My Life With Asperger's

What is smart?

John Elder Robison — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 01:07:53 +0000

"He's such a bright little boy!" My mother and her friends said things like that all the time, as they pointed to me when they thought I wasn't paying attention.

Now that I'm grown, I can let them in on a secret: There was never a time when I didn't pay attention to grownups as a kid. I watched them really close, all the time. I may not have understood everything I heard, but I surely took it all in.

But what did it mean? I got a new bike, and my mother said, "What a pretty red bicycle!" Everyone who saw it said the same thing. It was a nice, red bike. The attributes didn't change. It was always a bike, and always red. No one ever called it blue or green, because colors were absolute. Something was either red or green; it didn't change at your whim or mine.

Unfortunately, phrases like, "Bright little boy," didn't work that way. I went to school as a "bright boy" only to have bigger kids say, "You're a retard!" Grownups got in their kicks with lines like, "How can you act so stupid?"

I may not have known much in elementary school, but I knew bright, retarded, and stupid did not go together.

Something was wrong. I began watching those grownups who said I was so smart a little closer. I noticed something pretty quick: When grownups talked about kids, they were always calling them clever and smart, and the other moms always agreed. No one ever said, "John Elder is really smart, but Freddie is dumb as a rock!"

The grownups said, "John Elder is smart," and then Freddie crawled into the cage, and they also said, "Freddie is so clever and smart!" To moms, we were all cute and smart and clever. Yet I'd go to school, and lots of kids said Freddie was dumb. None of them said he was smart.

So who was right? You heard moms call kids smart, and they never called kids dumb. Yet I knew you couldn't have smart kids without having less-smart ones too. If we were all smart, we'd be the same, and there would be no such thing as smart or not.

So I learned to discount what the moms said. I did the same for most of the kids who called me a retard, because I realized they called everyone they didn't like a retard. Also, after close observation I began to doubt the mental prowess of the name callers. If they were subnormal, how could they possibly diagnose me?

After a lot of watching and thinking, I finally figured out what was happening. People said I was smart because they thought I sounded smart. Sound was the giveaway. My choice of words announced my intelligence, or so they thought.

It took a long time for me to figure that out because it didn't work that way for me; I had to deduce what was going on from observation. You see, I could never really tell who was smarter even when I knew someone pretty well. Sure, I knew who had better language skills. Me. But so what?

I have always spoken really precisely and clearly, and that gives listeners the impression that I am really smart. But that didn't make me smarter. Butch Fornier talked rough, but he was an artist with carburetors in auto shop. I could talk circles around Butch, but when it came to practical skill, he had me whupped. So I knew how deceptive fancy words could be.

Pretty is something you see. Stinky is something you smell. Smart is something you hear. That's how it works for most people. What a disappointment! I always thought "smart" was an absolute, and maybe it is on an IQ test. But in the popular perception, smart is just as much in the eye of the beholder as beauty and body odor.

People who listened to me had no way to know if I was really smart or not. They didn't say, "Quick now! Multiply 4,722 by 381. What's the answer?" They never said, "So you think you're smart . . . who's the King of Mongolia?" Those kinds of questions might have given people some real insight into my intelligence. But they never asked. They just listened to me talk, and jumped to a conclusion.

They were making a big mistake, as it turned out.

I did have really good speaking skills. That part of my brain is "smart." But there's more to being smart than the ability to talk a good game. There's also math smarts, history smarts, and smarts for everything else they teach in school. And finally, one big smarts is social smarts. That's the ability to figure out other people, and what they really mean when they say and do things. Unfortunately, I am pretty dumb in that area.

When I was twelve, I had the language skill of a college professor and the social skill of a toddler. That was a formula for disaster, and it totally explains all those people who cried out, "How can you be so smart and do such dumb things?"

Today I see how exceptional language skill can combine with poor social skill to create a terrible invisible handicap. A person whose social skills and language are poor is cut some slack, because he sounds like he needs some help. A person like me is torn to pieces because I sound so good that I'm held to an exceptionally high standard; one I often fail to meet. Quite a few of my fellow Aspergians share this predicament.

And the worst part is . . . I often don't even know when I've made a gaffe, because that social blindness is central to the whole thing.

That's something to ponder the next time a "smart kid" does something "really dumb" in your presence.

One more way to be rude

John Elder Robison — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 19:00:25 +0000

Thanks to modern technology, I now have one more way to seem rude while actually paying incredibly close attention. I made this discovery when my friend Jan invited me to the annual meeting of the Connecticut River Watershed Council. Come on, she said, It will be interesting. I'm feeling more social these days so I decided to go . . .

The first part was kind of neat, because free food was involved. We started on a big outdoor patio that contained several tables covered with edible treats. I didn't know any of the people except Jan, but I did recognize chocolate strawberries when I saw them, so I went at it. A few minutes later I was sated and it was time to go inside to listen to the speakers. Five years ago I'd never have gone near such a thing, but now I resolved to give it a try. I went in and sat down with Jan, her friend, and a table full of strangers.

