Dinosaurs to derivatives; autism and Special Interests

An Autistic's guide to autism: The challenges of autistic dining

Food is important. It sustains us, nourishes us, and provides us an opportunity to bond with our fellows during its consumption. Eating is used as a pleasure activity, a social activity, or just something to pass the time. Everyone does it. But for the autistic, eating can be a challenge. Many autistic people I know—myself included—have very limited palates, which are irregular in their patterns and nonsensical in their choices. Many a friend has been confused by the variety of foods that I can and cannot eat, and almost incensed by the seemingly random nature of those foods. Why can I eat pizza but not cheeseburgers? Why can I eat pears but not lettuce? Why is it that I can eat plain pasta, but as soon as a sauce enters the mix I’m out? And why, why for the love of God, do I not like chocolate? While there is a method to the madness, some explanation is required to get us there.
The fundamental difference between an autistic brain and a neurotypical brain is that an autistic brain experiences more of the world than does a neurotypical brain. Sensory experiences are more intense, with more information being processed and every bit of that information carrying more weight. Taste is a sense, comprising not only the physical components of texture and aspects of taste, but also the olfactory component that translates smells into parts of taste as well. It is in these combinations of smell, taste and texture that many derive enjoyment. Chefs are praised on their ability to mix textures, on being able to add subtle hints of flavor to a dish, or to meld seamlessly many ingredients into a cohesive whole. While this may seem enjoyable to many, to me—and to many autistic individuals—all of that just seems like too much.
When your sensory experience of the world is intense, complexity is not your friend. For me, when a food is too complex or too intense—when, for instance, spices are used in the dish, or when many ingredients are mixed together—I cannot eat it. Now, this should not be confused with disliking a food. There are many foods that I do not eat simply because I do not like them. Lobster is one of them. If pressed, I could consume a lobster to survive, with only a mild amount of griping. With other foods—like salads, or sandwiches, or the more complicated dishes that are served during special events—the sensory experience is far too intense, and I cannot eat them. To attempt to do so would be physically painful to me. To illustrate what I mean, take an example from my childhood.
When I was eight, my mother and I went to an old restaurant and shopping center called Grand City (whose structural carcass is now occupied by a Cool as a Moose). When we ordered our lunch, I ordered chicken fingers and fries, and she a sandwich and salad. Her salad came first, and while we waited for the rest of our food, she tried to get me to try some of her salad. Then, as now, I did not like vegetables. For me they are either too textured or too strong tasting, but she assured me that, by putting dressing on one of the cucumbers, I would like it. I did not. As soon as that dressing soaked cucumber entered my mouth, it came right back out again, and into my mother’s water glass. She was not pleased.
Now, did I want to spit the dressing-laden contents of my mouth into my mother’s water glass? No. But the pungent odor of the dressing, the crunch of the cucumber’s flesh and the slimy texture of the seeds, were all together so intense that I felt I was going to throw up (and even now, ten years later, I cannot think of that story without feeling a little queasy). Such is my experience with many foods. Any food with an intense taste, or multiple textures, or a combination of the two, is going nowhere near my mouth.
At times this makes my life a bit difficult. During my pre-O trip, I had to survive mainly on apples and tortilla shells, and during orientation proper, when fine dining was the name of the game and everyone around me was expounding the quality of the food, I had to subsist on rolls and pears. After applying for accommodations, my food situation has much improved, as the dining staff now knows that for me bland is better, but eating can still be a challenge sometimes. That is okay, though. I do not mind bland foods, because to me they are just intense enough, so my dietary needs are often less expensive (both in terms of calories and dollars) than for most. As one of my autistic friends likes to say, “he is richest whose pleasures are cheapest.”

