Look Me In The Eye

John Elder Robison - upcoming appearances

noreply@blogger.com (John Elder Robison) — Mon, 09 Nov 2009 13:58:00 +0000

In the interest of keeping stuff together and up to date I have set up a new blog for my appearances. If you follow the Look Me in the Eye blog I'd suggest following the appearances blog too. It has one post - the calendar - which I edit whenever I add or change a date.

You can go to it directly at:

http://johnelderrobison.blogspot.com

You can subscribe to the feed here:

http://feeds.feedburner.com/JohnElderRobison

I mirror this blog on my Facebook and elsewhere. I add events every month, and if you follow, you'll know where they are. I hope to see you on the road . . . .

What is Smart? Is intelligence like beauty, merely in the eye of the beholder?

noreply@blogger.com (John Elder Robison) — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 21:52:00 +0000

"He's such a bright little boy!" My mother and her friends said stuff 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.

Looking through the window at holidays

noreply@blogger.com (John Elder Robison) — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 19:47:00 +0000

Most of the time I feel like I’ve blended in to nypical society pretty well, but the holidays always come to remind me that I’ll always be an outsider in certain ways. This Halloween was no exception.

One problem with holidays is that it produces millions and millions of images, many of which by the poses and expressions serve to remind me of my own differences. I’d like to pose and smile like the people in the photos, but I can’t quite do it. Most of the time, I hardly notice how I look and carry myself relative to others, but at times like this I can’t miss it, and it kind of hurts.

Now that Halloween has passed and the parties are over, I see photos of people bunched together in groups, cheek to cheek and smiling big smiles, and I think . . . that is something I could never do. Not for lack of desire, mind you; I just don’t know how to accomplish it, or perhaps I don’t know how to get away with it without offending everyone horribly or making a fool of myself.

Here are two examples from the stream of pictures that passes my Facebook account every day. My apologies to the people depicted in these shots as I’m sure you never meant them to be used in this way . . .

How do you smile on command like the females in these shots? When people ask to take a picture of me, this is the usual result:

I felt like I behaved just fine with the photo of me and Kevin was taken. I think he was okay too. But look at the difference between me and those three females, or even between me and Kevin. Such a difference of expression, and I know I'm weak in this area so I was trying to compensate!

We all smile on command to some extent. I smiled for Kevin, but it’s barely recognizable when held up against the females. Some people smile so naturally. I thought I was smiling when my picture was taken, and indeed you can see a hint of it on my face. But I can’t do those big smiles on command, no matter how I try.

And the expressions aren’t the only thing that sets me apart. There’s also the posing. I look at photos like the one of Jackie pressed up against her friends and I ask myself, how do you know when it’s appropriate to pose like that? When, and for how long?

I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a photo of myself like Jackie’s, even when I was a kid. I just don’t know how to get that close to someone else and pose. I think other people must have an instinctive sense of how to hold themselves and act; whatever it is, it’s missing in me.

What feeling is conveyed in Jackie’s pictures? Perhaps the fact that I don’t know explains why I can’t imagine being in shots like that, even though I know millions of other people posed just like her lat weekend, and had fun doing so.

Most of the time, people say I’m a serious looking guy, and that’s okay. But there seem to be times when others lighten up in appearance, and I don’t seem to have that figured out. I think I’ve learned how to fit in really well, and then I see images like these, that show how different I really am in some ways, and I know it will never change.

I’m glad I’ve at least earned the respect of many people, and my serious demeanor is acceptable 99.9% of the time. The pictures will fade, and I’ll still be here just as I always am. I don’t know where I’d be without that knowledge . . .

Still, I sometimes think I’d be happier in a world without cameras. I cringe to think this is only the beginning. We have Thanksgiving coming, then Christmas, and finally New Year’s. Two months of stress, at the worst possible time – when the days are dark and cold. I can’t wait till it’s all behind me.

A few book reviews . . .

noreply@blogger.com (John Elder Robison) — Sat, 31 Oct 2009 23:30:00 +0000

Two Tankers Down: The Greatest Small-Boat Rescue in U.S. Coast Guard History by Robert Frump

My rating: 5 of 5 stars
I really enjoyed this well-researched story of the breakup and loss of two WWII-surplus oil tankers off Cape Cod fifty-some years ago. It gives a real insight into what rescue service was like before the advent of helicopters and electronics, but after the end of the age of sail.

View all my reviews >>

Twenty Million Tons Under the Sea by Daniel V. Gallery

My rating: 3 of 5 stars
The author of this book commanded the US Navy ship that drove U505 to the surface during World War II, and then successfully siezed the sub and towed it back to the United States.

The Road to Woodstock by Michael Lang

My rating: 5 of 5 stars
I really enjoyed this book because it took me back to people and places from when I began in the music business, a few years after Woodstock.

View all my reviews >>

Riding Toward Everywhere by William T. Vollmann

My rating: 4 of 5 stars
I have read a few other stories of riding the rails, and I've ridden a number of freights myself, so I've always got a sort spot for these stories. If I have any criticism of this book, it's that there are two many "literary diversions" and not enough current storyline. That said, it's still an enjoyable tale of modern day train hopping; a subject about which little exists.

View all my reviews >>

Emergency: This Book Will Save Your Life by Neil Strauss

My rating: 4 of 5 stars
Follow Neil as he moves from skeptical reporter to survivalist to defender of his community. That sounds sarcastic but it's not . . . it's really a commendable journey and something many could benefit from, me included

View all my reviews >>

You Better Not Cry: Stories for Christmas by Augusten Burroughs

My rating: 5 of 5 stars
You might say I'm biased because I appear in many of my brother's stories, but I will say this . . . the last two stories are by far the best and most meaningful.

View all my reviews >>

One more way to be rude

noreply@blogger.com (John Elder Robison) — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 20:12:00 +0000

Thanks to modern technology, I now have one more way to seem rude while actually paying 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 any 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 to events, and it’s 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 road goes ever on

noreply@blogger.com (John Elder Robison) — Fri, 16 Oct 2009 14:42:00 +0000

Some of you asked for more pictures from the road. Why? I don't know, but here they are . . .

I left the Dams of Potsdam behind to start my journey home. I hoped to make the whole trip in daylight but I was defeated by navigational error. I actually started off on the wrong foot, taking the wrong road out of town. Luckily, I only went 22 miles on the wrong road. It's desolate enough up there that a person could go a lot farther than that with ease. I got turned around and headed for Lake Placid. As I climbed the weather went from cold to cold and snowy. I was glad to be running the road in daylight, though that did not help my direction finding. I made yet another error and ran a ways toward Plattsburg before swinging back to my course at Sarnac Lake.

Driving got a bit dicey as the road was went in spots and dry in others. So you'd roll into a corner and hope for the best. Driving this road in daylight it's easy to see how motorists just vanish. In this picture you can see they've lost so many vehicles into the lake that they have placed concrete barriers where the shredded guard rail used to be.

The road in this spot does not twist too much but the up and down parts will put you right into the air if you get some speed behind you. I suspect that's how the cars before me made the transition from road to lake. After a fast run I stopped at the world famous Tail O The Pup for some traditional bar-b-q. Fortified, I set out again.

This picture really gives a good sense of the mountains up there.

There were other spots where the road straightened, and you could run fast for ten or fifteen miles without seeing anything but woods. Not a car, or a house, or even a telephone pole. Nothing but empty road. The woods up there grows fast. They say hunters still stumble on undiscovered crashes from the fifties and sixties, and I can believe it.

I was glad to make it home. An old Mercedes, a camera, nine hundred miles, a thousand college students, and three days.
It's a lot of stuff to pack into a half-week.

A drive in the country

noreply@blogger.com (John Elder Robison) — Wed, 14 Oct 2009 12:59:00 +0000

When I heard I was booked to speak in Potsdam, New York, in mid-October, I thought, That’s great! I’ll drive there. It will be a scenic trip through the foliage.

That was an innocent but foolish notion. Potsdam is 350 miles away. Mostly north. I also decided to drive a twenty-some-year-old convertible. That was another foolish notion, though it turned out ok.

Departure day dawned cool and rainy at my home in Amherst, Massachusetts. But a quick look at the Weather Channel brought good news – skies were clearing, or at least they were supposed to. You can take the old convertible, I said to myself. It will be a fine day for top down motoring.

I set out for work in a steady rain. From my office in Springfield I watched it pour all morning. Then the Weather Gods smiled on me. The rain stopped, and the skies cleared. I began to feel good about my vehicular choice, just as the choice began to malfunction.

We are in the business of servicing automobiles, so it should not surprise anyone that we serviced my own car before leaving. Oil was filled. Headlights were adjusted. And most important – the cigarette lighter power outlet was repaired. After all, we can’t take a trip without Portable Devices!

I topped the tanks with fuel, and I was off. I drove through the toll booth to the Mass Pike West as I pushed reset on the trip odometer. The old car gathered speed as we rolled around the on-ramp. It was indeed a fine fall day as I climbed the hill to Westfield and made the run up the mountains at Blandford.

The edges of the steep road were littered with overheated vehicles, but my car purred like an old dog as we motored through the Berkshires. Things changed when I reached the top. Up there, at sixteen hundred feet, the air should have been thin. But it wasn’t. It was actually thick – some would call conditions cloudy; and it started to rain.

By the time I reached Albany, there were traffic jams in addition to the rain and clouds. But I persevered, and rode them out. Finally I found clear road as the Northway opened up past Saratoga. Traffic picked up speed. I was finally on my way!

There was even fine fall scenery. I knew it was there because the signs on the road said so. Unfortunately, I did not actually see any scenery, because it was now dark, thanks to the delays from rain, traffic, and construction. Still, I was in a good mood as I listened to tunes on the iPod with my new Bose headsets.