I nodded politely and sat fairly still as I waited for the program to begin. I can do that, as long as I don't have to wait too long. Within a few minutes, the crowd settled down and things got going. I wasn't sure what I was going to hear; I just hoped it would be interesting. I was not disappointed.

The first speaker worked for an outfit called Covanta. I didn't know who or what Covanta was, but I paid attention as she began to speak. She said her firm was in the business of converting trash to energy. How do they do that, I wondered? In the past I'd have sat there and listened and pondered, but now I can be pro-active. I whipped out the iphone and went on the hunt.

The speaker's voice faded to the background as I began reading, though I looked up from time to time to make sure she and I were still in the same places.

My first search took me to Covanta's website, where I learned who they were and what they do. Moments later I was reading about the Bristol trash-to-electricity facility. Being a geek, I was captivated by the descriptions of the burner and boiler installations. That sent me on yet another Google search. . .

As I searched at 100MPH the speaker plodded along at a walking pace. I continued to glance up, but very little was happening. The speaker droned on, and the audience sat quietly. I was quiet too, but inside my mind was churning. Luckily the mental clatter was contained by the flesh around my head and ears.

I sifted through her spoken words for phrases to Google on the iphone. Within moments a description of the latest high efficiency burners was waiting for me on the screen. I read it and had a new appreciation for Covanta, a company that I'd never even heard of a few minutes before.

I looked back up in plenty of time for the speaker's concluding remarks. When the time came for applause I joined in as enthusiastically as anyone else, fortified by my enhanced understanding.

That's when I realized how my tablemates perceived my behavior. That's awfully rude, to just ignore the speaker and work on your computer. But is that really what happened? I think not. The speaker was there as a representative of Covanta, and her job was to inform the public about her company and make them feel good about it. I'll bet she succeeded better with me than most anyone else in the room, thanks to my little iphone.

I'll give you some examples . . .
I learned what Covanta does, and where they are based.
I now know what a waterfall furnace is.
I know Covanta's Hartford plant runs steam turbines at 880psi
I am even familiar with the inspection standards for boilers that run at those pressures.

Do you know any of those things? And how many other people in the room got that out of her talk? I would argue that our speaker achieved her goals better with me than with anyone else there (unless there was another geek with an iphone.)

I have always gotten restless in situations like that because my mind moves faster than a speaker's voice. Knowing that, I don't usually go to presentations. But the iphone changed everything for me. Instead of sitting there with questions in my mind, I was free to search and explore while generally guided by the speaker's words. It was great.

If the purpose of a lecture is to impart knowledge, iphone enhanced listening is a great success. Unfortunately, the other people in the room don't see it that way. They see me looking at a pocket computer and imagine all sorts of things. Some believe I'm looking at Russian Dream Girls. Others think I'm playing Donkey Kong. No one guessed the truth.

A few people in the crowd might have seen me and thought . . . he's acting a bit autistic. And maybe I was. But if that's true, it's catchy. More and more people are bringing iphones and similar devices to events, and they are fast becoming one more way in which technology is making all of us act a little more autistic at times in exchange for enhanced productivity.

Every time we answer questions with a pocket browser we miss the chance to raise our hands and engage another human. Every time we write an email we lose out on a face to face conversation. At the same time, the benefits of "electronic augmentation" are undeniable. But where does it lead?

The "cure" for autism, and the fight over it.

John Elder Robison — Mon, 12 Oct 2009 13:58:02 +0000

Our society is confronting many serious, chronic medical issues, including AIDS, diabetes, obesity, cancer, Alzheimer's, MS, heart disease, and autism. What do all those conditions have in common? Every one is something you live with for a long period of time; in some cases all your life. Furthermore, every one has one or more strong advocacy organizations who speak for people affected by the condition.

What makes autism unique?

I'll tell you. Autism is the one medical condition I can think of where no one can agree on the legitimacy of any of its so-called advocacy groups. Why is that, and what does it mean? The recent Autism Speaks video debacle and the continuing controversy over neurodiversity and a "cure" makes me think this is something worth talking about.

The problem starts with autism itself, and how people see it. Unlike cancer and most other medical issues in the news, autism is a stable neurological difference. It's not a progressive disease. At the same time, autism's impact on people varies tremendously. Some people are totally disabled which others are merely eccentric. It's no surprise that the individuals at the two extremes would have totally opposite views of their condition.

The "High Functioning" autistic group says, "We don't need to be cured. We just need tolerance and understanding."

The Highly Impaired group says, "Enough with the understanding! We need some cures, fast!"

Parents of affected kids say, "I want my kid to have a good life, whatever that means or takes."

To a large extent, those points of view are mutually exclusive. HF people tend to see the HI desire for a cure as an indictment of their very being. "Get rid of autistic disability" morphs into "get rid of people like me," in their minds. From the HI perspective, the desire for tolerance and the HF statement that, "we are fine the way we are," seems to be a callous dismissal of their very real disabilities.

