Last night, as I strolled through the mostly deserted mall with my two youngest children, I noticed five girls a few paces behind us. Fresh from a movie, we were in high spirits, making our way to join four of my older kids. We paused to snap a photo at one of those playful cutout boards where you poke your faces through the holes. While posing, I caught sight of your group, full of giggles and energy, a typical scene of teenage fun.
You seemed harmless enough, moving faster as the distance between us shrank. Just as we resumed walking, my son lagged behind slightly to adjust his earbuds, lost in a world of music—though not the typical playlist you’d expect from a 13-year-old. If only you had peeked into his headphones, you’d have discovered he was likely vibing to Disney songs or tunes from the Muppets, far from the mainstream hits.
As he hurried to catch up, I noticed you begin to mimic him, mocking his unique way of running, arms flailing as you laughed. The mall’s stillness amplified your giggles, and I felt a shift within me. Before I knew it, I turned to confront you, my heart racing with a mix of anger and disbelief. “My son has autism. I truly hope you’re not making fun of him,” I said, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside.
Your responses were stuttered denials, but I knew what I had seen. One of you—on the far left—had clearly imitated my son’s movements, and the guilt etched on your faces told me everything. I felt a rush of protective instinct, but I turned back to my children, grateful my son had his headphones in and likely missed the exchange.
In that moment, I reminded myself that you were still just kids, perhaps decent girls most of the time. One of you acted impulsively, while the others followed suit, lacking the courage to stand against the mockery. I thought about your families, how much you are loved, and how you might not fully grasp the impact of your actions. Maybe in your world, laughing at those who are different is seen as harmless fun.
In our small town, my son, Jake, is surrounded by peers who embrace his uniqueness. They don’t mock him; instead, they support him. Had any of those friends been there that night, they would have defended him more fiercely than I did.
I’m still unsure if confronting you was the right choice. This was the first time I witnessed anyone mock my son. In thirteen years, I thought we had escaped such experiences. How does that make you feel, knowing you were the first to break that streak for us?
Statistics suggest that many of you may someday become mothers. While I wouldn’t wish a child with disabilities on anyone, I genuinely hope you have long stretches free from bullying. If your child ever faces ridicule, I hope you won’t be reminded of the time you laughed at a child like mine. That burden could be too heavy to carry.
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In the end, remember that kindness should always triumph over cruelty.