Respect. Everyone claims to have it, but few show it. Sure. People "respect" their elders, their parents, their bosses... yada yada. But do they really know what that word means?
Respect: verb
re·spect ri-ˈspekt
respected; respecting; respects
transitive verb
1 a : to consider worthy of high regard : ESTEEM
b : to refrain from interfering with
2 : to have reference to : CONCERN (Merriam-Webster, 2023)
How many people truly respect the feelings and boundaries of others? Not many. They respect only what they understand. If you don't fit into their neat little box of "normal," forget that respect.
Normal. I hate that word. What is commonly accepted isn't what is always normal. It's a word that is really more subjective. There's an old saying that goes something like, "What is normal for the spider is chaos for the fly." It's true, and I feel like a fly among spiders every single day.
I'm not normal by traditional standards. I don't think like other people. I don't behave like my peers. In fact, I don't even think or behave like my own beloved family members. My sweet husband respects that (definition "b" above). He may not understand why I get overwhelmed when I'm trying to shop for something in a crowded store, but he respects that I do get overwhelmed. He's learned that I just have to step away sometimes... and that's ok. He might not get why I just don't want to be touched when my senses are overloaded, but he respects that and is waiting with a hug when I'm ready.
Social interaction isn't easy for some people. We need boundaries between work or school and our personal lives. -No, Jane; I don't want to join you for a drink after work.- It's not that I don't like people. I just see no need to mix my personal life with work. Work people are work people. After work is over, I don't want to see them.
When I was in elementary school, a friend gave me her phone number. I asked her why. She said it was so I could call her after school. I didn't understand why I would possibly want to do such a thing. I saw her all day in class. School friends were a part of school. Home was home. Two different places; two different worlds. I never called her, and I don't think she considered me a friend anymore.
As I got older, I began to grasp the idea of friends a little more. These were people that I should associate with outside of school. It only really clicked for me once I reached Junior High School. The expectations and pressure to have a social life had begun. I still kept it to a minimum. I was "weird" and definitely not "normal." I didn't have a lot of friends, and I certainly didn't have close friends or, Heaven forbid - boyfriends. Not for a long time.
As years passed, I learned how to wear a "mask" to seem as normal as possible. I imitated people's behaviors and studied them to make sure that my own reactions and behaviors made me seem normal. I struggled with who I was and why I wasn't like other people. I was learning to pretend, though, so my own feelings about myself had to be pushed down.
As school days gave way to work days, I learned to adapt with new "masks." My first employment opportunities consisted of retail and fast food establishments - customer service was the number one target. For that, I had to learn to seem like a "people person." I excelled in my various jobs. Eventually, I landed in accounting. Accounting is easy. Numbers don't lie, pretend, talk, and they are logical.
Even working daily with numbers, I have found that I still have to pretend to be socially "normal" every single day. Let me tell you - it is EXHAUSTING! At the end of a busy day, the last thing I want to do is prolong my time with coworkers. I just want to go home to my husband and children where I can be myself without judgment or unrealistic expectations.
Do my coworkers respect that? No. The worst times are birthdays and Christmas. I asked that my birthday not be recognized as I am not comfortable with the attention. I didn't want to, nor should I have to, go into great detail about why I feel this way. Of course, my wishes were not honored. There I was awkwardly standing in our little break room area with gift bags and food on the table. I felt so flustered inside that I cried later on that afternoon while driving home.
Christmas has been just as much a burden on my anxiety. We were all told that our department head would be taking us to a fancy (I mean really fancy) restaurant for dinner in lieu of buying us gifts. The fact that I am a vegetarian and not interested in going to a steakhouse seemed of little import when I used that as an excuse to not participate. I got the age-old answer of, "They have salad." Oh, joy. That's just what I want: eating a small side salad while the nauseating smell of meat and seafood dishes surround me.
To be honest, being a vegetarian is a part of the reason I did not want to participate. The bigger reason, though, would definitely be the unappealing prospect of socializing with these work people outside of a work setting. Politely declining the invitation resulted in the same old near-begging for me to go. Why is "no thanks" not enough for people? I was even told that I "need" a night out. How would anyone other than me know what I need?
I will never fit into anyone's box. I am not neurotypical, and I can't become so despite the efforts of well-meaning coworkers. I beg anyone who reads this to be more accepting and respectful of people's boundaries. Just because someone doesn't want to participate in a social gathering or event doesn't mean that they don't like you. Maybe they just don't like that sort of thing.
People on the autism spectrum are out here working, going to school, and living regular lives. We aren't going to "look" autistic or "act" autistic to satisfy some ill-conceived notion of what it means to be autistic. I shouldn't have to speak to HR and reveal that I am on the spectrum and ask that my wishes be respected in regards to social situations. I don't want to do that, because that results in rumors flying and coworkers treating me like I'm some sort of alien species or sideshow freak.
I do not look forward to all of the comments. "I would have never guessed you have autism." "I don't think you're autistic." "My [sister, cousin, boyfriend's neighbor's dog's groomer] has autism. You don't act like them." "An autistic can't work and live a full life like you." Any combination of those and many, many more ridiculous statements and questions could and would be hurled at me. What am I supposed to do? Should I "look" or "act" more autistic for you? Let me get my helmet and do some autistic genius stuff.