Unfortunately, each person who's touched by autism thinks his autism experience is representative of everyone else's. And why wouldn't he? That's how it is with most other medical conditions. Within reason, my broken leg is like yours. So's my flu, or even my bypass operation, should I ever have one. Some of us have complications and we do better or worse, but there is indeed a common shared experience.

Autism, by virtue of its diversity, is totally different. Unless he makes a point to study nonverbal autistic life, a high functioning Aspergian will have no concept of life at the other end of the spectrum. And of course the opposite is true too. This misunderstanding is compounded by autism itself, as one characteristic of our condition is an inability to put oneself in another person's shoes. So conflict is bound to arise.

And then there's the conflict with the parents. They say, "My kid has this terrible condition," and high functioning adults see that as an indictment of themselves. After all, they live with the so-called "terrible condition" every day.

What can we do to resolve this strife? I have a fairly simple solution.

First, stop talking about a "cure for autism," and, "getting rid of autism."

Second, talk about finding fixes for specific components of autistic disability, like speech impairment.

We should all be able to agree that the ability to talk is a good human trait. So is the ability to eat whatever you want, without getting sick. Therefore, we should be able to agree that therapies that allow autistic people who couldn't do those things in the past to do them in the future are good.

It seems to me that one change in focus could go a long way to resolve the controversy.

The other thing we all need is some tolerance for differing views. For example, I may see some benefits and some disabilities to my own high functioning autism. There are other people who see zero benefit and much handicap to autism in themselves. Both of us deserve the right to hold our differing opinions and live our lives in peace. There is no reason that can't happen, though you'd never know it to read many of today's blogs and articles on the topic.

I certainly recognize the solution is more than my simple two steps. There are still some major ethical questions remaining. For example, who should decide if a treatment or therapy should be given to a person who can't advocate for himself? Those are the issues our advocacy groups should tackle together, rather than fighting with each other.

There are also some emotion-charged controversies like the vaccine question that can only be solved by the advance of science. Of course, both sides will say, "The question is solved, my way!" but the lack of consensus suggests it's far from resolution. That said, it does not have to tear the community apart the way it does today.

When you count the autistic population, plus out families, teachers, and caregivers, there are many millions of people affected by autism in the United States alone. Most of us are just individuals, with little ability to advocate for ourselves regionally or nationally or in some cases, even locally. We NEED strong advocacy organizations to play this role; organizations we can embrace and get behind.

Can today's autism advocacy groups embrace this concept? Time will tell.

Until they do, I am sorry to say, none of them speak for me. I know I am not alone in that somewhat cynical view. And that's a sorry state of affairs for advocacy groups who are supposed to look out for the interests of people on the spectrum.

Is the Bible obsolete?

John Elder Robison — Sun, 27 Sep 2009 20:16:28 +0000

In medieval times, people managed by decree and threat. The King made a proclamation, and said, "Fear this, and tremblingly obey!" You ignored the King and his nobles at your peril, as most anything could be a capital offense. Stealing a loaf of bread, or murdering your neighbor - either could send you to the gallows. In a world like that, the bible's threats and dogma seemed right in line with the way of the world.

Today, things are different. Managers manage by motivation. Instead of saying, "Do this or we will have you executed," they think of ways to make people want to do things. Bosses talk endlessly about self-motivation and actualization. The goal today is to make people want to work for The Man. Parents have even jumped on the bandwagon. Today's kids must want to cooperate. Threats and spankings are out the window.

It seems to work. People stay at work sixty hours a week at times, with no threat of transportation or execution. Some would say we have lifted behavior or at least motivation to a higher plane. Others would say its just brainwashing but that's a subject for another post.

The fact remains, threat and dogma are passé when it comes to management in most of the Enlightened Western World. But through it all, the Bible has remained the same. Do as I say, or feel the wrath of a vengeful God.

I didn't give that dichotomy much thought until speaking with Boston University psychology professor Catherine Caldwell-Harris. At a talk last winter, she said, "Why do you think Aspergians tend to reject the Bible and religion more often?"

"More often than what," I asked? She directed me to Asperger sites Wrong Planet and Aspies For Freedom, where the prevailing sentiment when spirituality is discussed is indeed the rejection of Western religion. I got that impression from a quick perusal of the forums, but she knows it for sure, based on statistical analysis.

She's done some follow on studies where people are interviewed in more depth; in fact she has one here that you can check out and participate in:
http://www.surveymonkey.com/s.aspx?sm=7eHrc2JY6Wj8_2b7A_2faRzrag_...

The studies so far suggest that high functioning people on the spectrum - those who participate in studies like hers and online in forums - are significantly more likely to reject religion than nypicals. I meet quite a few people myself, and my observation tends to confirm Catherine's. But what does that mean? I've thought about that question quite a bit.

I'm not a follower of any traditional American church. Yet I consider myself a spiritual person. Furthermore, I think I have a good and solid moral sense, and a reasonable grasp of right and wrong and how to behave. I know from experience that many adult Americans would describe themselves the same way, be they Aspergian or nypical.

