An alternative perspective on autism

An Autistic's guide to autism: When your heroes aren't human

It is a common trope in science fiction to make alien or robotic characters unable to understand or use the nuances of verbal communication. Often portrayed as either emotionless or infrequent in their emotional displays, they stumble through social interaction, misunderstanding the use of sarcasm and humor constantly. At times they provide comic relief: the perfect companion straight man-woman-alien-robot-thing to any character. At other times they are moral centers, certain and unfettered by emotion in their beliefs of right and wrong and of the common good. Spock and Data, the Vulcan and android of Star Trek fame, immediately come to mind as prime examples of such characters.
As a child, I loved them. Their logical thinking and scientific minds helped to inspire my own love of the sciences, and their unwavering certainty in doing what was right – no matter the personal cost – inspired the strict morality that I still adhere to. They were my role models, my heroes, and not just because I thought their uniforms were super cool.
As a young autistic child, these characters were also often the only people I could relate to. Like many autistic individuals – and like my idols – I had difficulty understanding and making sense of the nuances of social interaction. What was and was not appropriate to say and do in different social situations was challenging, and often impossible, for me to grasp. Sarcasm and innuendo were my nemeses, my ability to communicate limited to the most literal of speech. During a time in my life when the world around me was confusing, these paragons of reason were people I could understand. But, like any other form of hero worship, this conception had consequences.
Characters like Spock and Data are portrayed the way they are because they are based on a fundamental assumption throughout science fiction, an unspoken truth that permeates our society and our concept of ourselves: that to be emotionless is to be inhuman, alien, other. As an autistic person, I do not experience emotion in the same way other people do, and so to others I can seem at times emotionless. So when looking on these inhuman characters, who were more like me than my parents or teachers or friends, I too felt inhuman.
When aliens and robots are more like you than your family is, you start to question some things. In my childlike innocence, I did just that. Why is my family so different from me? Why am I so different from everyone I know? Do I really belong? Am I even human?
I would continue to doubt myself well into adolescence, and it would not be until years later that I put my questions to rest, and accepted that even though I was different, that did not mean I did not belong.
A big part of this acceptance came from meeting other autistic people. Many autistic people say that growing up, they felt as though they were from a different world, and had been born on the “wrong planet.” However, knowing that we are not alone in our experiences of the world has led an entire community of autistic people to spring up, both online and in real life. This sense of belonging was something that I experienced far too late, and so I try to share it with as many young autistic children as I can. What I now wish I had had, in retrospect, was a role model who was also autistic. Not a character that was like someone with autism, but someone that was openly autistic, who lived the life of an autistic person, who struggled with the same things I struggled with, but who could overcome their difficulties. While I still love my childhood android and Vulcan (I cried when Leonard Nimoy passed away) and still enjoy our similarities, I try to remember that they are characters written to convey a story, and not real people living their lives one day at a time.

An Autistic's guide to autism

An alternative perspective on autism

This piece represents the opinion of the author:

September 18, 2015

To many, autism is just a vague idea—one of a thousand disorders which affect “someone else’s child.” To many others, autism is the niece or nephew who can put together puzzles blindfolded or who knows the name of every rocket ever built; the neighbor’s kid who won’t look you in the eye and who never speaks to anyone; the schoolmate with no sense of fashion who sits in the back of history class and who never uses their “inside voice.” To still others, autism is a hushed conversation late at night, when the house is quiet and the sun long gone: “Have we failed as parents?” “Is it because we vaccinated him?” “Is it because we didn’t hold her enough as a baby?” “What did we do wrong?”

To a select few, autism is an epidemic; a plague that has swept through the children of the nation and whose cure must be sought out with all due speed before yet another family is tainted with that disease which turns happy, cooing babies into noiseless alien creatures. That disorder which robs children of the ability to make friends, to show affection, to form meaningful connections of any kind. That thing which burdens parents the world over.

These people do not know what autism is.

When I was four-years old, I was diagnosed with Asperger’s syndrome, a disorder on the autism spectrum. Though the diagnosis is now defunct, it would define my life for years to come. Growing up, I found it difficult to make friends. Often I was told I was rude or annoying when my failure to recognize social cues. I was also often overwhelmed by the touch of others, and when my hands and arms proved a more effective deterrent from unwanted touch than did my words, I became the child no mother wanted her child to associate with, for fear that my bad influence would rub off on them. I wore my diagnosis on my shoulder, the only explanation I had as to why I was different from other people. To me, autism was the part of me that made my life difficult, that made others dislike and even hate me. The part of me that made me feel that they were right to.

I did not know what autism is.

But now I do.

From a scientific perspective, autism is simply a description for a particular kind of brain. An autistic brain has high levels of what is called synaptic connectivity; an abundance of biological wires and circuits that make life for autistic people a more intense experience than for those without autism. Each stimulus abounds with information for the brain to process, each touch is like fire, each sound a cacophony, each taste an onslaught. With time, the brain begins to adapt to this overabundance of stimulus, but this adaptation produces an individual who views the world in a unique way.

Many of what are known as the “symptoms” of autism are in actuality characteristics of the autistic brain that do not meet societal expectations. Even very young children are expected to exhibit some form of social ability, to attempt or reciprocate communication on some basic level. However, when the brain is expending all of its energy on processing a mountain of sensory information, it has little time for mole hills such as social interaction. Thus, autistic children grow and develop in a different way from neurotypical children. This is not a bad thing. Viewing and experiencing the world in a unique way is not a sign of disability. Yes, some aspects of society are difficult for the autistic individual. I prefer the quiet of a corner of the dining hall rather than a space in the open, surrounded by noise. I enjoy watching a movie with friends, rather than going out for the night—the first time someone sees me at a College House party will be the day Hell freezes over.

However, my preferences and quirks are not the sign of disability or disorder. There is nothing wrong with the way my brain works, nothing wrong with the brain that so many millions were born with. Those brains are just different. Those people are different. And different is not bad.

So what is autism?

Autism is an experience.

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