A Furious Stranger Called Out My Son In An Airport Bathroom. What Happened Next Horrified Me.

As my daughter and I stepped out of our respective stalls in the airport bathroom, I saw my son standing in the corner waiting for us, having come in after he had used the men’s room next door. He has a habit of eloping at airports, so I was relieved to see him.

“Love,” I told him. “Thank you for coming in and waiting for us.” The three of us moved to the sink to wash our hands. That’s when things got weird.

My son has high-functioning autism, what used to be called Asperger’s syndrome, now called autism spectrum disorder, level 1 support. When people look at him, they notice nothing different. When they hear him speak, they are often impressed at his verbal comprehension and articulation (indeed, his IQ is very high in this area). His challenges lay in perseverations (obsessions or ruminations), recognizing social cues, and having spatial and environmental awareness.

He received his diagnosis at age 7, in March 2020, days before the COVID shutdowns. Suddenly every resource in our small town was unavailable. We started homeschooling and would continue it long after schools reopened. My son loved our home routine, probably because he got to see the family dog whenever he wanted. He’s always had a special connection to animals (music too).

He’s a seasoned and easy traveler, having taken his first flight at 2 months old, which I’m thankful for. Still, traveling is not without stress. He tends to wander away at airports. Over the years I’ve had several moments of pure fear when I didn’t immediately know where he was. One time, after landing and coming into the airport, he bolted for the bathroom without telling me. Another time he proceeded to try and leave the airport because he didn’t want to wait in the TSA line.

Over the years I’ve accepted that most of the time he lives in another world — his inner dimension. While it’s rich and creative and weird and wonderful, there have been moments where I’ve begged him to live in our world more often, not for my convenience but for his safety. Since, on this day, we were in Los Angeles International Airport, one of the busiest airports in the world, I was on high alert. Because of his relatively young age (11), I didn’t think it was strange that he was in the crowded women’s bathroom with us.

My son also has a fascination with sink and toilet holes. He studies the shape of them, talks about them, wants to see as many of them as he can, both in people’s homes and in public places. It’s always been his way. And, according to him, this particular sink hole in this bathroom at LAX had a unique shape — it was less round and more square than most sink holes.

After retrieving his phone from his pocket, he took a photo of it. That’s when an older woman — one I’d noticed had been watching us — snapped. She was washing her hands in the sink next to where my son was, and I saw her look over at him. She started yelling, “This boy took a picture in the women’s room!” She repeated this loudly for everyone to hear as she dried her hands, as she grabbed her luggage, as she followed us out the door.

I felt a combination of embarrassment and anger at the scene she was making, trying to call attention to my son’s odd but harmless behavior. She was still repeating it as we all walked out the door: “He took a picture in the women’s room!” Her posture was menacing and meant to be intimidating.

We separated from her and moved to the side of the hallway to regroup. My son and daughter, not fully comprehending what was happening, stood close to me with their suitcases. Even though we were now a few yards away from her, I could still feel her eyes on us, particularly me. I could sense her judgment for allowing such behavior from my child. I could tell she was waiting for me to berate my son for taking the photo.

What happened next was horrifying. I did exactly what she wanted me to.

Against my gut feeling, which told me my son was innocent, against my understanding of his diagnosis, against my hard-won advocacy of him at school and with medical providers, against my purported assertiveness with strangers and others who may not be conscious of why he behaves the way he does, I scolded him for his actions. I asked him, not in a friendly way, why he chose to take a photo of the sink, even though I knew exactly why. I told him it was inappropriate and that he knew better, even when I knew it wasn’t true, that he didn’t know. I made sure the woman was within earshot. As I went on, my son looked stunned, confused and hurt.

The worst part is that I love his innocence, his youthful quirkiness, his sweet naiveté that sometimes comes with autism. And here I was chipping away at that, all because a stranger assumed the worst of him. I was doing the opposite of what I’ve always done.

The woman’s gaze was gone. She had folded herself into the crowd and disappeared. My son, overwhelmed and teary with emotion, bolted toward our departing gate, which fortunately wasn’t far. I took a breath, took my daughter’s hand and followed my son to the gate. It was there, in our seats waiting for the boarding call, that I apologized. I cried. Never in all of motherhood had I felt so low. I told him I was aghast at my behavior, that I should have stood up for him, that I knew what he had done was innocent. I asked for forgiveness. I told him to take his time. I am perpetually grateful that I got it.

An hour later in the air, I was still brooding, replaying the scene over and over in my head. I found myself looking for the woman, imagining, relishing in what I’d say to her in a raised voice: that she had no right to yell at us, to shame us, to treat my son as though he was a pedophile. That she had been bullying an autistic boy. See that boy over there? Do you know he has autism? You should be ashamed of yourself.

That last thought gave me pause. Would I really disclose his diagnosis? To what end? Is it her business? Would it have made a difference? Would I be hoping to better explain his behavior or to make her feel bad? And as my children grow older (my daughter also has autism), I find myself regarding their privacy more, wanting to protect them. Because I constantly wonder if the world will be too much for their sensitive souls. Or perhaps they will be too much for the world.

The diagnosis of “autism” first appeared in 1980 in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual, the bible for all things psychological, under the category of Pervasive Developmental Disorders. Before then, it was considered to be part of schizophrenia. In 1987, the DSM was revised (as it is every five to seven years), and the criteria for the diagnosis was broadened to include more mild symptoms of autism. That, coupled with improved early screening tools and an increased awareness, have led to a perception of a significant rise in the disorder, though it’s actually that we’ve gotten better at recognizing it.

In the latest DSM, it is listed as autism spectrum disorder, typically followed by the level of support needed (1 through 3). My children are both level 1, which include accommodations such as extra time to transition between activities, managing perseverations and inflexibility in routine, and navigating pervasive and narrow interests (such as sink holes).

In the end, I arrived at the conclusion that no, I would choose not to disclose his diagnosis to this angry stranger. She didn’t deserve to know. She didn’t deserve an explanation. In a different setting, where emotions weren’t so charged, I might have a different answer.

With my son’s blessing, I wrote this essay to give voice to the fine line that parents of children with autism walk, the line between advocating for our kids and guarding their privacy, the line between explaining and keeping quiet, the line between supporting a need and excusing behavior. It’s within these nuances where we live day by day, sometimes hour by hour. Sometimes I don’t get the answer right, but all answers come from a place of care and love.

For people who may not have or even know children like mine, I wrote this to encourage more empathy in the world. These days it is too easy to rush to conclusions about a child’s behavior, judge another’s parenting and shame what is not acceptable to us. I encourage everyone to lean into curiosity and compassion as much as possible, know that we are doing the best job we can, and that our children are amazing people.

As my daughter and I stepped out of our respective stalls in the airport bathroom, I saw my son standing in the corner waiting for us, and I was so proud of him. Going forward, I refuse to feel anything else about him — and I’ll make sure he and everyone else know it.

Lorna Rose is a Pacific Northwest writer and speaker. Her writing has been recognized by Pacific Northwest Writers Association and the Oregon Poetry Association, and has appeared in About Place Journal, Jellyfish Review, Painted Bride Quarterly, Writers Resist, and elsewhere. Previously she has written about raising children with autism for Scary Mommy and Motherwell. Currently an MFA candidate at Augsburg University, Lorna is at work on a memoir about going from L.A. party girl to trail worker in rural Alaska. When not wrangling her two children, she fantasizes about being interviewed on NPR’s “Fresh Air.” You can find more about her at www.lornarose.com.

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