The police killing of the 27-year-old autistic man, Steven Washington, last Saturday was not only a horror to his loved ones, but was a soul-wrenching, ever-present nightmare come true for me, personally, because I am the mother of an autistic man. The police slaying of Washington — an innocent, misunderstood disabled man — was the manifestation of the one fear I live with every single day. I have two adult sons, Russell and Ian. The older one, Russell, is autistic.

When he was a baby, I felt something was wrong with Russell and I discussed my concerns with my pediatrician, who kept assuring me that “babies develop at different rates. He’s fine.” But as Russell grew into a toddler and his reactions (mostly non-reactions) to things began to really bother my husband and me, our pediatrician, also became concerned and ordered the first of what was to become a long series of referrals to medical, psychological and behavioral specialists who submitted Rusty (which is what we called him then) to batteries of examinations, evaluations and tests, all seeking to answer our question, “What is wrong with him?”

Finally, all the experts agreed and returned a diagnosis of autism when he was 3 years old. From that point on, Rusty was handled with kid gloves. He was accepted into USC’s therapeutic preschool, invited into UCLA’s program for autistic children and completed his elementary, middle and high school education at the Dubnoff School for the Developmentally Disabled in Burbank. I have nothing but the highest praise for the Dubnoff School, because when he was accepted for admission there, he did not talk (Could not? Would not? Who knows?) was indifferent to situations around him, did not make eye contact with people, didn’t like to be touched and was afflicted with an assortment of repetitive movements.

But on his graduation day, Rusty, in a blue cap and gown, stood at a microphone before a crowd of complete strangers and made a speech! It was a good speech about which we had no prior knowledge and my husband, my mother, my sister and I cried like babies. (My younger son, Ian, moved to the other side of the room because he said we were embarrassing him!)

Until this point in his life, Russell (which is what he insisted on being called now) was under strict parental control and never went anywhere alone. After all, he was autistic and he sometimes made inappropriate movements that could be misinterpreted by strangers. He would sometimes fling his arms around, mumble to himself or just take off running for no apparent reason, causing him to be perceived as either crazy or on drugs by the general public unaware of his autistic responses to the stressors of anxiety and fear.

My husband and I always kept Russell wrapped in a protective cocoon. But now, Russell was growing up. He was becoming a young man — at 6 feet, 4 inches tall, a big young man — and developing a curiosity of and interest in things beyond our parental cocoon. He was a high functioning autistic with an average IQ who could read and write and who could handle numbers and dates with an “idiot savant,” “Rain Man”-like ability. He could talk, hold certain kinds of jobs in certain kinds of companies and make some friends among the few people to whom he could relate. He loved to dance and he liked music and art. He was active in social organizations for similarly afflicted young people and he always looked forward to attending the Friday Night Social Program at the Ability First Center in Woodland Hills.

Although shy around strangers, disconnected from situations around him, lacking in the social graces, painfully naive about the evils that people do, Russell was growing up and getting a life. When my husband was alive, we were a tag team devoted to keeping Russell in a constantly safe environment where other people wouldn’t bother him. But now it’s only me — and sometimes Ian, who is good about stepping up and protecting his big brother.

Russell is an adult now and he has places to go and things to do and I’ve had to loosen the apron strings so he can ride the public buses around the Valley by himself, work all day, five days a week in a place with people I don’t know without me, go to the mall and buy stuff without me, go to restaurants and order meals without me, go to his counseling sessions without me, and visit friends and attend social events without me. He can function. I should be happy, right?

That’s what all these years of therapy have been trying to get him to do — function. But his ability to function has embedded in me the one fear I have. The one thing I live with every day, all day, is the gut-wrenching fear that my son, Russell, will be shot dead in the street by a cop.

Russell is fine as long as he is not anxious or afraid. His anxieties are triggered by delays, unexpected occurrences and disruptions in his routines. When anxious, he does that pacing, arms-flaying, mumbling thing that makes you think he’s on something. When he’s afraid, he runs, and hostile situations and people yelling at him makes him afraid. Adding the facts that he is a big, Black man in a predominately White environment, Russell is potentially the ideal victim of a police killing. All police encounters are anxiety-inducing, even among people without developmental disabilities.

But my fear is that if a cop confronts Russell and he starts twitching, wringing his hands and throwing his arms around, the cop will “fear for his life” and kill my son. Cops always approach suspicious people in a hostile manner, so I fear that if a cop yells at Russell, his fragile nerves will be set on edge causing him to run away from the cop’s loud, angry voice, and the cop will shoot him in the back just because he ran.

Russell is a sweet, gentle man who has never done anything wrong in his life. He does not know how to do wrong. He’s not that attuned to the various forces affecting human beings. He’s an annoying rules-follower! But when he’s upset and “freaking out,” he has to be treated gently. He must be talked to calmly and reasonably and be made to sit or stand still, take deep breaths, because his heart pounds like crazy during those episodes, and he needs to be soothed into getting a grip on himself. Will a cop do that? No. He’d just kill him. 

Every day when I wake up I pray that my autistic son will not encounter a cop and will, therefore, make it through the day alive. Each night when he goes to bed, I say “Thank you, Jesus.” I offer my most heartfelt condolences to the family of Steven Washington, as I truly, truly feel their pain and realize that there, but for the grace of God, go I.