Whenever I take a long trip by car I play music from the seventies, and it makes me wish I had stayed in music production back. Where would I be today, if I had? Would I be on top of the world making records or movies in L.A.? Or would I be in prison in Mongolia? There’s just no telling.

I had those thoughts as I passed Lake George, Ticonderoga, and Champlain. In no time at all, it was time to turn off the Northway onto country roads for the final leg of my trip. That’s where things got interesting. I had no navigation system, I was far from any cell phone coverage, and I’d never been there before. Nonetheless, I had some printed directions, which I began to follow by the light of a pocket flashlight.

Alone in the dark, I climbed into the mountains on a twisty two-lane road. I’d encounter the occasional unpaved patch, which made me wonder if this was really the right road to Potsdam, but there weren’t any alternatives visible in the dark, so I hammered along.

It started to rain, and as the elevation increased, the rain turned to snow. Top down motoring was now a distant memory. The temperature had dropped from 65 degrees at departure to 25 degrees in the mountains. There was not a single light to be seen out there, with the exception of my headlights. Not a house, or a car, or even a streetlight. Nothing.

That’s what it means to drive in the country.

As the pavement got slippery I began to notice occasional holes in the string of guardrail that lined the road at every corner. I realized those were spots were more aggressive or more foolish or simply less lucky motorists had found their destiny in the abyss below. My lights did not reach down there, and I made a special effort to avoid that fate.

As you can tell, I was successful.

As I got farther into the wilderness creatures became visible in the dark, at the fringe of my lights. I was in country where moose and bear cavorted in the road, and Wendigo hunted in the forest. Needless to say, I did not stop to play with them. The Adirondack wilderness is not a place where my position at the top of the food chain can be positively assured.

The first sign of civilization was Lake Placid, where I passed drunken revelers eating and throwing the season’s first snow. I made it through town without tangling any of them in my undercarriage. Signs for Potsdam began to appear, so I knew I was on the right path.

The weather began to clear, and I picked up speed. Now there were only occasional ice patches to turn me sideways. It was no longer a struggle to keep the car pointed forward the other 99% of the time. I reached a long straightaway where the headlights seemed to get dim, and I looked down to see the speedometer nudging the century mark. For the first time in 100 miles, I was making good time.

I arrived in Potsdam by nine, only to find the town rolled up for the evening. I battered the door of the hotel until I was admitted, and that’s where I am right now.

But I am about to venture out, to explore Scenic Potsdam. I will report more later.

Some medical advocacy groups fight FOR the cure. We autistics are unique - we fight ABOUT it.

noreply@blogger.com (John Elder Robison) — Mon, 12 Oct 2009 14:19:00 +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. We'd get a long way if we tackled each disability component of autism in this way. Not every one of us is affected by each thing, but the sum total would touch us all in some way.

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. That's one question; there are many more.

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 our 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 all 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 all people on the spectrum.

Some thoughts on the Autism Speaks video

noreply@blogger.com (John Elder Robison) — Thu, 01 Oct 2009 11:14:00 +0000

I finally watched the infamous Autism Speaks “I Am Autism” video. I had to hunt to find it, because so many parodies have popped up that the Google search was overwhelmed. The first part takes as its theme, “I am autism, and I will take your money, your marriage, your family and I will ruin your life.” That’s an awful lot of intent to attribute to a neurological difference in the brain.

For those of you who didn't see the video here is a link http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HDdcDlQVYtM&feature=channel

I cannot recall any similar instance where legitimate scientists ascribed malice or forethought to a disease, difference, or human condition. Cancer kills you, and so does heart disease, but no one says, “I am cancer. I will take your money and take your life.”

Come on, folks.

Autism can be a serious disability. I don’t know any knowledgeable person who would disagree with that statement. But the disability comes about by natural action. Autism can cause serious problems, but they are not the result of malicious action on the part of an “evil force” as depicted in the film.

Frankly, it’s shocking to me that an advocacy group would countenance the production of such a thing.

Suggesting an autistic child is “possessed” by some malign force is something I for one would never do. I want to get rid of the disability aspects of autism as much as anyone, but the mindset depicted in the film does not get me there. I hope Autism Speaks rethinks this campaign and comes up with some different video.

The fundamental problem with the video is that it says, in essence, “autism is bad.” That moral judgment is then inevitably applied to people with autism. That’s wrong, and an organization that purports to exist to help autistic people should know better. It has the same corrosive effect that calling me a retard had, forty years ago. I don’t like it; in fact, it makes me pretty angry.

I have no problem saying, “autistic disability is undesirable.” I believe that statement is true.

Moral judgments such as those in the Autism Speaks video have no place in the description of disabilities, diseases, other health problems.

So how do I think we should attack “the problem?”

First of all, we should recognize that the autism spectrum is very broad, encompassing individuals who perceive themselves as totally disabled and disadvantaged by autism to fully functional people who believe the exact opposite. We must accept that both points of view are valid, for those individuals. My gift can indeed be your disability, if it affects you in different ways.

That is the key to agreement on how we may address the problems posed by autism.
We can say, I want to solve the problem of autistic speech impairment. Or we can say, I want to find out why some people with autism have serious gastrointestinal issues. Those are specific problems which can and will be addressed through research.

That’s the right way to go about this. Pick a specific component of autism, and figure it out. Then find out how to remediate the disability it causes. Having done that, the people who feel disabled by that particular thing will have a solution at hand, which is wonderful and empowering.

Complex problems are always solved one step at a time, and autism is one of the most complex medical puzzles science has ever tackled. We’d all do well to recognize that, break our work down into manageable steps. Then we can put the sensationalism, moral judgment, and showboating aside in pursuit of a common goal.

Is the bible obsolete?

noreply@blogger.com (John Elder Robison) — Sun, 27 Sep 2009 20:04:00 +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_3d_3d

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?

Three Appearances this week and next . . .

noreply@blogger.com (John Elder Robison) — Mon, 21 Sep 2009 11:09:00 +0000

For anyone near Madison, Wisconsin, Lawrence, Massachusetts, or Grand Rapids, Michigan . . .

This Wednesday, I'll be speaking to the Special Education group, Department of Public Instruction for the Wisconsin Public Schools.

Then, on Thursday Sept 24, Join me at Northern Essex Community College from 12:30 to 2. I’ll be in the Louise Haffner Fournier Education Center, 78 Amesbury Street, Lawrence, MA Room LA-101 (White Fund Room) This talk is free and the public is invited.

Finally, on Sept 28, I'll be the keynote speaker for the Michigan Primary Care doctor's association's annual conference. That's in Grand Rapids, MI. Find them online at: http://www.mpca.net/

I hope to see some of you this week. I've got quite a few events scheduled this fall and winter. Check the whole schedule at http://johnelderrobison.blogspot.com/

Are you putting together an event now? Sally Itterly at The Lavin Agency can arrange for me to participate. sitterly@thelavinagency.com

See you soon . . .

The British Invasion. Day Two

noreply@blogger.com (John Elder Robison) — Sun, 20 Sep 2009 01:34:00 +0000

I awakened to a crisp, cool Vermont morning. The fires from the previous night’s bacchanalian debauchery had burnt themselves out, but the smoky smell lingered in the air. It was a pleasant odor for anyone whose house or car had escaped destruction, and I was pleased to be part of that group.

Walking outside, I saw that the Stowe Inn had come through the night without a scratch, as had my car. The bridge to town was open, and the police had gone. There was nothing to be seen in the road but some shattered glass and a few trampled party favors. I started the Beast and stepped back as the exhaust popped and rumbled as the engine warmed up. A few minutes later, I was off.

I arrived at the show field early, but the scene was already mobbed. Hundreds, thousands, maybe tens of thousands swarmed through the gates of the Show Field on Weeks Hill Road in Stowe. I parked my car among others of its kind, and set out to wander the field.

Within minutes, three Guardsmen showed up, parked near me, and emplaced a fifty-caliber machine gun to survey the field. I ducked and passed as they shot off a test round or two. Everyone was well behaved after they arrived. I was lucky to pass when I did, because I heard they began collecting tolls from passerby but I didn’t pay a cent.

Their actions reminded me of some City Parking Lot Attendants who worked a lot down the street from me when I worked at Pink Floyd's sound company in Long Island City. After watching them all one summer, I was surprised to arrive at work one day to find them gone, and the lot chained up. It turned out they had not been City Employees at all. Instead, they were Enterprising Lowlifes with Bolt Cutters who had seen an opportunity and seized it. I wondered if the same thing might be occurring today, but I declined to mount a challenge.

Most of the cars were privately owned, but there were some Corporate Entries. Representatives from Jaguar were there, hawking a new sedan for $599 a month. With new car sales in the tank, what else can they do? Maybe next year it will be $399.

Right next to Jaguar I found the Breitling tent, which contained some fine watches, many of which cost considerably more than the Jaguar. Of course, they are made in Switzerland where labor costs are high . . . And some were Certified Chronometers, a point that cannot be made with any Jaguar.

I don’t want to sound like I’m speaking ill of Jaguar; I have one myself. Yet I can’t help but wonder how long they’ll be with us, at least at this show. If production moves to Delhi or Mumbai will they still be admitted here? I suppose the old British models will be allowed, and the problem of the Indian-built latecomers will fall to the next generation. By that time, we may be a province of India, rendering the whole thing moot.

There were some noteworthy entries. Some deviant with a welder had shoehorned a blown Hemi into a yellow MINI Cooper. The idea seems shocking at first, but upon reflection, you realize that’s exactly what every MINI dreams of turning into, when it grows up.

