For starters, I’ll lay down two facts right away:

#1: This blog is about autism

#2: Yes, I’m autistic

/takes bow, backs off stage

Most people pick up on #1 right away, but I’ve found that #2 comes to many by surprise!

This weekend, I volunteered for a girls + data event — an absolutely inspirational delight and joy. During a small bit of downtime, I had a great conversation with one of our program managers who was stunned and delighted to discover that my autism narrative and advocacy were personal.

“I had no idea; I would never have guessed.”

And that’s a common reaction!

I wouldn’t blame anyone there for coming to the same conclusion: during the event, I engaged the campers, landed about 75% of my jokes, made just enough eye contact to pass as normal, and did my level best to help bring energy and enthusiasm to the room.

It was as amazing as it was exhausting; I’ve gotten good at masking the exhaustion.

For every burst of meet ‘n’ greet, I needed “sweet retreat” — where I could recharge at my desk in the back for many a moment.

For every conversation I had, I needed to keep a “getaway excuse” handy, so I wouldn’t start getting awkward or run out of things to say and feel embarrassed.

I was invited for lunch with the volunteers, and I was thankful I had some work to do, because the real reason was “I need a little bit of time to muster up some momentum to socialize and be close to people.”

And after the event was said and done, I was dang near catatonic, staring off into the distance and finding little alcoves to not be seen shutting down.

For the ride out and off to dinner, I said: “Please, I can sit in back – you all can catch up – I don’t mind!”

In my mind, I thought: “I just can’t sustain the conversational energy if I’m up front, and I’m going to unspool, and it’s going to be weird, and I don’t like being the awkward silence in the middle of a chat, and I kinda just wanna look at the hills of Santa Cruz and listen to other people talk and power down without being noticed.”

I am glad when people find it a surprise to learn that I’m autistic. It opens up the great door that comes next.

Where I can share that it’s work. That it’s hard work for many. It is for me.

And that others can support that kind of work — being mindful of when we need a break, or when we need something to focus on, or that little bit of reassurance when we’re firing on all cylinders for a greater good (like keeping happy campers happy!), or just a quick, knowing, “you doing ok?”

 

 

One of my college roommates over a summer once claimed that I was the funniest person he’d ever met.”

Without missing a beat, I quipped back: “You should try meeting more people.” 

And he laughed, again.

I’m not that funny.

I’ve just learned to fine tune humor as a coping mechanism to overcome social tension and stress. 

Isn’t that why everyone does it? Like, if I were on stage all of a sudden at a comedy club, I’d start telling jokes too to ease that awkward tension.

The problem though, is that some people think I’m fun. 

The Life Autistic is a weird amalgam of people perceiving your actions as your attributes, for better or for worse:

“Oh, you use big words – you must be an intelligent showoff.”

“Oh, you remember a lot of details, you must be incredibly smart.”

“Oh, you’re kind of blunt – you must be a mean, critical person.”

“Oh, you have a knack for making people laugh — you must be a fun guy to be around.”

Some of that could be true?

But you’ll find me out pretty quick, even through the jokes — Hunter is usually funny, but rarely fun.

I’m not the life of any party. I’m the last with any good suggestions for a night out, unless it’s “out cold and asleep.” Even on my bravest days I’ll suggest activities, trips, events, all while just taking it in a moment at a time, kinda quiet, hoping that others will bring the energy.

And many of us can be that way too.

Fun is a state of being and manner of expression; funny is a plotted thing, built on experience, tropes, observations, deployments of things we know a normal human would find funny after years of study.

Funny how that works.

We saw this swan by a fountain in Versailles.

Three thoughts came to mind:

1: “I should get a picture.”

2: “I shouldn’t get that close, because I remember reading about some rowing team in Ireland who completely aborted their run because of a swan – apparently they’re no joke.”

3: “It’s been too long since I’ve watched Hot Fuzz, and I’m overdue.”

A fourth thought came looking at this picture:

“What was The Ugly Duckling really about?”

I read a summary of the tale today and found this a relatable angle:

The ugly duckling, now having fully grown and matured, is unable to endure a life of solitude and hardship any more and decides to throw himself at the flock of swans deciding that it is better to be killed by such beautiful birds than to live a life of ugliness and misery.

Not many of us grow up fully knowing that 1) why we’re different, and 2) we’re autistic.

I remember weeping out of frustration in my younger days and wishing the most bizarre of things: to be normal. I couldn’t define why I was different; I only began to realize that I was — long after I felt it. The teasing, the slip ups, the profound loneliness and helplessness of not being able to connect to or with others.

Only recently do more kids and people get an idea early on about their difference being defined. But it can beg a sobering question:

If I’m different from ‘normal’ people, who am I not different from?

If I’m never going to be a duck, then where are the swans?

Thanks to the great and perilous internet, we’re finding each other, these pockets of tribes, the others out there who have long been the others of everyone else. Still:

There’s a human need for connection, but our most similar connections are among those who can find it hard to connect.

Almost like the swans in Andersen’s tale, we’ll be welcoming even if we’re awkward together; it’s not like everyone on the spectrum has some secret wavelength that allows us to be more at ease with each other.

In fact, sometimes it’s trickier — I’ve spent so much time adapting to neurotypical people that I almost have to think harder to adjust and be mindful when I’m interacting with others on the spectrum, as odd as that sounds.

So with swans, ducks, birds of every feather, we still often struggle as the odd, lonely birds, no matter which flock.