Do I reject traditional American religion? Upon reflection, I guess I do. I reject the "Do what we say or you'll suffer damnation!" I don't need a priest's threats to stop me from looting the neighbor's house and ravaging his females. The idea that I'd go to a church to hear those kind of threats just isn't very appealing, no matter how subtle they may be. When you add a priest with his hand in your pocket and all the diddling scandals certain churches have, the picture is even worse.

The reason I do not go looting and pillaging is that I believe it's morally wrong to do so. Since I already believe that, threats will do nothing more than annoy me. And that's not all. The bible is full of passages that say, in essence, "Believe this or else!" Why? I'm okay about believing many things, but I want a more solid foundation than, "Because I say so." I had a problem with my father saying that forty years ago, and I have problems when preachers say it today.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized rejection of organized religion is very different from rejection of spirituality or the concept of a God. I began to wonder . . . do Aspergians like me tend to reject religions like Catholicism because we are exceedingly logical people, and the Church's threats and dogma are anything but?

We reject lots of things in life because they aren't logical. Why not the bible? Why indeed. Maybe we Aspergians are just on the cutting edge here, because of our predisposition toward logicality.

I wonder if the time has come to update the language of the bible to reflect modern times and customs. Perhaps if we toned down the threats, more people would embrace it. Maybe if we added a little more logic, it would find wider acceptance. We've done that with every management tome, and most parenting tomes. What is the bible if not the pre-eminent "how to behave" manual for society. When all the lesser works have been revised should we not revise this one too?

Or maybe I'm just nuts, and it's perfectly good the way it is to 99% of the world. What do you think?

I will say this. I've visited a number of churches, in small towns and inner cities. This is what I have seen: The rougher and meaner the environment, the more the successful and popular preachers focus on practical life matters. Threat and dogma are virtually ignored in favor of logical sensible living advice. Are they onto something, those inner city Baptists?

Which is easier – being a genius or being retarded?

John Elder Robison — Mon, 03 Aug 2009 14:24:13 +0000

What is it like to look at the world, knowing one is isolated by disability, wondering how it would feel to have a job, a girlfriend, or a family? What is it like to be less disabled, to have those things, lose them, and be crushed by depression and despair? Is one role better than the other?

Some of my recent stories here and on my regular blog ( jerobison.blogspot.com ) have touched upon the question of autism, disability, and the relative impairment or position of people at different points on the spectrum.

When reading the comments to my earlier posts I get the feeling that certain people with greater autistic impairment than me feel that their "less impaired" brethren - me included - somehow have an easier life. I don't agree with that.

Several commenter's compared levels of disability in the world of friendships. One person said, "I have never even had a girlfriend," and the tone of his remark was such that I was made to think, Imagine how much that hurts.

I didn't say anything at the time but I thought about his words and my own life. The memory of my time at Amherst Junior High is still as clear as yesterday in my mind.

I remember exactly how it felt to look at couples holding hands in the hallways, while wishing I had a girlfriend. I'd see them walking past, smiling and talking, and I'd feel so terribly alone. I'd look down at my own empty hands and ask, what's wrong with me? The pain of those memories is still sharp, thirty-some years later.

It was a big step up from the loneliness of grade school, which until then was the worst pain I'd known. At age six, being called a retard had hurt a lot. But at age thirteen, being totally ignored by couples and by girls in particular hurt even more.

It's hard to be alone when you're surrounded by couples. My solution was to retreat into books, machinery, and places where couples did not intrude. There were no couples in the electronics lab, or the auto shop. Most of the places I hung out, there were not even any people at all.

That was my method of coping for many years. I did not know how to begin a romantic relationship, so I hid. When I did pop into view, I gave my autistic mannerisms free reign to drive away any potential suitors. It worked. Romance did not have much place in my high school experience, with the exception of Cheryl, who led me on just to toy with me. That experience also remains with me today.

That's the place some people on the spectrum remain at as adults, compounded by years of experience of the same romantic failure. Some distract themselves by immersion in other interests, while others dwell on why something never worked out.

I remember that place well, because it was my own life until age eighteen or so.

Then I fell in love, for the first of several times. When it was good, I was so happy. Proud, too, to have such a pretty, vivacious girl be interested in me! Words cannot express how good it felt to leave my lonely and solitary existence behind. Unfortunately, it didn't always last.

"I just can't do this anymore. I can't keep seeing you." Her words came out of the blue to shatter my world. I knew there were issues, to be sure, but like all Aspergians I am very tied to routine. I'm very slow to change, sometimes seeming to discuss things endlessly before making a change. So her sudden decision to dump me came as a total shock. One day I was happy and dreaming of a future. The next day, it all lay shattered in the dust. The pain was far, far worse than anything I'd ever known. I read those trite words, better to have loved and lost, than to have never loved at all, and I wondered what planet that writer lived on.