I saw a genuine Elva, yellow with a red stripe, parked near a fine red TVR. Out behind the cars, revelers sat, drank, and told stories, and I stumbled and bobbed my way through their midst.

At one point, I encountered a six-hundred-horsepower supercharged Aston Martin, an authentic Morris Moke, and two Norton Commando motorcycles. This year, a 1959 Land Rover won the concours. I don’t know if the judges were drunk, bribed, or what, but there was some heavy competition out there today.

I remembered Michael Jordan’s words from another event last week. There’s no I in Team, he said, but there is one in WIN.

I left as the bikers were fighting over tent poles for the Motorbike Joust. I did not get to see how it turned out, but I’m sure the details will be in tomorrow’s Police Log. We had a dinner reservation for 6:30, and I had to hurry if I expected to download my 800 pictures in order to upload the thirty or so you can see tonight.

That is the Curse and the Blessing of digital photography. The advent of Large Memory Cards makes it possible for any Chimp to render Award Winning Images, simply by taking thousands of shots. Editing was easier when there was film, and it cost forty cents an image.

We dined at the Olde English Pub, where I had Bangers and Mash followed by a Spotted Dick washed down with tea. All in all, a respectable British feed. Alex had a problem with the concept of Spotted Dick, but I introduced him to Patrick O’Brien’s excellent writing, including his cook book which includes the Dick, and he calmed.

He became agitated again, when we returned to the hotel. Alex and Dave descended to the basement, where they got into a game of foosball after an unsatisfactory altercation on the ping-pong table. He (Dave or Alex; take your pick) expected to win, but things did not go as planned. In addition, the cigarette machine in the corner was empty. There is nothing worse than an empty cigarette machine. A working machine can be used. A broken machine can be robbed. But an empty one . . . you are just out of luck. Things began to escalate, so I slipped out the door before they grabbed pool cues in order to write you this report.

Darkness has fallen. I can hear the shouts, and the light of torches is flickering through the drawn shades.

Until next time,
I remain,
John

The British Invasion

noreply@blogger.com (John Elder Robison) — Sat, 19 Sep 2009 02:08:00 +0000

It’s that time of year again. I climbed into the Big Red Bentley and headed north. I moved out onto I-91 and muscled my way past pugnacious thugs in Escalades and granola-powered Prius drivers. My speed climbed as I approached the border. I tried to hold it back, but there's only so much one can do.

The car had a nasty shake at 85, but it smoothed out nicely over 110. Most cars struggle to attain those speeds but this brute takes them in stride. At the century mark the engine is just above fast idle, at 1,900 rpm. You’ve got six inches of travel remaining in the gas pedal, and 2,500 rpm to go on the tach. There’s a certain magic to five hundred horsepower.

These big Bentleys are the British equivalent of the old Hemi Cuda, only much more refined. At three tons, they are also considerably heavier. The weight comes in handy when the road gets rough, and you have the mass to hammer the highs spots back where they belong.

I ate up the road all the way to White River, where I took a left onto 89 North. My Beast coasted down as the exit approached, rolling past the Exit 30MPH sign at a smooth 75. I hit the bend and slewed my way around, exiting onto 89 with a subtle trail of smoke. A tip of the throttle and I was back to speed for the final run in to Stowe.

I reached my hotel only to find it was Under New Management, a euphemism for, "I'm sorry sir, your room reservation has vanished." Grabbing the hapless clerk by the throat, he regurgitated the key to 124, the room I have occupied for years, which to his great good fortune was as yet unoccupied. I wandered down the hall, where a wedding dinner was in progress, and I shared some fine wine and cheese while watching the curiously dressed wedding-partiers. So fortified, I cruised down the hill into Stowe.

By the time I arrived the block party was in full swing. I made sure my car was well hidden out behind the hotel before walking over the covered bridge to town. A Beatles tribute band was playing, and an intoxicated female dragged me into a dance as I passed. I tried to extricate myself as two drunken revelers snapped pictures. I was saved by the arrival of a freak in a Chicken Costume, singing at the top of hug lungs while swinging a heavy golf club to clear a path to the bar.

I met up with my friend Dave and we headed to the Blue Moon Grille, where we were seated and fed immediately, thanks to the economic collapse. In better days they’d have taken a reservation for next weekend, if they fed specimens like us at all. I ate grilled scallops as Dave texted his kid, who was lost somewhere on the highways of rural Vermont.

I remember being lost like that myself, years ago. In my case, it was a result of eating mushrooms. I don’t know what Dave’s kid’s excuse was. Thirty some years ago I found myself in Sherbrooke, Quebec, and when I rode through the border crossing, I was rounded up and detained by bad tempered Customs Agents for almost eight hours. By the time I got loose, the mushrooms had worn off and my money was gone. All in all, that was one bad trip.

Our reverie was interrupted by flashing lights and sirens. We saw Police outside the restaurant, and we slouched low in our seats. We didn’t think we’d done anything arrestable in Stowe but you never know . . . Sometimes the Natives get greedy, and invent laws to extract revenue from sweet innocents like us. My mind went back to the Shamokins of rural Pennsylvania, who rolled boulders into the highway so they could stop motorists and rob them. At times like that I regret leaving my preacher outfit home.

Fortunately, the cops were merely clearing the riffraff from around the stage. No one was after us. When we emerged from the Blue Moon, we refrained from song, and our refined and upright appearance made us seem the farthest thing from rabble. We passed unmolested. As the shouting subsided to the snick of handcuffs we slipped back up the hill. My Bentley and Dave’s Land Rover were safe, surrounded by British cars of all the important colors: red, white, black and most of all, green.

We retreated to our respective rooms to prepare for morning. Stay tuned for News From the Show Field, including reports on the Motorbike Jousting, Land Rover Polo and the Demolition Derby. This is, after all, the largest British Lifestyle event in the East. At least that’s what the organizers say.

More news tomorrow. Until then, sweet dreams from Northern Vermont, where the nights are cold and the cars are fast.

The female Aspergergian guest blogger introduces herself

noreply@blogger.com (John Elder Robison) — Fri, 11 Sep 2009 10:37:00 +0000

The person who wrote this week's two guest posts is Deborah McCarthy, a 49-year-old Aspergian female from Medford, Oregon. Feel free to check her out on Facebook (address at the bottom) and continue a dialogue directly with her. This is her letter; her coming out, as it were . . .

Hi Everybody!

First I want to say that I am blown away by the outpouring of love and support!! Flat out blown away!!! Thank you SO much. The thought that I can really just be myself, warts and all, and still be accepted, is just so mind-blowing that I’m actually at a loss for words. I haven’t been able to find ONE person that gets me, to find 50+?!! Shocking. :D

I have to clear up a few misunderstandings though. I am NOT a clinical psychologist. This was never meant to be a dissertation on the statistics of Asperger’s. This started out because a friend asked me about it and I wanted to be able to tell him what I feel I exhibit, based on my research. I had jotted down one word notes from the various books I’ve read so far and the web sites I’ve gone to. Maybe I shouldn’t have used the word WE. But I assumed that this friend was intelligent enough to figure out that, of course, I was speaking in general, as he’d know I hadn’t met every single person in the world, yet. This was meant as an email to a friend about what I’ve gathered about Asperger’s so far, that I feel explains my particular constellation of characteristics. That’s all.

When John suggested putting it up on his blog, I was genuinely surprised. I thought hey if it can help anyone I’m all for it. It only took me 30 minutes or so to write it and I didn’t go back and change anything. It’s just stream of consciousness first thought early morning writing. My favorite kind. It’s personal, not clinical. My intent was to clarify things for me so that I could explain them to my friend. I used the word WE more as here’s what me and my Asperger’s tribe struggle with on a daily basis. This is what makes us seem so “different”. Although personally I think everyone is unique, when they’re being themselves and not role-playing. We’re all a mass of contradictions. Still, for the purposes of communication, I generalize. We all do it all the time. Imagine if everyone brought out their calculators and started running numbers every time they made a statement. Sometimes you just have to take a leap of faith and hope that the listener gets where you’re coming from, your intent.

The IQ thing. Holy Moly do people get mad when you claim your intelligence. Men do it all the time. Why can’t women? Besides, I only mentioned that to explain how it was as a child. Hey, I lived through the 70s in the rock world. I’m lucky I have any brain cells left at all. My IQ is probably much much lower nowadays. But does it really matter? Those tests are meaningless to me. If you read the context in which I disclosed that number, it was in reference to how I was perceived as a child in grade school. One of the reasons I was considered a “freak”. I never said oh glory be bow down to my infinite wisdom because clearly I am way more intelligent than you could ever be. I don’t think that and I never said that. But I’m also tired of feeling I have to play dumb in order to be accepted. I’m done with that game. My intelligence may be different from yours, but that doesn’t make it any less valuable. And vice versa. Of course. That’s a given in my view.

The fat thing. Well I knew this would raise the wrath. If you read it again you’ll see I was referring to sensitivities, specifically smell. It was never meant to put down people that struggle with their weight. I never said fat people have no reason to live. Hey I’m short. There used to be a song called “Short People Have No Reason To Live”. It was very popular for awhile. I didn’t get all ruffled by that. I thought it was funny.