No. We flies will continue living among the spiders trying to stay out of their webs. If you are a fly, please know that you are not alone. There are more of us out here in the world than the world would have you believe.
If you are a spider...stop pushing everyone into your little box of normal! Respect people and their differences even if you don't understand them. Consider the fact that not everyone thinks or acts or processes information like you do. If someone declines a social invitation, don't take it personally. Maybe you have been graced by the presence of a fly trying to avoid webs.
About the Creator
Julie Hill
I live in a small Southern town with my husband and children. I have been a wordsmith for as long as I can remember. I devour the written word and love nothing more than to give the gift of a compelling story or poem.
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Hind Rajab: A Child the World Heard Too Late
Cinema has always been a powerful medium for telling stories that history books often reduce to numbers. When a film chooses to focus on a single child caught in the machinery of war, it forces audiences to confront reality not as statistics, but as human loss. The movie inspired by the tragic story of Hind Rajab, a young Palestinian girl, does exactly that. It is not merely a film; it is a testimony, a memorial, and a question posed to the conscience of the world. Hind Rajab’s name became known globally after reports emerged of her final hours during the Gaza conflict. She was a child trapped in circumstances no child should ever experience. The film based on her story does not sensationalize her death, nor does it turn her suffering into spectacle. Instead, it approaches her story with restraint, dignity, and an unwavering focus on innocence lost amid violence. The Story at the Heart of the Film The movie centers on a young Palestinian girl who becomes separated from safety during intense military escalation. Through her eyes, viewers witness fear, confusion, and the fragile hope that someone, somewhere, will come to help. The film follows her final journey—both physical and emotional—using minimal dialogue and powerful visual storytelling. Rather than relying on graphic imagery, the filmmakers choose silence, pauses, and close-up shots to convey terror and vulnerability. This artistic choice makes the film even more haunting. The audience is left to sit with the child’s fear, her calls for help, and the unbearable waiting that defines her final moments. By focusing on Hind as an individual rather than a symbol, the film restores her humanity. She is not portrayed as a political tool, but as a daughter, a child with dreams, and a life that mattered. A Child as the Center of a Global Tragedy What makes this movie particularly impactful is its refusal to shift focus away from the civilian cost of war. The story does not revolve around soldiers, strategies, or power struggles. It revolves around a child who should have been worried about school, friends, and play—not survival. This narrative choice challenges the audience to rethink how conflicts are discussed in media and politics. Wars are often framed in terms of borders, ideologies, and victory. This film asks a different question: What is the price paid by those who have no role in choosing the war? By centering the story on Hind, the film exposes the imbalance of power and the devastating consequences faced by the most vulnerable. Artistic Direction and Emotional Weight The film’s direction is deliberately restrained. There is no dramatic background score overpowering the scenes. Instead, ambient sounds—distant explosions, static-filled phone calls, the quiet breathing of a frightened child—carry the emotional weight. This realism makes the film deeply unsettling. The young actress portraying Hind delivers a performance that is heartbreakingly authentic. Her expressions alone communicate fear, confusion, and bravery far beyond her years. The filmmakers avoid overacting or melodrama, allowing the story’s truth to speak for itself. Cinematography plays a crucial role as well. Tight frames and limited perspectives reinforce the feeling of entrapment, while long, unbroken shots force viewers to experience time as Hind did—slow, uncertain, and terrifying. A Political Film Without Political Speeches One of the film’s greatest strengths is that it does not rely on speeches or overt political messaging. Its power lies in its simplicity. By telling one child’s story honestly, it exposes the broader reality of civilian suffering in conflict zones. The film does not tell audiences what to think. Instead, it asks them to feel—and that is far more powerful. Viewers are left to grapple with difficult questions about responsibility, accountability, and the value of human life. This approach has made the movie resonate across cultures and ideologies. Even those unfamiliar with the details of the Palestinian struggle can connect with the universal themes of childhood, fear, and loss. Reception and Global Impact Since its release, the film has sparked intense discussion on social media, in film circles, and among human rights advocates. Many viewers describe it as one of the most emotionally challenging films they have ever watched. Critics have praised its ethical storytelling and refusal to exploit tragedy. For many, the movie serves as an entry point into understanding the human cost of the Gaza conflict. It has been screened at independent film festivals and community events, often followed by discussions about civilian protection and children in war zones. Most importantly, the film ensures that Hind Rajab’s name is not forgotten. In a world where news cycles move quickly, cinema has given her story permanence. Why This Film Matters This movie matters because it stands against normalization of suffering. It reminds us that behind every headline about war are real people, real families, and real children whose lives are forever altered—or ended. By immortalizing Hind Rajab’s story, the film becomes an act of resistance against silence. It insists that her life had meaning and that her death deserves acknowledgment, reflection, and accountability. In the end, this is not just a film about one Palestinian girl. It is a film about every child trapped in conflict, every unanswered call for help, and every moment when humanity fails its youngest members. Cinema cannot undo tragedy, but it can refuse to let it be ignored. And in doing so, this film ensures that Hind Rajab’s story continues to speak—long after the screen fades to black.
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