Attention Paid

When my son Jack was eight, a year after he’d been diagnosed with Autism, we were sitting as a family at the dining room table eating tacos – all of us, that is, except Jack. That night, The Brothers were having an argument. The Brothers were his left and right hand, whom he, an enthusiastic puppeteer, would animate and give voice to. They were a new addition to the imaginary world into which he would often disappear, and so while he may have been sitting at the table, his mind and his attention were far away.

The tacos on his plate got colder as the heated disagreement between The Brothers went on. I could normally accept a certain amount of his intense pretending, but it was time to eat. Jack always ate when it was meal time. It was one of the “normal” things he did.

So, I started being a father. “All right, Jack. Time to eat. The Brothers can finish their argument later.”

The argument continued.

“Jack, come on. Your dinner’s getting cold.”

Brother One growled louder at his sibling.

“Jack! Jack, are you listening to me?”

More growling.

I stood and scooped him from his seat and carried him to the living room and put him on my lap. I didn’t care then about Autism and the differences between people. I wanted him to pay attention to me because it reminded me of his inherent normalcy and because I didn’t like it when anyone ignored me, especially when I was looking that person directly in the eye. I grabbed his wrists. “Jack! I’m right here, Jack. Stop pretending and look at me.”

He did not look at me. All of his attention remained locked on his fists, where The Brothers’ theater continued. He’s just hiding, I thought. That’s all this is.

I was reminded of the hiding I’d done in my life, and how shameful it felt when I did so, and then, in the next moment, of the box of cookies I had hidden on the top shelf of the kitchen cabinet. I’d stowed them there, ostensibly, for the good of the children, so they wouldn’t ruin their appetites on sweets, but mostly so I wouldn’t have to share them until I so chose because Dad liked his sweets.

I let go of his wrists. “Do you want some cookies?”

Jack stopped growling, his fists opened, and his eyes snapped onto mine. “Cookies?”

“Yes,” I sighed, “we have cookies. Finish your dinner and you can have some.”

And with that, he hopped from my lap and hurried into the kitchen where he started eating his tacos.

The writer in me was reminded again that nobody owed me their attention. There’s nothing more valuable someone can give another, this private creative engine in us all that brings the world to life in our mind. Offer someone complaint, they may ignore you; offer them criticism or edicts or facts, and they may ignore you. But offer them love, actual love, even in the form of a cookie, and they will pay you their attention, for you will have given the only thing anyone is looking for.

Check out Fearless Writing with Bill Kenower on YouTube or your favorite podcast app.

Everyone Has What It Takes: A Writer’s Guide to the End of Self-Doubt
You can find William at: williamkenower.com