Yes white carbs can make you fat. Not everyone that calls themselves a vegan, eats a lot of vegetables. But most who have been vegan for a long time, figure out that eating nothing but white flour doesn’t make you feel very good. I’m vegan out of my love for animals and my hatred of injustice. Watch “Peaceable Kingdom” and you’ll get where I’m coming from. It’s by Tribe of Heart. Look in their eyes and you’ll understand. But please know that regardless of my aversion to fat, I would never, repeat NEVER, ever reject you based on your body type. That’s crazy talk. I never said that. In reality, my 3 closest friends are all struggling with their weight. Two of them eat meat. They know exactly how I feel. Which is probably why they have no trouble telling me when I have horrendous garlic breath. :D :D

OK, now that that’s out of the way. I have to tell you how hard it has been not to write everyone who is suffering. My arms reach out to hold you. I am here for you anytime. I so understand the isolation and pain that you’re going through. You are NOT ALONE. If I can be of service in any way, please feel free to friend me on FaceBook. Be warned however, I am brutally honest there. It is MY page and I refuse to edit MY communications. I can’t write and edit at the same time. The creative flow is a flow and the stop start of trying to edit while in the flow just stops the flow. Also, my photo albums are the beginnings of the storyboard of my life. I don’t have pictures of every period of my life so it’s sketchy at best but I have found it extremely useful in confirming my diagnosis. I can SEE it. Then there’s the language. I like “colorful” language. To me it’s lyrical, yes lyrical, and funny. If this will offend you, you may want to stay away. My life story, and the way I tell it, is not for the faint of heart. But I’m sure many of you will be able to relate to the journey I’ve been on so far.

My life is an open book. No apologies. (Well scratch that I apologize all the time). :D And my arms are wide open to receive anyone who wants a friend. I am not open however, to a bunch of petty criticism over technicalities. I’m not here to prove anything to anyone. I’m a work in progress, just like everyone else. Finding this missing piece of the puzzle that is my story has been very rewarding so far. The thought that I may not be as alone as I thought I was, fills me with genuine hope. Please don’t shit on that. Thanks.

Much much love,
Deborah McCarthy
www.facebook.com/lunatec2

Thoughts on the female point of view

noreply@blogger.com (John Elder Robison) — Thu, 10 Sep 2009 20:27:00 +0000

The last two blog posts – a Female View Of Asperger’s – generated quite a lot of talk. Some of you agreed with what she had to say, while others were rather harsh in your criticism, especially with respect to her ideas on fat people and generalization.

One person wrote to ask how I could allow such a post on my blog. I’m not known as an opponent of fat people, though I am criticized for generalization. I allowed the post – if allow is the word – because I thought it provided an interesting point of view and insight into a female Aspergian mind. I still believe that.

In the preface to the second post, the author said, “I forgot to tell everyone that I've been fired from every job I've ever had pretty much. And not once for lack of ability, according to the bosses that fired me.” I wonder if the tone of the letter is part of the reason she’s had trouble with employment.

Reading into her story, I can imagine the scenario. Fat people have a certain smell that’s picked up by her heightened senses. She experiences that it a way that really bothers her even though most of us would not notice. She lacks the inhibition to keep from commenting on it, and when she does, “fat people smell gross,” and she gets fired. It’s easy to see how something like that could set her up for repeated failure.

That’s a good example of something that seems trivial but is really disabling. My own life experience shows that we can learn to keep our mouths shut, but if our senses are overwhelmed by a smell, we can’t always change that. So how do we coexist? I’m sure there’s an answer but it’s not obvious right now.

It’s true that I would not be so direct in my own comments, but I have met many Aspergians who are even more direct than her. And it’s worth considering what the consequences of such directness may be. Lost jobs is certainly one possibility. It’s also worth considering whether we can change that, and how. I believe we can.

When I read her story, I was reminded in many ways of myself as a teenager, or of my son as a teenager. Is it possible she’s in that same place today? At I pondered that idea, I realized the thing that shaped my own thinking and behavior was the gradual process of learning to interact successfully. That’s been one of the major things that has changed me from a person who was disabled by Asperger’s to someone who’s just eccentric.

What happens if a person does not get those successful interactions; if they don’t get the necessary human-to-human practice that’s needed to develop? Do they stay in stasis? As we get older, it becomes harder in some ways to reach out to other people, and if that happens, I think the risk of real lifelong disability increases. What can we do about that?

A few people suggested that her story is written is an abrasive style. What is that, if not words that are not softened by human experience? The only way I learned to be considerate was for people to tell me I’d hurt their feelings. If I did not want to do that, I had to moderate what I wrote to achieve that goal. It’s not something we are born with; it happens after long practice.

Aging comes naturally but wisdom is really hard-won. I think her story leaves me with a lot to think about. I ask myself, “How would I help a person with those ideas fit into the world a little better?” There are a lot of tough questions and issues in there.

I think the essay I posted represents the author’s first steps on a long road, one that many of us share.

It’s certainly been an interesting discussion.

Part II of the Female’s View of Asperger’s guest post

noreply@blogger.com (John Elder Robison) — Thu, 10 Sep 2009 12:55:00 +0000

Yesterday's post sure generated a lot of discussion. This next part should keep that going. I’ll preface her story with two comments she sent me yesterday . . . .

Please know that of course I am GENERALIZING. It would be a tedious article indeed if I had to get out my calculator and jot down statistics all the time. We generalize in common parlance all the time. It's just more efficient time-wise. Most people get that when you talk to them. Also, like everyone else who is just being themselves and not role-playing, I am a mass of contradictions. Every moment is alive with its own reality. I change my mind about things all the time. The article was written from my own observations of not only myself but the reaction I seem to bring out in others. AND, material I have read on Asperger's, which is all quite recent. So I hope the statisticians among you can take a break, have a cup of coffee, put their feet up and just go with the flow. I did when I wrote it.

Also . . . I forgot to tell everyone that I've been fired from every job I've ever had pretty much. And not once for lack of ability, according to the bosses that fired me. ??

Now, on to her story . . .

Suicidal -- More people on the spectrum commit suicide than any other group. But I've read it's a group of intelligent people with high IQs too so who knows if it's the Asperger's or the intelligence. Maybe we know it's OK to check out if we want. We're too smart to be manipulated by superstitious beliefs. It is definitely a reaction to the constant rejection from the world. Especially family members. I have tried to kill myself so many times I lost count. Once I swallowed a whole bottle of 10mg Valium that belonged to my roommate at the time. I can't even take one of those pills without moon-walking for a week. How I survived without even puking them all up, I'll never know. I slept though. :D For like 16 hours. But dammit, I woke up! I couldn't believe it. No vomit, nothing. So I crawled to the bathroom and slit my left wrist. Apparently I didn't do it hard enough and in the correct direction.( Note to self.) Just then the phone rang and someone I didn't even know nursed me through it. ?? I have some serious protection around me let me tell ya. I could write a book on that subject alone, FULL of stories involving unseen rescuers. Once I blew the pilot light out in the oven. Bob happened to come over and saved me. I was already falling asleep on the sofa. Miracles. Each and every time has been a miraculous save. Hey anybody wanna be MY friend? :D :D :D

Social Faux-Pas -- I'm a big old puppy. I'll come bounding up to you with a big smile on my face full of enthusiasm and friendly intent. I don't know that you think I'm trying too hard. Trying for what? I don't understand that one at all. It is true genuine enthusiasm (my favorite word en - Theos -asm meaning having God within), the real deal, not any manipulation to win your favor. Why? I know I'm gonna say something that's gonna piss you off any second now so why would I fake anything? It's not in my bag of tricks. I may use words differently, pronounce them differently and even go into different accents at different times. To me it's play. I have a kind of lilting musical sort of way of speaking. To me it's obvious I'm playing with you. Why would I want to make fun of your southern accent? I think it's a whole lotta fun to talk Southern. ;) I will probably interrupt you to tell you I have gone through the same thing. Maybe I'll use too many words and so the time away from your original thought is too long and so I look like the prick who's always bringing the attention back to themselves. That wasn't my intent believe me.

Self-absorbed -- I think Aspies use the word I more than anyone else. :D It's not out of vanity. At least not for me. It's just who else am I gonna talk about? I am the only one I know this well. I'm trying to connect with YOU so I... I don't even know how to deal with this one. You try being alone 99.999% of your life and tell me who you talk about. Besides, when a sentence begins with a she or a he, mean-spirited gossip usually follows. I don't like that. It's not fair. (Unless of course it's someone in the public eye who has done something horrible and expresses no remorse for it.)

Routines -- We hate our little routines to be disrupted. I have my little things I do every morning and I will not allow anything or anyone to get in the way of them. It's probably why I hate to travel. I like it once I'm situated in the hotel, IF the bedding is soft and the towels don't scratch and there isn't noise from the AC, etc. But I get very very anxious and worry endlessly about what's happening at home. Are the kids OK? What about the guys in the backyard? Did I leave the coffee maker on? Is the door locked? Are you sure? It sucks because I do love to go to foreign countries and meet new people. There they just think I'm a crazy American. I can hide behind that quite well.

Organizing -- I used to joke that if I woke up blind tomorrow I could find a file from 7 year's ago in the cabinet. I create manuals on every subject I'm interested in. Each a book in its own right. I constantly update them and reorganize them. :D Gee ain't I fun? I LOVE it. A Staples or Office Depot is like a candy store to me. I can go CRAZY in those places!! No lie. I have spent hundreds of dollars at one time on just pens and notebooks and file folders, etc. You can have clothing stores. Give me the office supply store and I'm a happy camper. Ah the smell of it! ;)

Prefers Objects to People -- My objects aren't just objects to me. Each of them has a story. I treat them with great respect. Every single object has a home and I'll know if it's been moved a quarter of an inch from its spot. It makes me very nervous when a new person comes into my home and picks everything up one by one and sets it down in a different spot. I can lose my temper over this. Sorry but it feels like my babies are being molested. Hey I'm just bein' honest here. This isn't a museum or a shop. It's my Home, OUR home. Leave my stuff alone! :D :D I don't go to your house and pick up everything.

