One of the most critical jobs of a pastor or a rabbi is to create a community from many individuals. This often leads us to speak of what binds us together, the values we share, the stories we share and our cultural backgrounds.
But no less critical is to teach tolerance and embrace difference. Different family structures, different genders and sexual orientations, different races, and different neural make-ups.
I’m different. I’ve always felt different, felt that something was off, that I didn’t belong. I only found the words for that difference when I was an adult.
The current estimate of those on the autism spectrum is about two percent. That is probably an underestimate, considering the success of those on the high-functioning band of the spectrum at masking their more noticeable autistic behaviours. I’m one of those “successes.”
I can present myself as neurotypical so well that only my most discerning interlocutors can tell that this isn’t the case.
Throughout my life, I’ve deliberately worked on eliminating many of those autistic behaviours. I was doing this way before I discovered language for my difference. I gaze back at my childhood and early adulthood and it makes me sad and angry at the world that I had to work so hard to change my neural wiring.
When I was a kid, I never looked people in the eye. It caused me physical discomfort, something between a scratch and a sprain. It still does, but less so, and I still have to tell myself every day, “Look people in the eye, otherwise they’ll think you’re weird.”
All my life, I’ve stimmed. Stimming is a comforting patterned movement. I used to wave my arms around wildly; now, I shake my legs side to side or up and down when sitting. People still notice it sometimes, but less often. I wish I could still stim like I used to. My beautiful little boy stands on his head on the sofa to comfort himself—the only time I stop him is if he is eating Cheerios and could choke.
I’ve adapted, but I’ll never think that it’s fair. None of my behaviours harmed anyone.
The above paragraphs are an attenuated version of the rants of my twenties, which included many expletives to indicate how angry I actually was.
My therapist would likely tell me it’s also a sign of classical masking, if truth be told, with perhaps a tinge of perfectly normal passive-aggressiveness.
We can laugh at our mistakes
One of the most important lessons of my thirties was to learn to laugh at myself instead of cry, and to exert more control over my anger—to sublimate it and channel it.
These days, I don’t take myself very seriously. I guess I probably could if I wanted to. I’m a morbidly over-credentialled human specimen. The temptation to take myself too seriously is eternally there—the sweet fruit on the tree of ego. After all, why did I spend all that time acquiring accolades, if not to be taken seriously by others?
If we’re honest with ourselves, we must admit that we’re all foolish sometimes.
But whenever I’m tempted to, I think of the many times I made a fool of myself, take a deep breath, and go eat some walnut date ice cream. I think of the time when I vomited on Zoom while teaching a class. I could’ve moved away from the camera; instead, I moved toward it. A couple of people left the class and never came back.
I think of the time I was practicing a throw in karate, and instead of kicking someone’s legs from under them, I kicked myself where the sun rarely shines. I think of the many, many times I made a fool of myself in pursuit of women until I met someone who didn’t mind that.
If we’re honest with ourselves, we must admit that we’re all foolish sometimes. That is part of being human. If we learn to laugh at our mistakes, it’ll be easier to move on and improve—at least, until the next time we slip on a banana peel.
Which leads me to the question: I am different, but so what? So is someone with ADHD. So is someone in a wheelchair. So is someone with darker skin.
What kind of accommodation am I asking from society?
Advocating for those who can’t
I’m asking for no accommodation from society on my behalf. I’ve worked like the dickens to accommodate myself. And now I can ruefully laugh at the path I’ve taken, at the mistakes along the way.
The path was hard, and it didn’t need to be as hard, which is why I’m asking—no, that is not accurate—I’m demanding accommodation on behalf of any person who can’t, for whatever reason, advocate effectively enough for themselves, whose voice isn’t resonating because the deck is so stacked against them.
For many years, I’ve kept the knowledge of my autism to myself. I always thought, this is who I am, and it’s really no one’s affair except my own, and no one will care anyway. But that isn’t actually true.
I’m writing this now, sharing my experience more widely, for my son Elisha.
At seven, Elisha inhabits a deeper band of the autism spectrum than I ever did. Will he ever have the words? Will he ever be able to advocate for himself and his needs? I don’t know.
And if that is the case, I owe the beautiful human being who is my son to speak on his behalf. I want to understand him and what he needs to lead a fulfilling life, and I want to find a way to give it to him.
Because it’s both my fault and my privilege that Elisha is autistic. Autism runs strong in the genes of my family. I went ahead and procreated with the full knowledge that I might have children like me, and Elisha is such a precious blessing, a sphinx whose puzzle I haven’t solved.
And so I’ll force myself to become even more eloquent, to turn over every rock, so that I can facilitate a meaningful and fulfilling life for my beautiful boy.
But there is more than my personal obligation to my son: There is my moral obligation to all my fellow journeyers on the spectrum. As a relatively articulate member of those who inhabit the various bands of the autism spectrum, I have the moral duty to speak up, to become an advocate because I can, while so many of us can’t.
I must do this despite my fear and trepidation, despite the dangers of standing alone and exposed, because it is the fulfillment of the most basic ethical imperative, ‘love your neighbour as yourself,’ and it’s my hope beyond hope that just as I’m kind to the world, the world will be kind to me in turn.
"СВЯЗАННОЕ ЧТЕНИЕ" THE ACCEPTANCE OF AUTISM: What autistic individuals can teach us about authenticity»
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