I was an only child for the first threeyears of my life. I find it hard to imagine what my family would be likehad I always been an only child. Many people have younger brothers,those annoying little boys, but most don’t have little brotherslike Max. Two years after he arrived, something unexpected happened: Maxwas diagnosed with Pervasive Developmental Disorder, or PDD, an autisticdisorder. Max would never live a normal life. My parents were told thattheir son might never communicate either verbally or nonverbally. Theywere devastated, though I do not remember any emotional turmoil in myhouse. It must have been heartbreaking to have to categorize Max and meinto “the autistic one” and “the normal one.”

In fact, when I was given the opportunity to write about him fora book of stories written by siblings of autistic children, I titled mypiece “Max, The Autistic One” since I couldn’t come upwith anything better, and at seven I thought that sounded dramatic. Asfor the piece itself, well, I sounded like a brat: “I have thislittle autistic brother named Max. And he doesn’t know anything atall. Well, some things he knows, like speaking, and he knows hisalphabet and numbers. I can’t stand that he’sautistic!”

I guess I made that clear. But it continues:“What I figured out from him is that he loves me and that he wantsme to love him just as much. I would like to trade Max in for anordinary four-year-old. I hate having an autistic brotherbecause he doesn’t play things I like to play.”

Ididn’t know that an “ordinary” brother might not haveplayed the things I liked to play, either.

“If I had anordinary brother, life would be easier. Max listens to me, though, andhe plays with me. But I hardly ever, ever like him. It’s hardhaving a brother like Max.”

So, according to my own words,Max didn’t do things I liked to, yet he still played with me.Reading the piece again after so many years, I realize that I probablyresented Max’s being different and in my immaturity blamed him forit. It hurts now to think that I felt like that. Some“normal” child I was. Max would never have resented someonefor being different - he might point it out, but not in a mean way.He’s innocent and inquisitive, and doesn’t carry the sillyprejudices and resentments “normal” peopledo.

“Normal” sounds so ugly. Since Max’sdiagnosis, my family has questioned what normal is and accepted thatindeed, we are not normal. Our lives are not normal, but we go onliving. My mom once told Max’s aide that “our life isimprov” in that we always have to react to what Max says or doesto make sure that he doesn’t offend people or attract negativeattention. His tendency to speak out in his naturally stentorian voiceabout whatever he feels has earned him the nickname - and I came up withit - “Call Out Boy.” (He hates it when I call him that.)Whether we have to try to keep him from staring at the girl who only hasone hand in the elevator or the very short woman at Wendy’s(actually, we couldn’t stop him that time and he observed inchildlike wonder, “You’re just a peanut!”), we areimprovising. As a result of being around such an unpredictable person, Ihave learned not only to take what life brings but also to communicatewith people effectively by keeping them interested, as I would Max.

For two summers I volunteered as a teacher’s aide at aschool program. All the students were learning disabled and haddifficulty paying attention. I knew I was making a difference when Icoaxed a shy girl from her shell by drawing Spongebob Squarepantscharacters with her. I tried to figure out ways to teach them sothey’d understand but have fun too. I learned this from engagingMax in conversation for so many years even when professionals wereconvinced he could not communicate. We used to sing the theme songs tocartoons and imitate Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck.

Because Max andI were together all the time and he talked to me more than anyone else,I became his interpreter. He was in his own little world, a secret clubthat he let only me into. When Max talked and my parents didn’tunderstand, I would explain. I am worried that Max may be lost when I goto college, and he actually told me that I need to go nearby becauseotherwise he will miss me.

I don’t know what the futureholds for Max or my family, and I won’t lie - thinking about itdepresses me. The future is terrifying. All we can do is live each dayand fight each battle in Max’s world.

In “Max, TheAutistic One,” my bratty younger self is redeemed at the end:“I sort of like Max because he’s the smartest autistic inhis class. We play school with my dad. It is fun. We color and do craftsand it’s like real school. I hope Max will turn out to be a verysmart person when he grows up. I want Max to be that way. I wish andpray for it.”

I also redeemed myself by saying that I“sort of” liked Max and that I took lots of positive stepswith my family against autism. Max “played school” six daysa week with therapists trained in a technique that’s verysuccessful for teaching communication (though at the time it wasbelieved to be a negative therapy). Thanks to this, and everything elsemy parents had faith in, Max has been fully included in regularclassrooms with the help of an aide. My family really did get muchfarther than the dead-end we thought we were looking at when Max wasfirst diagnosed. Without Max, I don’t think I’d be a betteror a happier person. In fact, I feel blessed to have had the experienceand to feel well-prepared for whatever I do in this world. Maybe I caneven make a difference for others, somehow, in the way that Max has madea difference for me.