Prefers Solitude -- Is it any wonder? I like silence. I rarely listen to music. If I turn it on, I have to dance. Background music is bewildering to me. How can you not get sucked into the lyrics and the rhythm and start to move? I cannot listen to music without dancing or at least singing and moving around in my chair. It's very distracting. People are mean in my view so being around them is like listening to nails on a chalkboard. I want to be around people sometimes but it ALWAYS hurts. I'm misunderstood a lot, punished a lot, for crimes I did not commit I might add. I don't get what they really mean. It's rarely what they're saying. I Know they're gonna dogg me behind my back because I'm so "weird". It's funny how those in the rock world seem to do that the most viciously when many of the most amazing singers and musicians are all considered "weird" themselves. ?? And actors that sympathetically portray "different" people on screen, can be the most un-accepting of "different" people in real life. That's been my experience anyway. And I've supported some major players in my day.

Expression -- Aspergians often have that hunted animal expression on their faces. Well it feels like people are coming out of the wood work to make you miserable for no good reason so... I AM a hunted animal. Often there's a serious intense expression that doesn't fit what's going on. If I had a dime for how many times I've been told I'm so "intense" when I've just been sitting there minding my own business reading a magazine or something. Huh? I know I squint when I want to suck info in. Is that what they mean? I'm sure it can make me look mean but I'm just squinting. Men with Asperger's have this cold stone boy expression. I tend to be over-animated. Just a couple of months ago a guy at Farmer's Market told me that I was the most animated person he'd ever seen. I apologized. :D :D Oh Lordy Lordy Lordy...

Trying on Personalities -- When I was younger I could not leave a movie theater without becoming the main character to a certain degree. I'd absorb them and they'd be so far inside of me that I WAS them for a day or so. The remnants will stay with me for decades. When I talk Southern I think of a certain character depending on what I'm saying and how it might relate to that movie I saw so long ago. I coulda been somebody, I coulda been a contender. I pepper my speech with stuff like this ALL the time. For me it is amusing. For others who have no idea what I'm referring to, it's just odd. :D :D Whatever. (Notice the quick transition from referring to Southern and going into Marlon Brando in On the Waterfront? Another Aspie trait.)

Temper Tantrums -- OK here's the one thing I should be terribly embarrassed about. But I think I'm lacking that embarrassment gene. I can be humiliated. But that's usually because of how someone else is treating me. If I'm really angry I can have a meltdown that puts a 2 year old to shame. I don't care where I'm at, who's watching, or what I say. I once had a tantrum because the arrogant eye doctor was making my vertigo worse with his tests. So I ran out, sat down on the concrete in the middle of the parking lot, and screamed and cried and blurted out hateful things about this poor old doctor who was only trying to help. Bob was mortified. The more he tried to control me, the more I raged. I was 47 at the time. Not good. But I have no problem going back in there. I did call to apologize of course. But I didn't know that I was an Aspie so I couldn't explain it to them. All I could do was say I'm sorry. Poor ole Bob. He's a saint let me tell ya. WHO would put up with that nonsense? But honestly, I can't help it. It's like holding back a tornado. It's just not possible. It's just NOT possible. :( See? I stay home to protect the world from my wrath. Thank God for the internet huh?

The Stare -- I'll admit it. I stare at people. Shamelessly. I'm trying to absorb info about them. My eyes actually feel like sponges. I can feel energy coming in through them. Once I worked with Gary Oldman and I could not stop staring at him. Now he's a celebrity so he's probably used to it. He probably thought I fancied him. Nope. He did remind me of my first love but that wasn't it. I felt sadness from him. I felt his isolation. Anyway, as the night progressed, he started following me around and staring at me when I'd be talking to someone else. I don't know if he was playing games trying to make me know what it felt like but it didn't bother me in the slightest. I am always on a fact-finding mission. I can't even take a walk without a destination to reach. (transition back to staring) People can misread this horribly. Usually men see it as an invitation. Then when I reject their advances they get pissed because they think I led them on. ?? Huh? I didn't lick my lips and look at your package. I just stared at you. Get over it. Be flattered that you're interesting. People can also think I'm being hostile and trying to intimidate them. No. Why would I want to intimidate anyone? I know how to get what I want. I ASK for it. :)

Personal Disclosure -- TMI. I figure there's nobody here but us chickens so why put on airs? Ironically I'm always accused of thinking I'm better than everyone else because I look smug. HUH? I air my dirty laundry more than anyone I have ever come across. The world is my confessional. I used to say "Show your ugly", way before Ugly Betty came out. How is this being smug? It's the opposite of smug. I refuse to allow anyone to make me afraid or ashamed of anything in my life. It's too much trouble. Withholds, lies, marketing, manipulating... you can have it. I am an open book. End of story. People have used things about me against me but it doesn't work. When you have no secrets, no one has any power over you. You are free!

Focus -- I can focus for so long I forget to eat some days. Once I'm on the net researching new data, forget it. My stomach growls and I may or may not interrupt my research to shut it up. I'm not sure I ate yesterday, I'm trying to remember. Amy's boxed frozen vegan meals are a life saver here. Not good, not healthy, but better than nothing I guess. And cruelty-free so... it'll do.

Overwhelm -- Here's another one of those characteristics that I wish I didn't have. Crowds send me into hysteria. I kid you not. I can get hysterical from a minor crowd. How I ever lived in NYC for 17 years I'll never know. I simply cannot handle lots of people coming at me. It's like darts, or trying to cross an 8 lane highway. I just freak out. I am in and out of the grocery store in 10 minutes or less. I run the whole time. I know exactly what I want and get the same things every time. I have to go first thing 7am when they open. I'm usually waiting there at the locked door. Suffice it to say I order out a lot. Delivery is a life-saver. Unfortunately Ashland doesn't have a wide variety of restaurants that deliver. I order a lot of cheeseless veggie pizzas.

Inability to Get Over It -- I remember when my father died when I was 12, I could not stop crying. The funny thing is that at his funeral I was happy. Inappropriate facial expressions is another category. Now no one loved my father more than I did. I was definitely Daddy's Little Girl. He saved me from that child-molesting raging ogre after all. But at his funeral I could not stop smiling. Inside I was so happy for him. He was Home with my beloved Jeshua. The turn out was Presidential in scope. Firemen have HUGE funerals for their brothers. I remember thinking Wow Dad was loved so much!! But I could never get over the loss. His own mother actually put me down behind my back, but within earshot, saying that I should just get over it. That was his mother talking. You'd think she would be the one having a hard time with it. Then she called me a white witch and died. :D :D And they call ME crazy. Right. So back to the subject... I remember every single slight. Every betrayal, every lie, all of it. I never forget a cruelty. I do forgive pretty easily though. I really am a very friendly person. So long as I can be me without punishment from you. But I do hold onto hurts like nobody I know.

Alien -- Asperger's is fondly referred to as Wrong Planet Syndrome. :D I have always felt that it was a mistake my being born here. I have always felt that I was on the wrong planet. That this is a photo negative of what's right. Here what's right is wrong and what's wrong is right. It's all reversed, a mirror image of Home. People have called me names my whole life. Space Cadet, Martian, Alien, etc. I have a friend who truly believes I am from another world. I've thought that maybe I'm from the future. As crazy as that sounds it is possible. Cords for instance were always a source of exasperation to me. Even as a kid, before I knew about Tesla and his free, cordless, energy. Why in hell would we have cords tethering us to the wall when we're trying to vacuum or something? I simply detest cords. I see no purpose for them. They're stupid and unnecessary and they only get in the way. Besides bunnies chew them and die. I'm not OK with cords. Now, I have seen UFOs several times throughout my life. It would seem that this should be of no surprise to anyone. Of course there's intelligent life (ALL of life is intelligent by the way) on other planets. Of course. The first time I was asleep in my bed under the window. My sister was asleep in her bed against the opposite wall. I was awakened by what I don't know. But I immediately looked out the window and saw 3 lights, bluish white glowing discs, playing around making formations in the sky. Then 2 of them sped off and one hovered still. Then all 3 formed a diagonal line and then sped off. You could write it off as a dream except that it was on the front page of the newspaper the next day. The Coast Guard (this was Florida) was chasing 3 unidentified flying objects. :D This did not bode well for my reputation in school because I had been talking about them before we discussed current events. We didn't get the newspaper at my house during the week, only on Sundays, so it was obvious I knew about them from another source. I felt they were my friends and they came to check up on me, make sure I was OK. :) I remember not long after this, I was playing alone in my room, as usual, talking to my "invisible friend", as usual, when all of a sudden I got up and walked into the kitchen where my mother was opening up a can of whathaveyou for our nutritious meal, and I simply announced, "I am part of the last generation of its kind, I've come to walk with Christ." I still remember her face. Mouth gaping, can opener in hand, stretchy black and red shorts. She says I was a "strange" child. :D This leads me to my conclusion..

I, and others, don't feel that Asperger's is a disorder. I feel it is a neurological difference. You can SEE the difference on a brain scan. We are literally hard-wired differently than a neuro-typical person. (How many times have I said I'm just not wired that way!!) I believe we are a leap in evolution. Leaps like this occur in nature all the time. I believe a more childlike and pure sort of human is on the horizon. One that is less caveman-like and more angelic-like. More ethereal, less dense. I feel it is a requirement for the organism that is Earth to survive. If humanity kept on the path they're on, we will not have a planet to live on. It will take a certain sensitivity and honesty in order to bring her back to a state of health. I know this comes across as very arrogant. But recognize I didn't say better I said different. Might was probably needed up to a certain point. Although I believe that point was passed long ago. Now another constellation of characteristics is required for the survival of the whole. So the next time you see somebody that might be a little "different", you might want to feel gratitude for them rather than annoyance. We are the wave of the future. "... and a little child shall lead them." "... the meek shall inherit the Earth." "... the lion will lay down with the lamb." (Although isn't the real quote something else? I'll have to look that up.) ;)

Thoreau states, "I come to my solitary woodland walk as the homesick go home."

