Deciphering sarcasm and saving my social life

An Autistic's guide to autism: Dinosaurs to derivatives; autism and Special Interests

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.

An Autistic's guide to autism: Beyond the stigma; disability can positively forge identity

I am a disabled person. Much of my life is dictated by the fact that I am autistic, and that therefore I am unable to do certain things easily. Being autistic dictates where I go to eat every day, where and with who I spend my time, in what places I can work and study and enjoy myself. If a food is too complex I cannot eat it. If a place is too loud then I cannot be there. If a statement is too vague, then I cannot understand it. As well, that which I consider in excess is just fine for the typical person. In short, because I am autistic there are things that are much more difficult for me then they are for the majority of other people.
And yet, I consider autism to be fundamental to my identity: to my internal conception of myself. When I give a presentation about autism, or write an article about autism, or just talk about autism in casual conversation, I try to make it very clear that I do not consider autism like an ailment that I am stuck with, but as a part of who I am. So much so, that I have changed the way that I speak about myself: from “a person with autism” to “an autistic person.” I also try to make it clear that I would not want to be any other way than I am now. Despite all the difficulties I experience because I am autistic, if some procedure were developed that would stop me from being autistic then I would refuse it (and vehemently at that).
Why?
Two reasons.
The first concerns the concept of disability itself. Having a disability is often associated with bearing a burden, or with withstanding a trial. When we speak and think of disability, we are often making the implicit statement that “there is something wrong with that person, because there is something that they have difficulty with, or that they cannot do.” Or put another way, “a person with a disability is to some degree broken.” I maintain that this is false. To have a disability literally means that one is limited in one’s ability to perform certain tasks or actions. That does not mean that the person with a disability needs fixing. Human beings should never be considered broken, because they never are. Not only is that conception emotionally harmful to individuals with disabilities, who grow up to think that they are broken, but it is a misunderstanding of what it means to be disabled.
The second concerns the specific nature of autism. As autism is neurological in nature, to say that someone is autistic is to say that their brain works or is arranged in a certain way. A device that claimed to “cure” a person of their autism would have to change—in a very fundamental way—the nature of that person. To “cure” a person of their autism would be to change the way that they process and perceive the world. To “cure” a person of their autism would be to kill that person, and replace them with a new, non-autistic person, who would then take up residence in the body of the deceased. As such, I consider my difficulties, numerous as they may be, a reasonable price to pay for my continued existence.

An Autistic's guide to autism

Deciphering sarcasm and saving my social life

This piece represents the opinion of the author:

April 1, 2016

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.

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