When I learned about Asperger's one of the things that struck me false was the talk about empathy and emotion, and how people like me supposedly lack those feelings. Anyone who could see into my mind in that moment of darkness and torment could not fail to realize how totally wrong those statements were.

Yet I didn't show it. I was dying inside, but to the rest of the world, I was the same person as always. Inside, my heart was pounding and my mind was racing in ever tightening circles on a descent into darkness. But I gave no sign of the torment within. Can't you talk about it, people would ask me today? I don't quite know how to answer. Even now, in middle age, the sting of childhood rejection still lingers. I could go through that experience now, at 51, and I might well react just the same as I did at 21.

As I get older I seem more polished and sociable, but given enough stress, the old autistic behaviors rise to the fore. People say I have a childlike innocence, which is nice at times. But at other times, I can revert to a wounded and hurt little boy, and that's not good at all. I close down and suffer in silence.

There is little to help that kind of pain. Today, life experience tells me that things will usually get better. But does that message always get through?

When I read about how lucky I am to have met a girlfriend, found a wife, had a kid . . . I realize those things came at a price. They weren't free. It's true that the greatest joys I have felt have been with the people closest to me, but at the same time they have caused me the sharpest and deepest pain I have ever known.

So what would I say to those who feel their disability has prevented them from experiencing such things? There's no free lunch. In the end, we all want what we don't have. But does getting it make us happier? There's no evidence that it does.

I'll offer one stark piece of evidence. There is virtually no incidence of suicide among retarded or seriously impaired people. At the other end of the spectrum, history is filled with examples of geniuses and highly creative people who took their own lives in moments of despair.

Greater functionality may bring bigger "ups." But it also brings bigger downs. There is always a price, and sometimes it can be very high.

Depression and pain affect people at all levels of society, with and without disability. The idea that some people with autism are less disabled and therefore suffer less is simply wrong. We all suffer to the same extent that we experience joy. Some of us may feel those things in more muted ways, but even if we do, it's our life and it's all we know.

My pain is my pain, just as yours belongs to you. The fact that you think mine should be less because I am higher functioning does not make it any less real to me.

It's one more reason that we should show tolerance and compassion.

Why can't we all get along?

John Elder Robison — Tue, 21 Jul 2009 18:34:43 +0000

Just this morning I was reading a post on Autism's Gadfly, and it made me think about the tremendously different wants and needs of people at various points on the autism spectrum.

His motto is, We don't want no stinkin neurodiversity! We need a cure.

In my writing, I have said, I don't need a cure; I just want compassion and understanding.

Those statements seem pretty opposite to me. Yet we are both adults with autism. How can our views be so different? That is the essence of the problem. We have the same diagnosis, but we are impacted very differently.

Too much of anything isn't good for you. Maybe a touch of autism makes some of us creative, and gives us advantages that outweigh the components of disability. However, the fact that I am high functioning and only mildly impaired does not mean that all autistic people are like me.

I do not have speech impairment. In fact, I have unusually good speech. I don't have digestive issues, or growth limitations, or other autism-related health problems. Yet autism has still shaped my life, in many fundamental ways, and that continues today.

I have participated in several experimental studies that measured brain parameters that correlate with autism, and I match people with far greater impairment in many key ways. So I may be less impaired but our brains still share certain essential differences.

That tells me that folks like me and Jonathan may have a lot in common neurologically, but our thinking may be miles apart based on the different ways autism has shaped our lives. When Jonathan describes the way autism affects him, he sees many disabilities and few if any offsetting gifts. I see some real components of disability in myself, but also some great gifts.

Seen from my perspective, Jonathan's desire to cure his disability is perfectly reasonable. At the same time, I hope he can agree that my desire to live as I am and seek acceptance is reasonable too.

I look at mothers whose kids are on the spectrum and see the same thing. Kim Stagliano wants more than almost anything else for her kids to talk. She might call that a cure. Kyra Anderson is more like me, in that she wants to help her child fit in and find acceptance.

Samwick writes in to my blog, taking me to task for portraying Asperger's as less of a disability that it is, in his eyes. Yet I don't want to understate the potential for growth we all have. And my stories do reflect my own life on the spectrum.

All of us in the autism community should keep in mind the tremendous range of impact autism can have. When one person talks of a cure, and someone else talks neurodversity, we should recognize that those individuals may be coming from very different places.

One man's cure seems like another's poison.

Autism is a condition that can leave one person totally disabled while making another an eccentric genius. The problem is, the totally disabled can't speak for themselves, and high functioning people like me can make autism appear less serious than it is, for those more impaired individuals.

When the less informed public looks at me, and thinks, "There goes a successful guy with autism," it may create the impression that anyone on the spectrum can be equally functional. That is simply not true. Everyone can grow and improve, but some people always go farther than others.

If a person has serious speech difficulty as a consequence of autism he's going to have a much harder time making it in American society. If he does not progress as far as someone else, that does not mean he's lazy or stupid.

