Awakening to Jake

Jake has made a nest on the back porch. He scavenged a futon, sleeping bag, duvet, and many pillows. There's a hammock in case he feels the need to be wrapped. The porch is screened in to block summer's mosquitoes, but Jake uses the nest mostly in the winter, and he keeps the two ceiling fans churning to create an arctic breeze. Beyond the porch is a large backyard the shape of a twin bed; tall trees surround its perimeter. Two of the thickest trees used to be connected by a zip line that Jake accidentally snapped midslide, the wire whipping his back as he fell, which left him with a large red stroke running parallel to his spine.

Jake's nest is always askew and is covered in dog hair and dirt from his bare feet and the nights he forced the new puppy to sleep beside him. Jake picked out the black Lab and named him Buddy, but Buddy is skittish and passionately fears him. If Jake is on the porch with the family, Buddy will not go outside but will cower and whine from the double kitchen doors, unable to approach my tall, black, dreadlocked little brother.

My parents didn't seriously wonder about Jake's atypical behavior until he stopped sleeping in his childhood bed, preferring the floor of his closet. He seemed to like how the sleeves of his jackets stroked him and the closeness of the four walls. My parents also noticed how he enjoyed the sound of repetitive banging and couldn't look strangers or acquaintances in the eye. Though unaccomplished in reading and writing, Jake could solve handheld spatial-related puzzles with expert speed. The sort of challenges that to me were evil trickery: two intertwined metal shapes that must be separated. His obsessiveness, too, was another common characteristic. Finally, what tipped the scale was the utter blankness on Jake's face when he looked upon his brand-new pool table, a birthday present he'd been asking for all year. My mother compiled the evidence and took Jake to a specialist, who confirmed that he had autism spectrum disorder.

Now he is twenty-two years old and nests on my parents' back porch in suburban North Carolina after a decade of moving from foster care to in-care to group homes to weeks in the psych ward to yearlong stays in behavioral correctional facilities. Their house echoes with bangs, threats, and fuck-yous. Their piano bench is speckled with the imprint of screwdriver heads. Walls have been punched through and resealed. My parents have called the police for protection from Jake many times. The flashing lights have parked in the rim of the wooded cul-de-sac, a patch of concrete as round as a large magnifying glass. They are that neighborhood family with the wayward child.

But the police have not been called for a while. Jake has a full-time job where he shapes and saws pieces of plastic. He has a few long-term friends. Now he soothes his mind by smoking copious amounts of marijuana and electronic cigarettes. He walks with heavy eyes and heavy feet that scare the dog. He no longer runs, climb trees, or laughs. While my parents hope the peak of his violent and aggressive behavior has passed, they still often treat him like a time bomb, treading carefully around him, counting down the days to an explosion. Every night that he's home, their precious bomb lies in his nest, cocooned in many layers of fabric to protect him from the cold winds. He doesn't care to listen to the whirring crickets but watches movies on his phone until he falls asleep.

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At first, when black men being shot to death by police across North America started making headlines, I did not think of Jake. For me, this period started in 2014 with the death of Michael Brown because that's when many of my white friends awakened...