Zonkatron

I am Zonkatron (Pedro Flores) and this is my story with autism.

When I was a child 1970’s autism was not a thing people knew about. My mom always said I was the “perfect” baby—unnervingly calm and quiet. While other kids were screaming for toys, I was perfectly happy sitting in a corner, staring at the way light filtered through a window. I wasn’t being difficult; I was just busy observing.

By the time I could hold a brush, I wasn’t painting messy finger-paints. I was obsessed with realism. I would spend hours trying to get the exact reflection of a glass of water or the veins on a leaf. People called me a prodigy, but to me, I was just recording the truth of what I saw. I didn’t care about “style”; I cared about accuracy.

But then, adolescence hit like a freight train. Suddenly, the world stopped being about shapes and colors and started being about people. And people, I quickly realized, were terrifyingly unpredictable. They had this secret code of “social cues” that everyone else seemed to understand instinctively, but for me, it was like everyone was speaking a language I hadn’t been taught.

I felt like I was standing behind a thick pane of glass. I could see my peers laughing, whispering, and dating, but I couldn’t feel the “vibe.” To survive, I retreated into the two things that never lied to me: mathematics and physics.

Physics was my sanctuary. I poured every ounce of my soul into equations. While others were out at parties, I was exploring the laws of the universe. Numbers were my best friends because they were honest.

However, the world didn’t see a “scientist in the making.” They saw a guy who was “socially aloof.” I heard it all: “He’s not very street smart,” or “He’s a bit slow on the uptake.” It hurt because I knew I was smart—I could solve complex calculus—but I couldn’t understand a simple joke.

Sarcasm was my nightmare. If someone said, “Oh, great weather we’re having!” while it was pouring rain, I would spend five minutes trying to figure out why they liked the rain so much. I felt like I was missing a “social antenna.” I spent my twenties feeling like a failure, wondering why I couldn’t just get it.

Then, everything changed when I turned 33. I remember the moment clearly. I picked up a book titled Congratulations! It’s Asperger’s Syndrome by Jen Birch. I thought, “Let’s see what this is about.”

I read the first page. Then the second. By the time I hit the middle of the book, my heart was racing. It was me. Every struggle, every weird habit, every love for physics, and every “failed” social interaction was right there on the page. I wasn’t reading a book; I was reading my own soul’s manual.
I realized I wasn’t “stupid” or “broken.” I had Asperger’s. In that moment, the “socially aloof” label vanished. I realized I belonged to a group of people who see the world in high-definition. I thought of people like Isaac Newton—a man who changed the world because they were “obsessed” and “different.”

That day was my rebirth. I stopped trying to be a “normal” person and started being a gifted one. I realized that my brain is a precision instrument designed for logic and beauty, not for small talk and sarcasm.

I stand before you today not as someone who is missing something, but as someone who sees something most people miss. I’m not “street smart” in the way they want me to be, but I am “universe smart.” I found my tribe, I found my name, and for the first time in my life, I am exactly who I’m supposed to be.