I got my autism diagnosis at a weird time: about a month and a half before the Global Pandemic. One day I was learning why I isolate myself, the next day the whole world was isolating right along with me. During the following year of lockdown and social distancing, many housebound folks, mostly young adults, turned to inward reflection, mostly in the form of obsessively Googling psychological disorders (perhaps at the behest of whomever was trapped in the same apartment with them). This in turn resulted in a wave of self-diagnoses of Autism Spectrum Disorder, and of online communities promoting awareness and proclaiming the legitimacy and strength of autistic minds.
Around the same time there was a host of television shows starring autistic people: Love on the Spectrum, As We See It, Everything’s Gonna Be Okay, Extraordinary Attorney Woo, Patience. There have been novels like Everyone in This Room Will Someday Be Dead, which doesn’t explicitly say that its protagonist is on the spectrum, but it’s pretty obvious. Autistic creators exploded on YouTube. The sheer variety of new representation stood in contrast to the dominant stereotypes of Rain Man and The Big Bang Theory.
Like I said, it was a weird time to get a diagnosis. I found it strangely comforting that my disorder landed me at the cool kids’ table. I’m not really a joiner, and I had never been part of a zeitgeist before. But with the movement came a backlash from skeptics who questioned whether all this generational tism was real, or just a validating bandwagon for the chronically “quirky.” This was mixed in with class and race issues, as many saw the trend as a white, middle-class thing. A whole genre of you’re-not-really-autistic videos emerged on TikTok, and there’s even a SubReddit called FakeDisorderCringe in which users accuse and mock people allegedly feigning neurodivergence to get attention.
Along with all criticism from outside the autistic community there has been a major divide within. On one side there exists an autistic cohort believes that their neurology should be recognized by society-at-large as legitimate and even beneficial. These have maxims like “autism is a super power.” On the other side, caregivers for those whose autistic presentation that renders them non-verbal, shut off, and otherwise incapable of self-support feel that “autism chic” belittles their painful experience. The discourse can get pretty heavy, and communities who would seem like natural allies are instead entrenched combatants.
I have some sympathy for both groups. For those us with “high-functioning” ASD (like me), we may be happy with ourselves as we are, we also deal daily with the stress of a world not made for us. It makes sense to look for not only accommodation but also for appreciation. It’s only been very recently that the clinical definition of autism has been broadly enough applied that most of us could even understand who we are. And that’s liberating, and worth celebrating. But when autism comes with extreme care needs—what many people still label as “real” autism—that is a real burden and a real loss, and beyond deserving empathy and systemic support, caregivers should not be faulted for mourning. (This doesn’t excuse those who credulously believe pseudoscientific claims about vaccines or Tylenol.)
As for me, I was labeled a “gifted” child in grade school and got put ahead in math and art. Also teachers let me get away with a lot of nonsense. I have had more intense and rewarding interests than would fill many lifetimes. I am a quick learner and eager to learn. I notice small things that others miss or making connections that others find insightful. But also: I have trouble staying close to friends and even to family. I can be oblivious to the most obvious social cues. If something doesn’t interest me, I can’t make myself remember it. And I can be rude or hurtful to people and only realize later. So is autism on the whole a plus or a minus? Is it an alternative way of thinking, or is it a disorder, like the DSM-5 names it?
Since my diagnosis I’ve read quite a few books on autism and they can be broken down into three categories: memoirs of autistic people, particularly those who got a surprise diagnosis (you’re reading one of these right now); therapeutic or self-help guides, some written by psychologists and some not (these can be full of dicey advice); and the rare book that examines what Autism with a capital A means, socially, aesthetically, or even teleologically.
One book I found engaging, but also frustrating, is the academic monograph Authoring Autism: On Rhetoric and Neurological Queerness, by M. Remi Yergeau, who teaches at Carleton University. This is a dense book, not for the fainthearted. Yergeau’s subject, as given in the title, is what they call the “rhetoric” of autism. And here I have to be very careful in what I write, because “rhetoric” is a complex subject with specific and varied meanings in philosophy and linguistics, and because my wife literally wrote a book on the subject. (I myself am not a philosopher and have a tendency to use a word to mean “just what I choose it to mean.“)
Yergeau uses “rhetoric” in the sense of “the manners of communication used by a cultural group,” and their contention is that while autism has traditionally been seen as a barrier to interpersonal connection, autistic behavior (even when non-intentional) is in fact its own set of social rules that challenge assumptions of what is effective, or even permissible, expression. This makes autism analogous to queerness, which likewise stands as a counter to mainstream assumptions of the borders of gender and sexuality. And if this paragraph makes your head hurt, then I’ve successfully duplicated the experience of reading Yergeau.
This book is helpful to me, if only for a feeling of validation. I have often felt that my inability often to convey the state of my head or my heart was more a matter of a lack of understanding on the part of whomever I’m talking to than a defect on my part. There are times when there is no good way to describe the feelings I’m having because allistic society never made the right words. But I don’t know that I’m fully on board with Yergeau. I remain unconvinced that my stims are an expression of my culture, or that my inability to look someone in the eye is simply an alternative mode of discourse. Some things are simply flaws.
Everything is relative. From an autistic standpoint, “normal” comes with its own pathologies. To play autistic devil’s advocate: normies don’t know how to plainly say what they mean, but they get offended when you don’t take their opaque hints. They lack the ability to passionately engage with an interest and instead of being authentic they follow trends. They are needy and their feelings are easily hurt. They can’t handle being alone for long. I could go on.
Would I change myself to be not autistic if I could? No, of course not. It’s built so deeply into how my mind works that in its absence I would be a completely different person. I like many things about being autistic. But autism’s not all trains and dinosaurs. It’s also anxiety, and isolation, and an inability to choose what to watch next on Netflix.
Speaking of which: the original Love on the Spectrum was an Australian production and was only later given a U.S. version. (Netflix retroactively calls the original series Love on the Spectrum: Australia, which, first of all, rude.) While I have mixed emotions about the show, there is one scene from the Australian version that has been stuck in my mind since I first saw it. There was a participant, Olivia, who was a member of a theatrical company for people with disabilities. During one break in a rehearsal of A Midsummer Night’s Dream her director called her out for joyfully jumping around on stage, and she defensively replied “Yeah, it’s called a disability.”
And that’s the thing. ASD brings joy and shame, jumping and hiding. It’s a blessing and a curse. In that way, it’s just like being human.