Life as an Aspergian female - a story I had to share

noreply@blogger.com (John Elder Robison) — Wed, 09 Sep 2009 12:57:00 +0000

I’d like to share a moving story of what it’s like to have Asperger’s from the female point of view. I’ve always known Asperger’s manifests itself differently in girls than in guys. Yesterday I received this beautifully written essay, and I just had to share it with you. The writer wants to remain anonymous but she’s an Aspergian female, about my age, living out West. Her story is 5,500 words so I’ve broken this into three parts. Here is installment #1 . . .

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Everybody says Asperger's' main symptom is a lack of empathy but I don't think that's true. Women exhibit differently from men. I'm sure conditioning has a lot to do with it but also women are predisposed from birth to be more empathic I think. I know I cry at the news very often. So I wanted to look at this and other characteristics to get clear on just what I can claim as mine and what just doesn't belong.

Empathy -- I'm extremely empathic when it comes to the underdog, animals, children, the poor, the starving, etc. I have no sympathy whatsoever for the obese. Maybe that's from being bullied by my huge family members I don't know. Probably contributed. But for me it symbolizes greed and selfishness at the expense of another. After all, you don't get fat from veggies, you get fat from the flesh and mother's milk of another. Taking what doesn't belong to you. Taking more than your share. Taking more than giving. I have issues regarding fat. I admit it. Try not to hate me for it. I'm just being honest. Which brings me to the next subject.

Honesty -- Aspies are incapable of telling lies. We don't play the game socially. We don't give insincere compliments. If you're getting a compliment from an Aspie, you can count on the fact that it is truly the way they feel. Which makes it very difficult in society because society functions almost solely on lies. Maybe I'm too arrogant to ever allow anyone to make me feel like I have to pretend in order to be good enough for them. I am who I am and if you don't like it, you can go pound sand. :D I also find it extremely tedious to have to decipher every communication from someone to ferret out the truth. It's just too much trouble. I'd rather hang with animals. They're not so tedious.

Speaking Style -- Aspergians tend to download data onto you rather than have a 2 way conversation. That's why I like to write. I hate being interrupted yet I interrupt others constantly. I get excited and I want to share. People have accused me of always trying to turn the conversation back on myself. But that's not how it is at all. I'm trying to connect. Trying to show that I get you, I know what you are talking about. Me too, me too! is what I'm really saying. It's a hand extended in fellowship. But since it doesn't come across that way to NTs (neuro-typicals) that hand extended in friendship is always rejected, usually slapped. After awhile you just stop extending it. The speech is also quite pedantic. Well you can see that's true. They call us "The Little Professors". It can come across as precocious, especially from a child. And since obsession with one subject is usually what you want to talk about, you come across preachy and pedantic. We all know what my obsession is. Animals. :D I can't tell you how many times people, bosses even, have made fun of me calling me Mr Howell (from Gilligan's Island) or something. I always felt so perplexed at why they would turn on me like that out of the blue. If you don't value the info I'm so generously sharing, that's fine, but to ridicule me over it just comes across like bullying to me. Which leads me to the next point...

Teasing -- We don't get it. It's so obviously laced with an ugly intent. You can feel the undercurrent pulling you down. Why are you making fun of me? I don't understand. I thought you liked me. I like you. How can you not like someone who likes you? See? It's very painful. Now I have a great sense of humor. And if there's really love behind pointing an eccentricity out, I'll laugh right along side you. But 99.9% of the time, teasing is a power play designed to put you down and the teaser up. It always feels like a betrayal. My family teased me mercilessly. I laughed but I felt the knife in my back.

Obsessions -- I go very intensely into one or two topics at a time. Then when I'm satisfied, I'll move on to another one. These obsessions last years, decades. And while I'm focused on it, that's all I want to do, think , breathe, talk about. Others do not appreciate this quality. Who wants to listen to some bore drone on and on and on about the same thing every single time you talk to them? The phone stops ringing. Loneliness ensues. After awhile, you learn to prefer solitude. I hate gossip anyway. Hate it. And most people want to talk about stupid stuff like clothes and make-up and boys. (big yawn!) Why is everyone so obsessed with their images and their penises? This is something that makes no sense to me at all whatsoever. It's infantile, which brings me to...

Age -- Aspies are age-inappropriate. We are childlike and innocent and naive, even when having experienced many harsh experiences. It's a childlike innocence that pervades our entire being. What ends up happening is that people either treat you like dirt and make fun of you, or if they're trying to be "nice", they'll talk down to you as though you were mentally challenged. I've felt like I was going to be pat on the top of my head like a puppy dog before. I may be childLIKE but that doesn't mean I'm childISH. In fact, usually Aspies have...

Very High IQs -- Mine is 165. Einstein was an Aspie and I think his IQ was 172. I'm not sure. When I was in 1st Grade at a very progressive private Catholic school run by nuns right off the boat from Ireland, I had the highest IQ in the whole school which went through the 8th grade. The nuns wrote off my eccentricities as the sign of a genius. This did not make me any friends. It appears that the biggest crime in America, for a woman anyway, is to be intelligent. I was supposed to talk about clothes and make-up and boys. ?? Instead I wanted to talk about death and truth and Alice Cooper. :D My favorite nun, Sister Regina, actually put a poster of Alice and his snake up in the music room, sandwiched in between Mozart and Beethoven. God I loved her. She was my saving grace. Once, in choir, I got what I call the whooshes down my spine so intensely that my head kept whipping back. I broke from the group to ask her what it was. She got on her knees to meet me head on and looked deeply in my eyes and said just one word, "Grace." I'll never forget her.

Clumsiness -- Well I have bruises and scars over my entire body. :D I always thought it was from being a dancer. The joke is that dancers can dance with utmost elegance yet can't cross a room without bumping into something. I still think it's not my fault. Hallways are way too narrow. Shower stalls are ridiculous. I'm 5'2 and 100 lbs and I can't wash my hair without bruising my elbows. Stupid.

Language -- We are little professors with great vocabularies, perfect grammar, and incredible diction. But we use words in different combinations than others might. Our play on words is often not understood by anyone but ourselves. We may pronounce words differently than others and insist our way is the correct way. For me the first word that comes to mind is vegan. People say Vee gun. There's no double e, no ea. Where did they get veegan? I say vay gun. I'm vegan, vaygun. That's the right way and that's that. We rarely succumb to outside pressure if it doesn't make any sense to us. Also there's a Tourette's kind of way we blurt out what we really think and feel. I don't apologize for that. I'm not here to serve your ego. I'm here to serve Truth (up swell in dramatic music here). I wish more people were forthcoming and told the truth. I get very confused over what I see as a discrepancy over what I'm hearing you say and what my brain is telling me you mean. It's very time-consuming trying to figure all that out. We also have a tendency to curse. :D This I feel is pretty clear and needs no explanation. ;)

Eye Contact -- They say we can't make eye contact. I feel I do but have been accused of not before so... ?? I know when I'm downloading data, as in talking AT you in conversation, I look at the floor or a distant inanimate object. It's just because I can't receive data from your facial expressions AND download at the same time. I can make eye contact, it's sustaining it that's the problem. I think it makes us come across as conceited and arrogant and uncaring. Which couldn't be further from the truth. In reality, we are trying so hard to give you ALL that we have on that particular subject. It's a form of generosity. So the punishing rejection after such a generous outpouring hurts. It's bewildering. But I just gave you everything I've got. I tried to be accurate and thorough, ya know? It really hurts to be misunderstood all the time.

Sensitivities -- We are sensitive to noise, light, textures and smells. Meat-eaters smell like musky sweaty testicles to me. Sorry but it's true. It is tough in an elevator. Perfumes? Fuggetabout it! I can literally vomit from perfume. Obese people smell like cabbage to me. Rotten cabbage. It's too yeasty or something. Repulsive. Sorry. I love you guys that are in that boat I do. Try not to hate me for being so blunt. I really can't help it. If it makes you feel any better I have terrible garlic breath and absolutely no breasts so... :) Light? Cannot handle the sun at all. I wear a hat and sunglasses just to go to the mailbox. All the lines on my face are from squinting in the bright Florida sun as a child. I had wrinkles in 1st grade! Seriously. Sounds? I can hear electricity in the walls. I have to unplug everything in the house sometimes just to get to sleep. I can even hear a motor-like hum in my head at night. I've read that that is the pineal gland revving up to release serotonin or something. People think I'm insane but others experience this too so... Textures? Cannot stand, STAND, seams!! Why in God's name do idiots use fishing line to sew clothing? That and these 2 inch seams are asinine. Period. So I wear my clothes inside out. I live in cotton flannel jamas inside out. I even go to the store like this. I don't care. I'm not trying to impress anyone. It doesn't matter how expensive the clothes are. Let's face it, they're all made in the same sweat shops so high prices are for fools to pay. These are the biggest issues that affect my day to day sense of well-being the most. That and the fact that I cannot, to save my life, get a good night's sleep.

Insomnia -- The brain simply never stops. I can be laying in bed breathing like I'm asleep yet fully aware of everything going on around me. I know when the fridge cycles on or off, when a car goes by, when a dog barks even once. I know where Sparkie is by the pitter patter of his little cutie feet. I am always aware.

