I’ve always loved The Rolling Stones. Guns & Roses wove their way into the soundtrack of my adolescence. But my go-to song? The Beatles’ “Yellow Submarine.” It wasn’t the lyrics that got me, or even the melodies. I loved these songs because they helped me communicate with my brother.
My older brother, Jake, has autism. He is able to speak, but I learned from a young age that nonverbal communication created the most genuine connection between us. He loves 80s rock music, and whenever we’d play a song he resonated with, his entire face would light up. He’d laugh, sway back and forth, and flap his hands: his way of showing his unbridled joy. Neither of us said a word, but the connection I felt to my brother during these times spoke volumes.
It also meant a lot to me to see him happy because there were plenty of times when he felt the complete opposite. Many people with autism have behavioral challenges, and from a young age, I got used to Jake’s sudden outbursts.
I got used to seeing my parents defenseless in public, trying their very best to calm him down. I also got used to the stares we got from others. I understood their intrigue, but that didn’t stop me from feeling like they were spectators, watching my family like we were a circus. These people would go home and probably think, “wow, that was interesting,” and never think of the event again. For my family, these events were everyday occurrences, and they stick with me to this day.
In recent discourse around autism, I see a lot of focus on the autistic people themselves and their parents (rightfully so), but it’s a lot rarer to hear a perspective from a sibling. This may be because a lot of us are used to sharing the spotlight and feel guilty about shining it completely on ourselves. But there’s no doubt that we share similar feelings – often, conflicting ones.
If you’re like me, you’ve probably been angry at your brother for causing a scene in public, while also feeling bad that he’s struggling to express himself. You’ve probably wondered what life would be like if he wasn’t autistic, but then immediately feel guilty for even considering that possibility.
It’s feeling like the eldest sibling because your older brother didn’t get to hit big milestones first: like driving a car, going away to college, or getting into a relationship. It’s wondering what could have been if things were different, but then considering yourself lucky, because you know that not everyone will experience a connection like this one.
While Jake may not have guided me in the typical way an older brother might, his impact on me has still been profound. Because of him, I see the world through a lens of empathy, I don’t spend as much time worrying about life’s small inconveniences, and I carry with me a sense of purpose: to help make everyone l encounter feel comfortable and happy.
Jake and I still listen to 80s rock music. To this day, it’s one thing that always brings us together. We may have grown up, faced our own unique challenges, and moved away from one another, but “Yellow Submarine” will always be “Yellow Submarine.” That song will always connect me to my big brother and remind me of everything he’s taught me…so far.
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