You’ve Always Been This Way is a column written by Taylor Harris, a late-diagnosed neurodivergent woman and 1980s preschool dropout, who identifies every moment from her past that filled her with shame, and mutters, “Yep, that tracks. I see it all now.”
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A quick note from Taylor Harris: This installment detours from my typical style of sharing actual events from my life and trying to make sense of them. What you’ll find here is satire. I’ve had the chance to respond publicly to RFK Jr’s comments on autism, but I wanted to come at white Christian nationalism, pseudoscience, and ableism from a different angle here.
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[A church staff member greets a woman asking for prayer after the service.]
Good morning! It’s Alicia, you said? No. Keysha? Golly, of course, Keysha! Well, praise God, would you look at the two of us up here together, under the flag? What a great day to be in the house of the Lord, God’s first begotten patriot.
You probably thought you’d never hear these words, girlfriend, given your [cranes neck to read woman’s BLACK, AUTISTIC, AND EXHAUSTED tote] differences. That reminds me of the time Pastor Fred—he is such a nut!—called autism the “Tylenol Measles,” but anyhow, you are welcome here. Bring your true, authentic self. Wear your hair extensions and cornrows or shave your woolly hair down close to your scalp like those warrior sisters I’ve seen in the framed art aisle at HomeGoods. If you want to grow an Afro or don authentic garb from your Motherland, please do. We would so love that! Just do it on International Friends Day, the fifth Sunday in March, and don’t forget to bring a neighbor who has come to the country legally and might enjoy a day-old Chick-fil-A sandwich or soggy kale salad.
And while we here at First Church of the Lost Cause of Unity adore how your people stick together when you’re not getting caught up in frightening cycles of violence and matriarchal systems of pathology, I do sense the Lord saying, “Could you turn the social justice noise down, just a notch, Keysha?”
Maybe instead of the EVERYBODY BLACK EXCEPT VAN JONES T-shirt (you are eating in those high-waisted jeans BTW—I swear I wish I had your curves), we could get you a tee from the gift shop that says, HOW DO YOU KNOW THE WOMAN AT THE WELL DIDN’T SUPPORT SECOND AMENDMENT RIGHTS? Or HEAVEN IS FILLED WITH WHITE PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT THE BEST FOR BLACK BABIES IN THIRD–WORLD COUNTRIES; IF THAT’S RACIST, THEN CALL ME “RUSH”! That last one isn’t actually available yet, because the semicolon has caused a ruckus amongst the Board. Anyhow, your waist is snatched, girl! I’ll grab you a size small of the woman from John 4 toting a bucket and a gun.
We just don’t want any distractions or stumbling blocks for these young people trying to grab the hem of white Amish Jesus. I know these boys look thirty-four or thirty-five, but they’re just little babies who tend to make racist, misogynistic jokes and need the guidance of a fair-skinned shepherd. Imagine a little boy, say a thirty-seven-year-old Republican CEO from Indiana, reading your shirt and blaming himself for everything from global warming to the boycotting of Denny’s on Highway 54.
Aren’t we being a little heavy-handed with the guilt?
Now, if you’ll allow me just one more bit of advice: I know you wear headphones in the café after service on account of your personal autism crisis caused by pain relievers and animal troughs full of liquid being pumped into your beautiful Black muscular thigh as an infant, but some women (really it’s one woman—Stacy, from hospitality) say you seem intimidating. Set apart. Comfortable in your skin. She finds that cringe. Would you mind wearing Loops instead, or maybe raw-dogging it since you look pretty normal to me? I mean, better than normal, honestly. You’re the real deal, sister! But if you’re going to eat one of our complimentary Costco muffins, at least try to appear open to small talk. Here are some scripted things you might say, in your own way, of course:
“Wow, that sermon was low-key fire!” Or maybe, “Ayyye, let our savior cook!”
My point is, here, you’re family. And just like at the Olive Garden, we’ll keep grating white Christian nationalism in our sermons, small groups, and worship until you say STOP. Or leave.
We don’t need Black churches and white churches, sis. Do you think the Rapture Bus has a colored section? God has given us everything we need, right here in this massive gray building that runs on coal and “Don’t Tread on Me” energy. Did you know this used to be the city’s only (and dare I say finest) Negro hospital? We bought it outright with cash from an envelope marked CHURCH (God doesn’t like loan sharks or big government handouts, but oh, how he loves him some Dave Ramsey) and renovated it to resemble a vacant mausoleum that comes alive on Sundays.