Alcohol -- That's been my saving grace actually. Other Aspies feel the same. It allows me to let go of any social anxiety and interact with people in a fun way. Not so serious, not so intense. I also never get bombed because I always feel sober no matter how much I drink. So the extra alcohol only serves to make me sick as a dog. I envy those who can let go and dissolve into the stupor and make right fools of themselves. Oh I can make a fool of myself. I do it all the time. I'm just sober when I do it. No matter how many margaritas I've had. My body might feel it as in an unsteady gait but my head? Right there, fully aware, completely sober. It sucks. I could use a break from my brain. We do use alcohol to self medicate too though so it can be a problem. I drink close to a bottle of chardonnay a day and I have a liver disease from the bad blood I got in the hospital in '92. I really am playing Russian Roulette with that. Not very smart but life is so painful that, maybe I want to pass sooner rather than later.

*

I’ll be very interested in your thoughts. The author of this story will be reading, too, and I will pass any of her responses on through the comments . . . . Stay tuned for part 2 . . .

The Cummington Fair

noreply@blogger.com (John Elder Robison) — Sun, 30 Aug 2009 00:00:00 +0000

This is the season for hill town fairs. Little towns all over New England have their annual fairs, with ox pulls, tractor shows, vegetable contests, rides and of course funnel cakes and fair food.

Today I went to the Cummington Fair. Cummington is halfway between Northampton and Pittsfield on Route 9. The fairgrounds are about a mile off the main road, past a few old tractors and some rambling farm houses. It was raining steadily, so the turnout wasn't as good as the organizers wanted. You never know in the fair business. With a nice day you can be swamped with crowds, but on a rainy day you can sit there all day and watch the rain fall on an empty lot.

I parked and walked in the gates, passing this cold, wet teenage sentinel . . .

He looks pretty sorry in that shot, but he cheered up quick when I spoke to him.

The first thing I came upon was chainsaw sculpture. Wooden bears have become popular around here in recent years. This fellow is carving one as I watch.

He was sawing away right next to the antique tractor show. Cummington had one of the best collections of vintage tractors I've seen in a while.

Here's an old Farmall, just like the ones they used on the Barstow farm when I moved to Hadley, 43 years ago.

This is a Ford 8N, just like the one my grandfather had back in Georgia.

The champion squash sit on a cart. I always wonder what they do with these when the fair ends. Do they pack them with gunpowder and set them off? Do they roll them down hillsides into passing cars? Or do they eat them? It's hard to imagine eating a hundred-pound squash.

And inside the buildings, you can see the fruit and vegtable winners. I'm always tempted to taste a winner, but then I wonder if they spray them with something nasty just in case people like me come along . . . I left them where they lay . . .

You can tell the real country fairs because the farming is always front and center. There wasn't much of a crowd anywhere today, with the rain, but the busiest aisle was this one, between the animal sheds. There are cattle on the left and sheep and goats on the right

Here they are:

I was there early enough to pass the Pickles Da Clown, headed in to work. You can never tell about these circus clowns. She looks like a jolly female, but with that costume, how do you know? Maybe Pickles is really a grizzled old truck driver, fresh out of state prison, just waiting to catch someone like me in an alley between livestock trailers. I talked to Pickles, just to be sure, and she was legit. But you can never tell. When the carnies come to your town, watch the clowns close.

She passed the big animals, waiting in the rain for the ox and draft pulls later in the day.

One of the farmers brushed his beasts as the drizzle fell

Flowers are still blooming but fall is coming soon.

Most of the carnies were friendly, as you can see. I talked to a few as we watched the rain fall. These guys travel a circuit, going from one fair to another. They live in RVs and trailers that are lined up behind the customer parking.

This one wasn't. Some carnies don't like having their picture taken, because they're on the run from the law, on on the run from child support or something else. Some are just obnoxious.

The rides are always colorful. The equipment is a little run down at this show, but I like it just the same

As you can see, there wasn't a whole lot going on in the midway.

Despite that, and despite the weather, this female in the Polish food booth was amazingly cheery. She's from Lanesboro, a bit farther west in the hills.

This Direct TV guy makes you want to run right out and sign up, doesn't he?

Local kids man the 4H food booth. Every country fair has a 4H booth. I was in 4H myself, back in sixth grade.

Buster drooled goodbye as I headed out . . .

The Hill Climb at Mount Equinox

noreply@blogger.com (John Elder Robison) — Mon, 24 Aug 2009 01:16:00 +0000

And there he goes . . . lining up at the starting gate.

Every August, aging ladies and gentlemen who are also sports car enthusiasts gather in Manchester, Vermont for the Mount Equinox Hill Climb. I’ve never put myself in that group, but now that I am aging, I am becoming indistinguishable from real gentlemen. With that in mind, and fortified with a stiff drink, I decided to attend.

Some successful guys will choose much younger sports cars later in life. I've read that it makes you feel younger, being fifty and driving a two-year-old Porsche. I've never fully subscribed to that view. I always feel good around cars my own age, which may be one reason I was comfortable at the Hill Climb.

I had actually hoped to drive to the top of Mount Equinox in my vintage Land Rover, but attending the race turned out to be almost as good, and considerably less risky. The last time I took an old Land Rover up that mountain I’d just come from a company driving school event, and my rear axle blew up halfway down the in a spatter of oil and metal chips.

This time, I parked my old Rover among the aged racers and climbed out with my camera. And that points out one of the great things about Vermont. You can leave an old truck like mine, full of tools and belongings and stuff, with no locks on the doors, and everything will be right where you left it, six hours later.

That would never have happened at any of the NASCAR races I attended. But you could see this event was different, right from the start. There were so many things missing . . . no carnies selling corn dogs and beer. No outlaw bikers or campers playing loud country music. And I did not see a single fistfight the whole time.

In fact, this race was so civilized that wives actually held umbrellas over their mate's heads as they sat in their cars waiting to start their runs. That's something you never see at a motocross or sprint race, for sure.

You can see my ex-NATO Land Rover Defender in back of the red sprint car in this shot. One fellow is adjusting the passenger side tomato can while my friend George Holman and another fellow look on. I asked George what the sleigh runners under the front axle were for, and he said, "They are supposed to keep you from rolling over when a wheel comes off." Why don't modern cars have features like that?

The race begins at the base lodge on Vermont Rt. 7, a few miles south of Manchester. From there, Skyline Drive winds 5.2 miles to the top of Mount Equinox. There are 41 turns on the course, 20 of which are hairpins. The elevation gain of 3,140 feet may be less than Pike’s Peak, but it’s still a strenuous course, especially considering that every vehicle in the race is at least fifty years old.

That’s only fitting, since the race is run by the Vintage Sports Car Club of America. Since there weren’t very many American sports cars in 1959, most of the entries in today’s event were from Europe. There were Allards and Aston Martins – the big bruisers of the British sports car world back then – next to dainty MGs and Morgan three-wheelers.

This is one of the big Aston Martins

In the picture above you can see the Morgan's driver securing the wheels. He does not have sleigh runners under his axle, so he has to take special care to make sure his wheels don't come off

A few minutes later, he was suited up and ready to go. When the flag dropped, the little Morgan went fishtailing up the road in a cloud of smoke.

I would have liked to see some old Corvettes or Thunderbirds on the mountain, but it was not to be. At least, not today. There was a 1912 Mercedes running, along with several depression-era sprint cars.

The fastest cars climb the mountain at an average speed approaching sixty miles an hour, while negotiating curves so sharp you’re going fast if you jog around them. To hold that average, drivers hit speeds near one hundred on the straights. This year, the excitement was increased with the addition of rain.

Sometimes the cars departed in dry weather only to hit rain halfway to the top. That was the case for George, in his Plymouth sprint car. This year's race was delayed, and there were already signs of fall in the trees halfway up. If they'd run a few weeks from now they might have had to contend with ice, too.

Conditions were variable for the two-day race, but I don't think the drivers cared. The people I talked to described an individual competition, where each person strived to beat his personal best time, after running this course many years. So perhaps the rain just made things different. Some of the cars, like this Porsche 356, departed in a steady drizzle that worsened as they gained altitude.

Here are a few images from the race:

There were not many Italian cars in evidence. Here's one - a Fiat Abarth. I remember driving the street version of this car long ago. I fixed them too, in my first job as a mechanic at Don Lorenz in Greenfield, MA.

Parallel Play, a new book on growing up Aspergian

noreply@blogger.com (John Elder Robison) — Wed, 12 Aug 2009 14:27:00 +0000

Time Page, taken at a joint appearance at the University of Missouri last winter.

My friend Tim Page is known to many people as a music critic, having won a Pulitzer at the Washington Post. What's less well known is that Tim has Asperger's. That was revealed to the world a few years ago in a moving New Yorker essay called Parallel Play.

Here's a link to the essay on the New Yorker's website
http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2007/08/20/070820fa_fact_page

This September 8, the book of the same name goes on sale. You can preorder it here
http://tinyurl.com/qx8vp3

Here is what I wrote about his book for the Amazon website:

The first time I saw Tim Page, I felt a sense of familiarity. He was obviously smart but shy, socially awkward, with a different cadence to his voice. There was an undefined, instinctive “something” that told me Tim was a fellow Aspergian. I feel different and excluded from much human company, but people like Tim are an exception. They are my people. They are me.

Tim says he’s lived life as an outsider, and that’s exactly how I feel too. As a result, even though I’ve grown up to find commercial success, happiness often eludes me. Within minutes of meeting Tim, it was clear he shared my essential life experience, even though we have followed very different paths. Even today, neurotypical people try to welcome us into their world, but Asperger’s blinds us to the olive branches of friendship they proffer. They even shake the leaves in front of our faces, but we just gaze, impassive and oblivious. People assume we’ve rejected them, but in truth we want their friendship and acceptance with every fiber of our being. That’s the heartbreak of it.