It's very hard to maintain a balance between recognizing latent potential in people, giving them hope, while still being cognizant of the fundamental limitations autism may impose.

I just wish people could discuss these issues without the bitterness and hostility that breaks out.

Are Manners Logical or Superficial?

John Elder Robison — Fri, 10 Jul 2009 17:51:20 +0000

When I was younger, people often accused me of strange behavior. I used to feel bad, but now I see the accusations in a different light.

I've learned that neurotypical people - folks who don't have autism - have certain expectations for how another person will act. And first impressions are all-important for many. If I want to make a good one, the onus is on me to act as expected.

To do that, I needed to learn how to act ‘normal' in the context in which I found myself. The first step was figuring out what ‘normal' really meant. To my surprise, the answer to that turned out to be simple: normal means ‘well mannered.' Manners were always something I lacked, according to everyone involved in raising me.

I can still remember my mother turning to me, with food on my face, and saying, "Look at you! What would your grandmother say?" She meant to admonish me, but comments like that never worked. Still, she was right. My grandmother Carolyn always complained about my manners. I've always been resistant to following orders or instructions that I find foolish or arbitrary, which was how I saw her advice at the time.

Carolyn persisted in her training efforts long enough that a few things actually stuck. For example, she taught me the right way to hold a knife and fork. Maybe that worked because it made sense. I still don't know of any better or more functional way to do it. Making a fist around the fork - as most children do at first - is both impolite and inefficient. The polite method of holding a fork provides for better control of the tool. It's a good idea that's also good manners.

Even passing food makes sense. I'd be tempted to reach across the table for a bowl of grits or beans, and my grandmother would catch me, "John Elder! Say, please pass me the beans!" My great grandfather ignored her and reached across the table anyway. When he did, bugs and other disgusting things fell from his arms into our plates. And he didn't care. "I'm a farmer," he'd say. As if that excused a live, crawling thing on my bacon. After that I didn't mind hearing, "Pass the food," so much.

If only all manners were that way! Unfortunately, they are not. Consider ingestion of soup from a bowl. When I was small, I used a spoon to eat most of my soup, and then I picked up the bowl, tipped it, and drank the rest. After a lot of struggle, Carolyn finally convinced me that was rude. To this day I won't drink from my bowl if I am with other people. I know that's a sign that I have manners.

Aspergians like me are notoriously logical and straightforward, and much of the time, manners are neither. They are not "common sense,' nor are they, "acting right." That's why manners didn't come naturally to me.

Common sense tells me the most efficient way to ingest soup is to tip the bowl and drink it. In fact, unless you have a spoon that's specifically contoured for the bowl you're using, that's the only way to get every last drop. And common sense tells us not to be wasteful.

Acting right - the moral imperative to treat others as you'd like to be treated - doesn't say much at all about drinking from the soup bowl. I know it's not right to throw food, or jab the person next to me with a fork. But where's the harm to anyone in drinking from a bowl that was assigned to me by the host or hostess? The answer is, there is no harm. There's just more efficient food ingestion and reduced waste.

And yet . . . it's rude to do it. For many years, logic prevented me from complying with rules of etiquette like that. I thought they were illogical and foolish, and I just would not go along. Eventually I came to understand that I benefited from compliance with the social rules, even when they seem illogical, wasteful, or nonsensical. Today, I look at my bowl and realize that it's better to act polite. In our society of plenty, where I seldom go hungry, their positive impression of me is worth more than the small amount of extra soup I'd get by tipping and drinking. I am sure things would be different if I were starving.

For a long time I tried to govern my interpersonal relations exclusively by what felt right; by my moral compass. That strategy served me well around close friends and family, and it's always worked for the big things in life. Unfortunately, a morals-based behavioral strategy breaks down in casual interactions; the sort one has at a dinner party.

There, I encountered strangers who were critical of me. At first, I reacted with hostility to what I perceived as shallow, superficial posturing. So what if I don't hold the door for you? Can't each of us take responsibility to open our own doors? It eventually became clear that my logical and ethical behavior just wasn't good enough - I was alienating strangers with my failure to "act like everyone else."

Manners seem to come naturally to many neurotypicals. I suspect that's because they are accustomed to doing what they are taught, whereas I have always resisted that. It's caused me considerable difficulty.

How do you feel about manners? Are they just superficial? Or do they have a deeper foundation?

Why do we have them?

Are many of the females who don’t like my stories ugly?

John Elder Robison — Mon, 15 Jun 2009 20:45:44 +0000

That question is a logical result of my observation that many females who like my stories are attractive. If so, would the opposite be true as well?

We all know that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, as is beastliness. So my ugly may be your beautiful, just as one man's princess is another man's troll-ette. Follow me down the bizarre road of reason and let me know what you think . . .

My writing is mostly about the autistic and Aspergian mind, and how we think. It stands to reason that my thought processes will be comfortable to those who have a personal connection to the autism spectrum, and they'll seem unusual or even downright weird to someone who has no connection. So the way a person feels about my writing may reveal something more about them. Does it give insight into whether I'd find an image of them pretty?

