CHAPTER 54

Original: 2007-08-17

Rewritten: 2026-03-24

Lun cares only about the present moment. He does not dwell on the past—he has memories, but no nostalgia.

For quite a long time now (nearly fourteen months at the time of writing), Lun has not mentioned “going to school tomorrow.” It seems he no longer keeps school or his teachers in mind at all, and has fully adapted to the rhythm of life in the residence.

We also never mention the word “school” in front of him, so as not to disturb his train of thought.

I believe that people with autism mainly live in the here and now. As long as their present life is comfortable, they do not cling to the past. They may have memories—often with remarkable recall—but they do not feel nostalgic.

Once, at a playground, I ran into a young man with autism whom I had not seen for over twenty years. Back then, he was not yet ten years old. His face looked much the same, though he had grown much taller. The moment he spoke, he called out my English name.

They focus only on present happiness and do not spend time reminiscing. However, if we accidentally mention “going to school” in front of them, it may trigger memories of school life, and they might assume they are supposed to go to school again. Whether this would bring joy or distress is uncertain; most likely, they would simply treat it as another scheduled activity.

When Lun was still in school, he was used to attending classes five days a week, spending Saturdays at a caregiver’s home, and on Sundays going with a six-foot-four Caucasian social worker senior to McDonald’s for a Happy Meal. If we were to rekindle his desire to go to school, it might disrupt his thinking. Therefore, we not only avoid mentioning school altogether, but also do not take him back to visit his former teachers.

Since moving into the residence, Lun has never asked to go out again with the caregivers who used to look after him. Reflecting on other children and adolescents with autism whom I have worked with, I have observed the same pattern.

One child with autism, the same age as my younger son, whom I cared for over five years, would immediately say goodbye to his mother as soon as I picked him up each week—urging her to leave as quickly as possible. When I brought him home, the moment he saw his mother, he would likewise say goodbye to me at once, focusing entirely on the next activity.

A mother once confided in me that her son with autism showed no emotional reciprocity despite all her care. Most children, once they grow more aware, will occasionally thank their parents, show affection, or even plan little gestures to express their love and surprise them.

People with autism are born without the innate ability to perceive and respond to complex emotions in others. A well-known American inventor, who is a high-functioning individual, once said she could not understand how love and hate can coexist. This is one of their greatest limitations.

Parents of children like them must understand and accept this reality, and let go of unrealistic expectations. That said, they are in fact constantly observing their surroundings and taking in information. They can sense respect and care from others, and are capable of choosing how to respond.

Many years ago, while leading a summer program at a bowling alley, I noticed from a distance (thirty to forty feet away) a mixed-race boy of about thirteen or fourteen. From his behavioral traits, I could tell he was likely on the autism spectrum, accompanied by a staff member. Shortly afterward, when we were closer, he gave me a broad smile.

Lun dislikes noisy, overly talkative, high-pitched, domineering, or excessively affectionate people. When he knows that someone “loud and overbearing” is visiting, he will retreat to his bedroom.

His teachers, special education assistants, caregivers, and residential staff are all professionals—patient and measured. I believe they all simply wish for Lun to adapt well to his new life, and do not mind whether he keeps them in his thoughts or not.