Mel Gilbertson
I cried very little as a child,
Spoke sparsely yet eloquently,
Ate only bread and dairy —
Three sure signs of a changeling.
Had I been born a thousand years ago,
My mother would have grieved for her loss;
Her true child stolen away by the Fair Folk
Swapped for one of their own in disguise.
Desperate, she might have mistreated me
To force the faeries to return her real child.
Changelings do not often survive their youth.
If I had lived, I’d have been watched closely,
Stared at whenever I betrayed my true heritage —
Whether that be recoiling at a soft touch,
Responding too late or not at all,
Or rushing out of a crowded room.
Those who spied me delighting in solitude
Would claim I entertained faerie guests.
A thousand years, and so little has changed.
Mothers grieve for the loss of their child
Stolen by the spectre of autism.
Caustic tonics and abusive therapies
Claim to cure us, restore us to normality.
Our thoughts and feelings are never considered
As if we are merely a puzzle to be solved.
So many claim to speak for us,
Yet so few listen when we speak for ourselves,
So listen closely.
We are your real children
And we do not want to be cured.