That, folks, is the subject of a $232,000 research grant I was just awarded.

I began by considering these questions: Are a majority of the females who express fondness for my writing attractive when I see them? And if they are, is the percentage of attractive females larger than the percentage in any other control group?

Some guys find any girl attractive, rendering any comparison meaningless. Was I in that group? To find the answer I went online and looked at 100 images of females who expressed fondness for my writing. I judged 71% attractive - a pretty high score. Next, I looked at 100 images of random females my approximate age, as provided by the web site Plenty of Fish. I only found 39% of those images attractive. So there does seem to be a difference - supporters appear better looking, at least to me. Why?

A fair number of the females who write to express fondness for my writing have kids, husbands, or siblings on the spectrum. Some are on the spectrum themselves. It's no surprise that such people would feel an affinity for someone like me, and perhaps I simply respond to that. Sort of a "You like me so I like you." The evidence of their lives demonstrates affinity for my kind.

That would explain a fondness for people in real life, but it does not explain why I'd judge their images more attractive. Images, after all, do not express fondness for me. When people say nice things to you, you tend to like them, but images don't talk. Yet.

Can this be genetic? I do believe there is a distinct look of autism - I've written about that before. Judging from the comments and letters I receive, I am not alone in that opinion. It begs the question - why? Evolutionary psychologists say a distinct look could facilitate mating between people with similar traits.

Is there a subtle "look" that some of us on the spectrum share, and if so, we are drawn to that in others? That may well explain my response to images of females with a connection to the autism spectrum.

What about the females who say, "I like your ideas, but I don't have autism in my family. Does that make me ugly?" At first all I could say was a lame, "I hope not . . . " But then I thought of some examples; females I knew. I realize that many have a kid with ADHD - a close cousin, or they have geeky kids with some traits but no diagnosis. They are what I now call the Proto-Aspergians. At the very least, they are geek fanciers or strong sympathizers.

I figure if there's a genetic component, they must have a touch too.

So what about the opposite? Are the non-supporters ugly? In truth, I don't know. You see, supporters friend me on Facebook and other places, so their images are readily viewable. Non-supporters leave anonymous reviews on Amazon, so I can't see them. I can only read their words and imagine. But if my imagination is a guide, boy, their situation does not look good.

Some of the critical reviewers are judgmental, as in, "Robison derives enormous enjoyment from humiliating people." If someone said that about you, you wouldn't feel too friendly toward them either, would you? But opinions like that are not evidenced in photos, so a remark like that does not give any reason to think I'd judge its writer unattractive. At least, not till I met her, and she opened her mouth.

The situation is different with some other reviewers. A few come right out and say the book is aimed at a different kind of person, as in, "This book seemed like it was more geared(ha) towards people with engineering backgrounds."

Clearly, the writer of that comment is not an Aspergian geekette. Does she look different as a result? It's a good question. I wish I knew.

And there are a few who say, "I'm not an expert on autism or Asperger's, but I have read enough about it to feel quite sure that this is not what this author has." She may be sure, but the professionals disagree with her.

Once again, if there's a look of autism, she probably does not have it. Would that make her unattractive to me?

Let me add one last thought . . . back in 1943, Kanner wrote about his beautiful children with autism. Many people took that to be a figure of speech. But researchers today are finding many kids with autism do have attractive facial structures, more so than the general population.

So where does that leave me? Well, I can say with some confidence that I'm not attracted to people who express a dislike for me or my ideas. But could I pick such people out of a lineup? I really don't know.

What I do know is, I can recognize others on the spectrum more often than chance alone would dictate, and when they are female, I feel a natural affinity for them. So the question remains . . . . is the opposite true too?

And I was just kidding about the grant. But maybe I should apply . . . .

Springtime and happiness

John Elder Robison — Fri, 15 May 2009 17:01:20 +0000

Last September, it felt like the world was coming to an end. The days were getting shorter. It was turning cold outside. The stock market was in a state of collapse, and my resources were evaporating fast. The prospect of going broke in the cold darkness was not the least bit appealing. The prospect of spring’s arrival in six months was little consolation. Nothing else was going as it should; why should the arrival of spring be any exception? Was there a purpose to my continued existence?

Those of you who remember the news back then may recall that others agreed with me; there were a rash of newsworthy suicides at the time. Twin demons of depression and despair ran roughshod though our society.

Eight months passed. Spring arrived. I’m still here.

Today, the changing seasons put it my prior worry and fear in perspective. I’m surrounded by budding trees, blooming flowers, and fields as they change from brown to green. The days are getting long again, and the air is warm.

The economy is still in a state of collapse. Chrysler is bankrupt, and GM looks like they’ll be following soon. Unemployment around me is at 10%. But all of that pales in comparison with the natural forces that surround us. The seasonal changes in the world are not affected one little bit by any of that human news.

