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Autism: of mice, men and my little bro Autism: of mice, men and my little bro
(5 months later)
The news that the play adapted from that brilliant book The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time won seven Olivier awards on Sunday has caused me mixed feelings. When it was published 10 years ago, I was the 15-year-old sister to a nine-year-old boy who, like the novel's protagonist, has an autistic spectrum disorder. Unlike the protagonist – a maths genius with a distinct voice – my little bro, now nearly 20, can't really speak at all. He is missing that crucial component that allows you to join words together to form sentences; instead they float, rootless, in mid-air, and are almost entirely linked to needs and demands – "drink", "swimming", "book".The news that the play adapted from that brilliant book The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time won seven Olivier awards on Sunday has caused me mixed feelings. When it was published 10 years ago, I was the 15-year-old sister to a nine-year-old boy who, like the novel's protagonist, has an autistic spectrum disorder. Unlike the protagonist – a maths genius with a distinct voice – my little bro, now nearly 20, can't really speak at all. He is missing that crucial component that allows you to join words together to form sentences; instead they float, rootless, in mid-air, and are almost entirely linked to needs and demands – "drink", "swimming", "book".
The severity of my brother's autism did not prevent me enjoying a novel about a character who, though less profoundly disabled, shares many of his traits – the tendency to obsess, the "does not compute" response to human emotions. I recall weeping through the book in the same way I did at the back of the class, aged 14, when we studied Flowers for Algernon, and then, a year later, Of Mice and Men. (It always felt unfair that the curriculum included not one, but two set texts with learning disabilities as their central theme. The person who decided that really put me through the wringer.) The latter was particularly comforting, because, for once, it didn't portray a savant.The severity of my brother's autism did not prevent me enjoying a novel about a character who, though less profoundly disabled, shares many of his traits – the tendency to obsess, the "does not compute" response to human emotions. I recall weeping through the book in the same way I did at the back of the class, aged 14, when we studied Flowers for Algernon, and then, a year later, Of Mice and Men. (It always felt unfair that the curriculum included not one, but two set texts with learning disabilities as their central theme. The person who decided that really put me through the wringer.) The latter was particularly comforting, because, for once, it didn't portray a savant.
If there's one facet of autism that has gripped the public imagination, it is that of the "idiot savant", now referred to as high-functioning autism. I have lost count of the number of broadsheet articles about autistic geniuses, the most recent – "Is Jacob Barnett the next Einstein?" – a moving account of how a mother lovingly nurtured her son's prodigious gift for physics. Another, a few weeks earlier, discussed "the Asperger's effect": how the syndrome has become "trendy", particularly in tech communities. Though it doesn't sound it, the issue was sensitively handled, but all I could think while reading it was how my own brother, and those like him, would never be described in such a way.If there's one facet of autism that has gripped the public imagination, it is that of the "idiot savant", now referred to as high-functioning autism. I have lost count of the number of broadsheet articles about autistic geniuses, the most recent – "Is Jacob Barnett the next Einstein?" – a moving account of how a mother lovingly nurtured her son's prodigious gift for physics. Another, a few weeks earlier, discussed "the Asperger's effect": how the syndrome has become "trendy", particularly in tech communities. Though it doesn't sound it, the issue was sensitively handled, but all I could think while reading it was how my own brother, and those like him, would never be described in such a way.
It's a feeling that is all too common for the relatives of the profoundly autistic – the films, such as Rain Man and A Beautiful Mind (though autism is never explicitly specified in the latter), and the documentaries all feed into a narrative that has resulted in the public perception of autism becoming skewed. In fact, savants make up only 10% of people with autistic spectrum disorders and, while campaigners and academics are constantly pointing this out, the media and the public tend not to listen.It's a feeling that is all too common for the relatives of the profoundly autistic – the films, such as Rain Man and A Beautiful Mind (though autism is never explicitly specified in the latter), and the documentaries all feed into a narrative that has resulted in the public perception of autism becoming skewed. In fact, savants make up only 10% of people with autistic spectrum disorders and, while campaigners and academics are constantly pointing this out, the media and the public tend not to listen.
"Is he amazingly clever and good at maths?" people will ask, when I tell them that my brother is autistic, and I have to awkwardly say that no, he isn't, nor can he play by ear or produce maps from memory or recite train timetables. On the contrary. When he first blew out his birthday candles, aged 10, it was a triumph. He scribbled on everything. We listened to the Gypsy Kings, ceaselessly, for a year. He crapped in the airing cupboard. By the time he went into full-time care, my mother could no longer leave the house."Is he amazingly clever and good at maths?" people will ask, when I tell them that my brother is autistic, and I have to awkwardly say that no, he isn't, nor can he play by ear or produce maps from memory or recite train timetables. On the contrary. When he first blew out his birthday candles, aged 10, it was a triumph. He scribbled on everything. We listened to the Gypsy Kings, ceaselessly, for a year. He crapped in the airing cupboard. By the time he went into full-time care, my mother could no longer leave the house.
Almost more annoying is the preconception that autistic people do not know how to love. My brother, like many others, loves deeply. Unexpressed emotions are not non-existent ones, after all, although sometimes they are expressed too. When my parents split up, my little brother wore his shoes and his coat to bed night after night in the hope that my dad would come to take him out. A recent card containing a photo of my mum reduced him to tears.Almost more annoying is the preconception that autistic people do not know how to love. My brother, like many others, loves deeply. Unexpressed emotions are not non-existent ones, after all, although sometimes they are expressed too. When my parents split up, my little brother wore his shoes and his coat to bed night after night in the hope that my dad would come to take him out. A recent card containing a photo of my mum reduced him to tears.
To an extent, it's understandable that the (almost always male) autistic geniuses grip the public imagination. Small successes, such as learning to draw the outline of the letters of your name, are of little interest to most people. That isn't to say that the creations of those savants aren't great – I'm not playing oppression Olympics here, and I can't wait to see the play – but the ignorance surrounding autism upsets me. It's part of the reason why I was, and continue to be, grateful to John Steinbeck for Lennie.To an extent, it's understandable that the (almost always male) autistic geniuses grip the public imagination. Small successes, such as learning to draw the outline of the letters of your name, are of little interest to most people. That isn't to say that the creations of those savants aren't great – I'm not playing oppression Olympics here, and I can't wait to see the play – but the ignorance surrounding autism upsets me. It's part of the reason why I was, and continue to be, grateful to John Steinbeck for Lennie.
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