It is "interesting" how ... that no matter the walk of life... or the community, my autism and it's bare, naked truths holds a mirror up to others in said community and people are polarized by me.

Some will judge me & instantly hate me. But when I ask for the simplest explanation of their bias and hate, emptiness is my answer. And then I do not judge those who judged me. Finally, others see the raw humanity and sincerity of how I live.

This pattern repeats in my life so many times. This latest "community", I am not masking. At all. The fireworks are loud and pretty. The hypocrisy is almost as bad as the red hatters. 🤷

I thought up something. Not sure what "it" is called. But below is the story.

My family brought me to Jeddah, Saudi Arabia in the 1970s. One of my own memories (not tainted by oral history or mom's potential exaggerations) was of pita bread. And maybe an orange soda, either Fanta or orangina. We lived in a walled compound, us english speaking people, safe from the wilds.

Across the front entrance was something of an open field. People would kinda congregate and play soccer and there was a pop-up shack selling stuff. That's my first memory of pita bread. It was fresh, soft, and flavorful. My older brother was playing soccer with the other boys.

I remember there being an occasional grittiness to the pita bread. It would be a decade later before I realized it. We didn't know or care that we were "supposed to be afraid" of the Bedouin people across the street from us. I don't think they knew we were a servant family to the 4th in line to the throne of The Kingdom. I didn't really grasp that until now. My brother was the only one running around the rocky desert in shoes...

Anyhow, it was years later, in Florida that I had the realization. We were throwing bread to the ducks, fish, and catfish. And sometimes I'd want a slice. One slice didn't make it to the lake water so I picked it up off the dock and ate it. I instantly remembered that pita bread... it was made in hardship but made with love. And sand.

No matter the situation. No matter the people. No matter the transaction, I will always see the humanity of those around me. I hope I will always have the grace to break bread with my neighbors - and I pray I never "look down" upon bread with a little dirt.

I thought of this memory while someone was looking down upon my simple thoughts, looking down at me for seeing humanity. Are they blessed to not know of bread that has a little bit of sand in it?

That tribe were bedouin nomads. I guess our house's steward, Sali, checked in with them while the naive American kids went outside. If there was any chance of danger, he wouldn't let us. Sali was with us whenever we were outside the compound.