Dear H: for those of us to whom words
sometimes do not easily run, saunter, or even
amble: we speak in code. We think in code. We
construct our languages painstakingly
like little Tolkiens, separated by time, distance, and space:
but the Hobbits and the Elves ain’t got
nothing on us. We have the dexterity
of pictures, objects, or even
moving film to send messages to world,
or even to our own selves. Like
ladybugs made of burnished cinnabar
inlaid with little obsidian gems, loud like volcanoes,
each careful crafted by a God hand
and set loose to fly away home: these
little three-dimensional living hieroglyphics
exist so that your neighbor Mrs. L
can hold her place in time and never collapse
or fold up inside forgetful darkness. Or like
little goldfish that represent your great grandmother
in your dialect: I see them, made of amber,
or made out of mother-of-pearl and then
lacquered in the gold resin usually reserved for
rebuilding the broken bodies of cracked-apart
teacups. And after the repairs, those teacups
are bequeathed with a new set of gilt, gleaming veins
in their skins.
I have heard some say that we are broken.
Busted up toys.
Dolls that do not speak when their strings are pulled
or even worse, that wax loquacious like
caffeinated rivers preaching single-subject gospels
to the world. Little toy cars that only drive
to a single destination. Action figures content to
line up their weapons according to size and function
when no one is looking. But no one ever looked closely
to see the veins of gold in our skins
that hold us together: I found mine when I was
thirty-four years old. And you, you are a
superconductor, transmitting plans for mechanical arms
made from K’nex and Lego iPod holders
from brain to fingers, manifesting
solid creations from invisibility. Just like
I manifest poems from the unseen code books
in my brain.
It is at best, ignorance, or at worst, arrogance,
to assume that a language unknown
or unable to be decoded
communicates or means nothing.
Maybe you have heard of the Navajo code talkers
of World War II: their modified dialect of code
was so sophisticated that even a captured Navajo soldier
who didn’t know the code told his interrogators
that the transmissions he heard sounded like
nonsense. Your symbols, my moving picture poems,
and the language of every other autistic,
are electrified with all kinds of color, and so
I offer a toast to you, my young friend:
let us keep speaking in code as long
as we walk this Earth. Our languages are not mistakes,
or broken syllables, or to be dismissed as mere
unintelligible nonsense. They simply need our translations
to be understood.
© 2012. Nicole Nicholson. All Rights Reserved.
This poem was inspired by a post at Thirty Days of Autism in which the author speaks of empathy and how her son uses physical objects to represent people in his life who have passed away, so that he may remember them. Because the nature of autism and how it manifests can be so specific to each person, it made me think of how each of us can have our own codes — or languages, if you will — to express ourselves. The post struck me so much that I felt the need to write this poem.