An Autistic's guide to autism: Deciphering sarcasm and saving my social life

Being autistic, I am not always able to tell when someone is being serious and when they are kidding around. Things like sarcasm and teasing are hard for me to identify; the contextual clues required to differentiate a light hearted joke from a serious insult are not always obvious, resulting in my often taking funny situations far too seriously.
This caused problems for me when I was in my early years of education. When a teacher was trying to be lighthearted—perhaps making a silly joke about my name in relation to the similarly named state or peppermint patty—I would take the joke too seriously, coming home in tears thinking my teacher was mocking me. By contrast, I would also take situations in jest when they were not meant to be. A fight between friends could seem to me like a lighthearted spat, and my attempt to join in on the fun would only escalate the situation, leaving two very angry friends and one very confused me.
When coming to Bowdoin, I was worried at how my inability to register serious situations might hinder me socially. I worried that I would come off on the wrong foot if I was taking things too casually or too seriously, and thus alienate the people I would be studying with for the next four years. I was especially worried about how I would interact with the people living on my floor. If I could not interact appropriately with them, then I would be left dealing with a very long—and very uncomfortable—first year.
Unfortunately for me, my dormmates turned out to be the joking type. At times I worry that the only way they can communicate with one another is to rib and tease. While for the first few weeks of my first semester, my use of the age old autistic tactic of “winging it” allowed me to differentiate between teasing and serious comments, I was still worried that the façade might come down, and I might slip up in a major way.
Fortunately for me, my new friends and I came up with a way for me to cope with their joking nature, and still allow them their fun. On one cold night, while walking back from Super Snack, I made a suggestion that would save me forever more from the embarrassment and confusion that I feared. Enter the sarcasm eagle.
The sarcasm eagle is an effective and efficient, autism-approved way of indicating when someone is not being serious. To use the sarcasm eagle, one puts one’s hands together, with the thumbs wrapped around one another, and the hands splayed out to either side, palms inward, as if miming a bird or other winged creature. Then, one flaps the “wings” of their hands and says, in a clear tone, “Ca-caw.”
The beauty of the sarcasm eagle lies in its clarity and simplicity. It is so outside the realm of typical behavior that there is no way of misinterpreting it (how many times a day do you see someone imitating a bird?). And instead of a long, drawn-out explanation as to the nature of a joke, or a justification as to the reasons for a comment, one need only flap their hands and say “Ca-caw,” and with that simple physical gesture and masterful onomatopoeic phrase, one conveys a wealth of information as to the nature of the situation.
For me, having such a simple and reliable way of reading a situation is a godsend. I know just what the tone of a situation is, without having to use my less than stellar reasoning to figure it out on my own. I am very grateful to my floormates for accommodating me in this regard.

An Autistic's guide to autism

Dinosaurs to derivatives; autism and Special Interests

This piece represents the opinion of the author:

February 26, 2016

Many autistic individuals, throughout the course of their lives—though especially in childhood—have a singular passion that captivates them. This passion is more than a mere hobby, more than a mere interest, more than a pastime or diversion. This passion is the focus of captivation and affection, of time and love and energy. In autistic jargon, it is known as a Special Interest. Capital “S.” Capital “I.”

Dropping the capital letters for a moment, a special interest is some singular interest that an autistic individual focuses their attention on to an extreme degree. This interest may take the form of any topic under the sun. It might be something general, like art or music or sports. Or it might be something particular, like the royal family of Saudi Arabia or words that begin with “Q.” Regardless, a special interest is one that an autistic individual fixates on. If the interest is academic, the autistic person might learn everything they can about the topic. If the interest is of a more physical nature, the autistic person might do whatever it is that interests them all the time, perhaps for hours every day. The special interest often (but not always) takes away time from other interests, and the autistic person’s worldview and experiences are often based around their special interest.

For a group of individuals constantly overwhelmed by their surroundings, having a special interest serves as a grounding point for autistic people. When navigating the strata of society, or wending their way through school or work or home environments, an autistic person may depend on their special interest as a constant. As something that makes sense.

When I was younger, my special interest was dinosaurs. I loved dinosaurs. I loved dinosaurs a lot. I learned about dinosaurs whenever and however I could. I memorized their scientific names, and words associated with them, and the men and women who discovered them. It was difficult at the time for me to talk about anything but dinosaurs. This also came at a time in my life when social interaction was very difficult for me. I had very few friends and was often in trouble at school due to misunderstandings or lack of communication with classmates. I cried often and was overwhelmed even more, as the world was a confusing place that I did not feel I fit into. But dinosaurs made sense. A carnivore was a carnivore, a triceratops was a triceratops—those words did not change their meanings depending on circumstance. They remained constantly (and comfortingly) solid and understandable, even when things happening around me weren’t.

At the time I did not view my special interest as a refuge, and in a way I still don’t. My special interest right now is mathematics, and while I am not as singularly focused on math as I once was on dinosaurs, I still find myself spending hours of my time working on math, just because I love to learn about it. While I do not use math as an escape from anything, it is comforting that math, like dinosaurs, doesn’t change very quickly. Both are too old for that.

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