Now, I know some people of God still want to let Satan divide us during praise and worship. But why separate God’s people like dirty socks when we have capable white people in-house who can sing lyrics in flawless Latin American? Do you really believe Chris Tomlin and Kid Rock aren’t a little bilingual? Por favor! Tell me la verdad, abuela. Sister, I believe God is calling us to take back the language and customs of Brown and Black people, return them to the kingdom of God where they belong. The world tells you it’s Bad Bunny or nothing. I’m telling you, Kari Jobe is the Rosie Perez of contemporary Christian music. Let’s not put God in a box. This year, we’re already planning a dry Cinco de Mayo outreach service under the tent. It’ll be like Pentecost only with salsa. We need revival, Keysha, and it starts with mangoes, tomatoes, and a little cilantro, if you know what I mean.
The Cinco de Mayo party will replace the Juneteenth event we held last year, called “All-teenth,” where we wore white to celebrate finally hearing the good news of our freedom in Christ. We invited this articulate Black man—I bet you know him!—to explain why no one listens to gospel music anymore. Worship music is not about robes and choirs and organs, unless it’s a meticulously curated multiethnic choir dressed in thrifted overalls that hangs out in an abandoned warehouse with candles and a piano while someone records it for money. God’s doing a new thing, sister, and he’s doing it through the six Black men in Detroit who voted for Donald Trump and the cofounder of Maverick City Music, so that makes seven, and that’s the number of perfection!
[Youth pastor runs up from behind and yells “six seven!” with accompanying hand motions.]
Let me jump ahead before our evening prayer service for those affected by Wokeness starts. Jesus sees us all just as he made us, Keysha—without speckle or spot or disability—even people who carry the heavy mantle of Tylenol-Induced Autism. I can hear him saying, “Take off your accommodations. Throw down your fidgets. Set fire to your one-song stimming playlist. Drop the autism and pick up the yoke of white supremacy camouflaged by…” well, honestly, we love camo here, so maybe God’s not using a metaphor. Do you dabble in metaphor, my autistic soul sister from another mister who hopefully didn’t abandon his Black family and contribute to the ongoing crisis? Regardless, I want you to know it’s not your fault, and this isn’t your fight. It’s your mother’s. From what I hear, it was all those hours she spent studying at Spelman (Segregation U, am I right?) and then working at the law firm and hiring a part-time nanny instead of raising the precious baby God gave her.
But take heart, you modern-day Queen of Sheba. Jesus loves her, though she sitteth on the Board of that hateful and divisive NAACP. She’ll come back home. God loves going after the one autistic sheep. And her mother. He loves ewe, get it? I see that smile peeking out from under your full lips! “Autistic people are just like us,” I’m always saying, “only autistic and awkward as frick!”
Now, I know everyone’s gluten-free and fragile these days [rolls eyes] because we’ve replaced measles with masks and whipping posts with time-outs in our schools, but let’s hold hands and pray. And don’t mind our intern, Naphtali, who was forcibly homeschooled, raised in this very church, and will capture this sacred moment for the website.
Ohhh, your hands are buttery smooth! Is this Crisco?
Dear Baby Jesus Who Wasn’t Vaccinated or Given Acetaminophen Post-Circumcision,
Please bless my sister Keysha. God, heal her rampant, renegade autism so that she can write a poem about baseball and pay tithes. Make it so that she no longer needs to take Satan’s pills, because we know Prozac was the seed in the apple Eve ate. When her heart gets all mangled by what the world calls “empathy” and she cries out to you, “Lord, if you cared about the poor and immigrants, why do American Christians throw frozen turkeys on people’s porches once a year and call it a day?” quiet her. Remind her that in the Bible, quail was a sign of God’s provision, and turkeys are their next closest kinsmen redeemers, so we are doing your will with frozen balls of meat.
Open her eyes to see all are welcome in your house, and when guests who entered America the right way visit, even if they are living in trailers or shelters or houses in need of gentrification, they will receive a gift bag lovingly filled by our Young Republicans small group with a custom mug, temporary antler tattoo, and five-dollar gift card to Altar’d State.
Lord, it’s true that Keysha and I aren’t exactly the same. Any blind Bartimaeus can see that. Her sunflower lanyard allows her to board flights early, while most of us, including true patriots and babies in full body casts leading mission trips, have to wait in line. But help her to remember we are all on the spectrum of your love. The only diagnosis we need is that we’re broken. And the only cure isn’t more cowbell, it’s holiness. But whiteness will do in a pinch. Jesus, I believe you’re standing at the door of Keysha’s likely government-subsidized housing in your American Flag Crocs, knocking. All she has to do is open the door and walk into a life free of disability and race-based division. She gets a new heritage today. She’s one of us.
Amen.