Tim’s story illustrates that reality with clear and moving prose. Even when he’s been with people, much of his life has been spent alone. He was always smart, but like me, I wonder what’s it’s been for. Tim story shows that genius has its benefits but it’s not a formula for happiness, or even for general life success. You’ll wonder if his extraordinary abilities are a cause or a result of his isolation. Or are they just more facets of a unique mind?

Anyone with an interest in Asperger’s and the complexity of the human mind will be fascinated by Parallel Play. It will leave you with much to think about.

Which is easier, being a genius or being delayed?

noreply@blogger.com (John Elder Robison) — Tue, 04 Aug 2009 00:42:00 +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 "attained" those things, only to lose them, and be crushed by depression and despair? Is one role better than the other?

Some of my recent stories 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. Life is hard no matter where you fit on the curve.

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. Well, as it happens, I know how that hurts because I've been there.

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.

We all tend to look up the ladder of achievement and dismiss the worries of the guy a few rungs above us. We think, "he's got so much more than me, he must be on easy street," when in fact he feels pain and worry just as we do, maybe even more so. You might ask why I'd say "more" . . .

I'll offer one stark piece of evidence. There is virtually no incidence of suicide among developmentally delayed (I'll use the emerginent PC term) people. If you have an IQ of 70, you may do many things, but deliberately kill yourself is not one of them. At the other end of the spectrum, history is filled with examples of geniuses and gifted, highly creative people who took their own lives in moments of despair.

It's said that one in thirty medical doctors dies by their own hand. Yet no one says anything. Can you imagine the uproar if one in thirty autistic people in a group home killed themselves?

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. However "easy" something may look to me, I now know that it may be a huge big deal to you. I hope to get the same consideration from you, because there is no way to guess when your "easy" may be my "insurmountable." And when we ridicule each other, it leads to a place no one wants to go. . .

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

If you like this blog . . .

noreply@blogger.com (John Elder Robison) — Wed, 29 Jul 2009 18:39:00 +0000

I have three others, plus this new book on the way . . .

Some of you may have seen that the "Schedule of Appearances" is no longer on the right sidebar of the main blog. That's because I've moved my schedule of appearances to a blog of its own. You can follow that at http://johnelderrobison.blogspot.com

My car business has a blog at http://robisonservice.blogspot.com Even if you're not really a car person you may like the photography on that blog.

Finally, my Psychology Today blog is http://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/my-life-aspergers

I try and keep different content on all three. And for those of you on Facebook, JohnRobison is my personal page, and JohnElderRobison is my "public figure" page.

I started out with this one blog in January of 2007. I opened my Facebook page in the summer of 2008. Last fall, Psychology Today invited me to keep a blog on their site. I didn't want my car business to feel neglected so I started a blog for it, too, at the same time.

I started a separate blog of appearances with the goal of feeding that into my other sites so that I only have to update the schedule in one place. I haven't quite figured out how to do that, but I'm getting there.

I really appreciate all of you who've followed and read this material over the past two and a half years. I have learned so much from you.

Last month, I posted some thoughts about my next book. I've taken your comments to heart, and I am making some revisions to address some of the issues you raised. In particular, I am rethinking these important points:

I'm describing my failures at greater length, because some of you got the impression that success sort of came naturally to me. That's not true, but I may have made it look that way more than I should have.

I have thought more about bullying issues, and I will illustrate them with stories of The Blob and other colorful children from my youth.

Several of you have asked me to give a more balanced portrait of Asperger's as a serious disability, as discussed in recent posts here and on Autism Gadfly. I am going to do that, but this is still a book based on my experiences, and that hasn't always been my life experience. That said, I am going to illustrate the breadth of the spectrum more carefully and completely thanks to your remarks.

I am also thinking more about the dating and relationship questions.

Right now, I have a few friends and some of the people I work with reading the first draft. That will no doubt lead to more revisions. I expect to wrap most of that up this month. As always, your continued comments and thoughts are welcome.

Wanting to be accepted as I am

noreply@blogger.com (John Elder Robison) — Wed, 22 Jul 2009 20:14:00 +0000

I have often said I want to be accepted for who I am. There is absolutely nothing wrong with that goal. At some level, I am sure every human shares it. But what does it mean, for people on the spectrum in real life?

Does that statement mean society should accept bizarre or obnoxious behavior in the name of “acceptance?” I say no. It does not matter if you are autistic, nypical, tall or short, or black or white. If you act obnoxious you will be perceived as obnoxious, and society will reject you. If you act really obnoxious you will lose your job and your friends, fail at school, and you might be arrested.

In fact, you may not even get to first base. Obnoxious behavior will prevent making friends or getting a job in the first place. Bad behavior is a fundamental barrier to almost any success in society. It is very hard to achieve anything significant as a total loner, and that’s what you will be if you can’t get along.

Every society sets standards of behavior by “majority vote.” If you act outside those norms, you are going to have a problem. That’s not my opinion; it’s an observed reality.

So how do you reconcile that fact with the desire to be accepted as you are? You adjust your behavior to act in ways that will not result in your exclusion from whatever you want to do.

For most of us on the spectrum, they call that learning social skills. Yesterday someone wrote in to my blog with this comment:

I can't get along with "Aspies" because they refuse to take personal responsibility for themselves and get help. They like to complain about how "society" doesn't accept them and expects "society" to accept their disruptive behavior rather than seeking help from qualified professionals and taking responsibility for their behavior. ND only helps "Aspies" revel in their diagnosis since it is only a "difference" that needs no "cure." And yet they can never figure out why they can't hold down a job...it must be because of society, not because of their refusal to get help for their medical disorder.

I can’t speak for others with Asperger’s, but I do not think the above comment applies to people with attitudes like mine. However, I must admit that I’ve met a fair number of people who do feel they have the right to act any way they think, and the burden is on the wider world to accommodate them.

I’m afraid many of those folks are headed for disaster.

I’ve even seen it start in elementary school, where I have witnessed atrocious behavior only to have a teacher dismiss it with, “Just ignore him. He has autism!”

WRONG!

If we can’t teach kids to behave, they will grow up to a lifetime of rejection, ostracism, and even jail.

That is the fundamental problem with Asperger’s. We look normal. We sound normal. There is no visible component to our disability. Therefore, when we say or do something bizarre, we are guaranteed a bad reception.

A guy in a wheelchair cries out for consideration by his appearance. You can excuse his cranky behavior because he has an obvious disability. Even a guy who stutters and says weird stuff as a result of Tourette’s is more obviously disabled than most of us. We don’t look or sound disabled at all. Therefore society will not excuse our bad behavior.

And going on the attack about the situation won’t help. When we lash out in anger we are assured a poor reception as people close ranks to defend themselves against us. The old adage that you catch more flies with honey than with a hammer is certainly true in my experience.

I’ve written on this before, and there have been times that I’ve made fun of my own rude behavior. For those who challenged me, I’d like to make clear that it’s all a matter of perspective. Sure, I am rude at times. I can’t help it. I can be inconsiderate, too. But those times are overshadowed by the times I am polite and considerate, and that’s what allows me to succeed. Most of the time, I conform to enough social norms to get by.

It can be hard and it can be frustrating, but I do it.

At no time have I ever advocated being rude and obnoxious and expecting the wider world to accept it. That is not what I mean by tolerance. I know the burden is on me to act acceptable, and I do my best to do it.

In fact, that is not even an autism issue. It's a human issue. Everyone has to conform to society's norms, autism or no. It's just that people on the spectrum may be oblivious to their mistakes and they may therefore have a much harder time meeting behavioral expectations.

What do you think of that attitude? Agree? Disagree?

Can we all get along?

noreply@blogger.com (John Elder Robison) — Tue, 21 Jul 2009 15:54:00 +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.

Indian Day in Suffield

noreply@blogger.com (John Elder Robison) — Sun, 19 Jul 2009 23:52:00 +0000

This afternoon I visited Hilltop Farm in Suffield, Connecticut for Indian Day. Hilltop was built by Indian founder George Hendee upon his retirement in 1916. After leaving Indian, Mr. Hendee spent the rest of his life raising Guernsey cattle and supporting various charities including Shriner's Hospital, the YMCA, and the Boys Club.

Indian was the world's largest motorcycle manufacturer for a time. After Hendee's retirement the company passed through a number of managers and owners. Manufacture of motorcycles in Springfield ceased in the early 1950s.

It's a bit ironic that we have an Indian celebration at the farm, because Mr. Hendee never had any Indian events there in his lifetime, as far as I know. In fact, when Charles Manthos - founder of the Indian Museum - asked Hendee's widow for memorabilia or information about the company, she just said, "Let it die."

Mr. Manthos'widow recently donated the Indian Museum to the Springfield Museums, which will be opening a spectacular new exhibition building this October.

For those of you who ask about technical details, these pictures were created using a Nikon D3 camera with 28-70 lens and polarizer. The color was enhanced by the Photomatrix HDR Photoshop plugin.

There were vintage and new Indian machines at the event.

It was a nice setting, with the Indians lined up alongside the pasture fence. Most of the Hilltop events are agriculture-oriented, so this was a refreshign change for both the people and the animals.

I was surprised at the number of vintage Indians that appeared. I was also pleased to see Butch Baer, an old time Indian racer whose father was the original Indian dealer in Springfield. And as a special treat, June Cook - George Hendee's neice - was there with her scrapbooks showing the farm in its heyday.

Here's a link to a local news feature on Butch:
http://www.wgby.org/localprograms/indian/pages/butchbaer.html

Most of the old bikes were ridden to the show. Here's a rider kicking his machine to start the journey home

Hilltop Farm is located at 1608 Mapleton Avenue in Suffield, just a few miles south of Six Flags. You'll find more information on the Friends of Hilltop Farm here

http://www.fofah.com/events.html