Throughout most of 2007 and 2008, I had perceived myself as successful. Yet by the end of 2008, I came to feel everything I did was failing. I thought I was turning into a failure. Like many people with Asperger’s my self image is closely tied to what I do at work. I can’t really sense supportive messages from others. Most of the encouragement I get comes from things I observe – book sales, speaking engagements, and the like. And all of that was in a state of collapse.

It was an ugly, dangerous time but I made it through. Spring arrived; I feel like a success once again. No matter how low the market goes, I feel confident I can get by. My abilities aren’t any different but my perception sure is. That’s true even though a significant percentage of my financial reserves have gone up in smoke.

I think I was saved by a combination of things. First, the level of economic activity stopped falling. Stocks may have tanked, but cars still get repaired, albeit at a lower level. I realized that the world will not end no matter what happens in the market – even if the Dow drops to 2,000. My company staggered, but it did not die, and it looks like things will keep going.

Second, I realized how many forces there are in the world and how insignificant the economy really is in that context. The largest force is the changing of seasons. That’s probably had the biggest and most lasting effect on my mood. I’ve suspected such a thing in years past and I’m more certain now. I wonder if I need to be going away to brighter and sunnier places next winter.

I was certainly invigorated by my trips to sunny places, and I was lucky to have several through the winter.

Last fall I wrote a bit about how my self image is tied to what I do; much of which I measure in dollars and cents at Robison Service. And today, my mood is improved. Why? Am I getting more positive messages? Maybe. Or do other things drive my mood; things I did not see? Maybe on that too.

Last year many readers suggested I should take joy and satisfaction in the work I’ve done in the Asperger community. While that makes logical sense, it didn’t work last fall. Does it work now? Is my focus shifting? I really don’t know, but I seem to be better off.

I do feel happy and proud when I have a positive effect on others. Did I feel that way six months ago, yet it did not help? Or do I feel it more today? Or is it all seasonal? The feedback I get from the Asperger community does not seem to have changed, but how do I know?

This happiness thing sure is elusive and perplexing.

It's the look of Autism . . . but what is it?

John Elder Robison — Tue, 21 Apr 2009 13:50:49 +0000

The look of autism . . . what is it, exactly?

I see certain people, and I think, "He' looks Aspergian." Often, if I talk to them, they'll say, "Yes, I have Asperger's too." Exactly what am I seeing?

And I'm not the only one. Many moms with a kid on the spectrum have a very good instinct for spotting other autistic kids. Some psychologists and mental health workers have this ability too.

If I ask other people what it is they see, they often give a convoluted explanation of all the things they observe to justify their conclusions. Yet I doubt what they say . . . I make those judgments in a moment when I see someone, and I've observed many others who do the same. There's no time for all the so-called observation. Somehow, it's a gut level thing.

Those of you who've heard me speak may have gotten some of my ideas on how we do this. I think there are clues in our facial expressions. We Aspergians all remember making wrong expressions at inappropriate times. But wrong for whom? Our expressions seem wrong to observers who don't have autism, and who read some totally wrong negative meaning into our look.

But between Aspergians, are our expressions still wrong? I don't know the answer to that, because I didn't knowingly know any Aspergians as a kid. And now, being older and better trained, I don't make those "inappropriate expressions" very often.

But I still recognize fellow Aspergians, in fact I do so more effectively with every passing day.

So I wonder if those different expressions serve as a subconscious signal to between Aspergians . . . "he's like me." In the past few months I have devoted a lot of thought to this question. I'll be writing about it in Beyond Normal, my next book.

Yesterday I spoke at the Thompson Center, an autism research facility at the University of Missouri. I met Judy Miles, a geneticist who's studying the same question, but from a different perspective. She said something fascinating to me. "In the 1940s, Kanner wrote about beautiful children with autism." Later readers have taken that as a metaphor, but what if he meant it literally? As she says, there are some kids with profound autism who are also have beautifully sculpted faces. Could there be a connection?

Before you dismiss that idea out of hand, consider that there are facial markers for any number of other differences. Down's syndrome comes to mind as another condition with a distinctive look.

She's using a system from 3DMd that employs four groups of cameras to make a full view of the subject's head, which is then rendered in 3d in the computer for analysis. I've got some research papers on her work, and I can't wait to learn more about it.

My life experience tells me there is a distinct look to "people like me." I can't say if it's in our facial structure, or our expression, or both. I also can't say it's "one look fits all." I get that "he's Aspergian too" feeling often enough, but there are also times when someone approaches me and says, "I have Asperger's," and I don't get any connected feeling at all. But perhaps another Aspergian would say, "he's like me" to that same person.

What's the value of all this, you ask?

Recognition of a look of autism would be one more step in the evolution of society. I often say, knowledge is power, and that's a potentially powerful bit of knowledge. It could certainly help me understand other people, and I'm surely not alone in that.

There are those who will certainly differ with me, saying such recognition could be used to discriminate against autistic people. I can't deny that may happen. But in the end, I think the benefits of greater insight like this triumph over the drawbacks based on misuse.

What are your thoughts?