Tableau Conference 2018 was one of the highlights of my year.

All things considered, I shouldn’t have stood a chance in even getting there.

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Autism rarely gives you fancy skills, talents, or superpowers. 

At the end of the day, I feel it’s instead given me a jaw-stiffening, forearm-tightening, fist-clenching, pupil-narrowing sense of GRIT. 

Unlike others on the spectrum, I can’t magically conjure maths, recite pi to a Brazilian digits, remember everything I’ve seen, or play piano pitch perfectly.

Rarely skill; mostly will.

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Just last year, work offered a ticket to Tableau Conference for winning a dashboard design contest.

Only one problem:

I learned Tableau only six months ago. I was going up against a dozen experienced peers. I was overwhelmed in my existing role.

(Ok, that’s three problems.)

Already I knew I lacked the skill to win this.

But I had GRIT. 

I could work with that — the second, third, and fourth gears of AUTISTIC OBSESSION and focus that drive my work poorly, slowly, but effectively over time. So I hoped.

It took early days and late nights, walling off monolithic chunks of my calendar for deep focus, experimentation, doing clever things inefficiently, because I didn’t have the skill to do them efficiently.

When I told my boss about it, he was surprised.

“The fact that you’re dedicating time to do this — that’s . . .  I’m impressed.”

When it came time to present our products, I discovered only that three others (the best three, of course) even tried. 

And their comments:

“Yeah, I threw something together this morning.”

“I didn’t really make time for it, so I gave it a quick stab early this week.”

I couldn’t believe my dumb luck.

Among the people with actual skill, I’d contended by dint of force and just continuing to do, as maladroitly and stupidly as I could manage without stopping.

It’s been said that “Quantity has a quality all its own,” and that’s how I’d describe my contest entry: inelegant, but extensively crafted, sturdy, thoughtful, and iterated over time.

But it was a product of GRIT.

Even if the outcome wasn’t quite the diadem, the work was enough to win.

I could never have succeeded with the skills I didn’t have.

Because I don’t have a lot. It’s disappointing. It’s a near-constant discouragement.

Yet I’ve found a way through that.

My one true skill is gritting away where I lack true skill.

 

 

 

 

 

This question comes up a lot, and it’s a peril of knowledge:

“I think their kid might be autistic, but I don’t know what to say to them.”

My answers:

“I usually start with ‘Hi’ or ‘Hello.'”

“Do what I do – don’t say anything. Ever. For any reason.”

“You must be desperate to be asking me.”

This is a hard question.

Because you might be right, and their parents just might not know.

It’s hard not to intervene. To share and highlight where their child might be different. Where they could use understanding, support, people coming alongside.

It is the most well-meaning thing.

I don’t have a good answer.

I just have my own story.

Of course I feel I can spot other people’s children with autism right away. It sticks out, and even if it doesn’t, it sticks out to me.

I don’t have answers, so I do what I’ve learned to do best.

Talk.

Just talk.

No one really cares if you’re the first to suggest “the A word.”

But they care if you care about the things they care about.

If you’ve got neurotypical kids, share your challenges.

Tell your stories. Ask for theirs.

The common ground is where the truth is sown.

You can bring the warmth.

The growth is on them.

 

 

As a teenager, a lady named Melody always got onto my case for my generally dour, scowling disposition.

“Well hey there, smiley,” she’d tease.

I endured it, stoic and unmoved.

After all, I believed my stone-faced gravitas to be a strength.

I wasn’t “friendless,” I told myself. Nor was I lonely, no, I merely stood above the fray, in my own rarefied air, savoring not the shadows of Plato’s cave, but the enlightened tenets of introspection, culture, distantiating as a thoughtful young man, whose companion would be contemplation.

Also, I was thirteen years old, and an idiot.

At the time, I was aware my life and way of thinking was different, even if not quite defined as The Life Autistic.

If I couldn’t smile the way others did, I thought I could mold myself into some mysterious figure, whose intrigues would lead to curiosity or whatever.

I wanted to embrace a cold difference and try to find warmth.

But as much as I wanted to lean into my grave persona, I couldn’t undo the fact that I’m human in the end.

I began to smile back.

Just to do it.

To spite my dyspeptic soul and crack open to the sun.

There are times I think back to Melody. She didn’t have to bother cajoling me. After all, I was a glum, dour kid on the outside. A simple “Hello, Hunter” would have sufficed for her, as it does for many.

I don’t know what became of her.

Her health didn’t seem that great. She may have had a sister with spina bifida, as I remember learning about it from her. She would tear up when talking about the disease, how she was affected by it, where she’d campaign for awareness in small ways.

But she chose to smile.

Even at its hardest, I can choose a smile too.