'm truly an authority on the matter. I'm just some random person who was given the diagnosis when I was much younger by an educational psychologist who knew me for a fateful few hours. I don't even like paying too much attention to the fact myself. For years I've fought with accepting my diagnosis and the history that accompanies it, and this struggle in turn led to me distancing myself from others I considered autistic. Who was I to tell someone whether they were autistic or not?

Instead of telling my father this, I set aside those thoughts. I didn't do this because I felt that my father didn't support or care for me. He is quite caring and supportive. I don't know why I didn't divulge my thoughts.

"Yes," I said, "I do think Anthony was autistic."

I don't know if Anthony or his family know about autism. I don't even know if they consider Anthony autistic. All I have as an outside observer are vague impressions, vague insights, and my own creative imagination. However, I, for a moment, will assume that Anthony was in fact autistic. I'll assume that he was, like me, diagnosed when he was younger. If that is the case, I wonder about the struggle he went through. Did he receive a battery of therapies like I did? Did his mother make cold calls to any organization or institution that could help her child? Did his parents seek whatever means they could, like many others, to help Anthony "recover" from his autism? Did he also feel that sense of alienation from others that many autistics feel? Did he get bullied?

But I also wonder other things too. Does he have friends or loved ones that truly care for him? Will he ultimately come to dismiss those who try to harm him and recognize how trivial they are? Will he feel resolve around his own diagnosis and come to his own conclusions upon it?

As I ask these questions, I wonder if I'm overextending my reach and assuming something that isn't there. I now recognize that, of all these questions, only one remains truly important: Will he continue to love the stars?