“O wad some Power the giftie gie us / To see oursels as ithers see us!” For those of us who are color blind, it’s more a case of , “O would some power the gift give us to see the world as others see it.” A matter of perception. I imagine most people think of perception as applying to our views of each other or events and don’t consider how other folks literally see the environment in which they live. I can assure you that the glorious tapestries most of you see in fall foliage, while beautiful usually, are not as “glorious” to me.
I have red-green color vision defiency, which in varying degrees makes it hard to tell red and green hues apart, due to faulty or missing cone cells in the eyes, usually inherited via the X chromosome, affecting more men than women. There are three types of this condition: milder green confusion, milder red confusion, and total inability to see red/green. Fortunately, my color-blindness is of the milder varieties. But to jump right into the point of this post, imagine driving when you have total inability to see the difference in the color of the traffic lights, having to rely on position.
Every autumn is somewhat depressing for me since people are want to point out spectacular foliage, which “just” is maybe pretty to me. Again, fortunately, my problems with red are somewhat mitigated if the objects are in bright light. For instance, I do not see berries on a holly bush unless the bush is in full sunlight.
I am told this is what you see:
But this is what I see.
Another example:
These look exactly the same to me.
I have managed to function okay, writing “green,” “khaki,” “navy,” ‘”purple” on my collars and waistbands, even working for Ralph Lauren at one point, where how one dressed was paramount, but I always wondered if I was sporting a fashion faux pas if what I was wearing wasn’t labeled.
We need to be aware that we don’t all see the world as “ithers see it.”
In addition to being color-blind, I am also on the Autism Spectrum, which means that differences of perception are often blatant and unavoidable. For instance, I have what amounts to a phobia about talking on the phone. Now if I had claustrophobia, something with which my friends and family would be familiar, they would be understanding, but most of them have never heard of telephobia and are impatient with having to email me. One of the dark truths I have learned about “neurotypicals1” is that many of them don’t really believe autism. They think it is some kind of artificial social construct that we indulge in. Therefore, our perceptions of what it means to be a good friend can be at odds.
Another of the impediments to understanding is how difficult it is to convince neurotypicals that much of “our” behavior is not a matter of choice. It’s how we are wired. Typically autistic, I do not attend gatherings where I may have to participate in “small talk,” which I simply cannot do. Notice, cannot. Yet almost every neurotypical I know, in spite of my repeatedly asking my close people to please alter their choice of words, will say, “Are you sure you don’t want to go to the party?” Again, that they aren’t convinced that autism is a disorder–much less a disability–is that they almost always use the word “want.”
Another “complication” that can arise is that, like other autistics, I tend to be literal-minded. It’s not uncommon for people to say “See you soon,” when parting. But wired as I am, I will always expect , well, to see you soon.
We all are not cut from the same cloth. The way we perceive the world is different for each one of us. As a result, understanding is key. We need to step outside ourselves to see how the people we care about think and feel. That understanding can only bring us closer together. And, in the last analysis, what a wonder it is to realize that we are not all the same, but that we are individuals.
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Refers to people whose cognitive and social development aligns with general societal expectations, often used in contrast to neurodivergent (like autistic) individuals. ↩︎
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In contrast to the glorious and uplifting ending of Gerard Manley Hopkins’ poem, “The Grandeur of God,”” that was discussed in a previous post, Gods Grandeur, are his poems written when, as a priest, he was re-assigned to Ireland, where his isolation contributed to the poems we know as The Terrible Sonnets, “terrible” in an earlier sense meaning “filled with terror.” These poems are filled with terror, and with despair, the outcryings of a desperate soul. In part I include one of these as a rebuttal to the notion that poems have to be pretty to be beautiful, for these poems are as gorgeous as they are terrifying. I am injecting a personal note here. As someone on the lower end of the Autism Spectrum, I am acutely aware of the plight of those on the higher end, where feelings of isolation and despair can be overwhelming, particularly when being “different” can lead to bullying. After the analysis of the poem, I have included a selection from my novel, Notes from under the Skin, the story of a boy who is both autistic and gay. It is stark and painful and may not be for everyone, so you may want to skip it, but I felt I would remiss if I didn’t include this one personal (not autobiographical) shout-out for those, like Hopkins, who feel they are isolated from the world.
But to start with Hopkins. Of the Terrible Sonnets, I have selected: “No worst…”
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No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief,
More pangs will, schooled at forepangs, wilder wring.
Comforter, where, where is your comforting?
Mary, mother of us, where is your relief?
My cries heave, herds-long; huddle in a main, a chief-
Woe, wórld-sorrow; on an áge-old ánvil wínce and síng —
Then lull, then leave off. Fury had shrieked ‘No ling-
Ering! Let me be fell: force I must be brief.’
O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall
Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed. Hold them cheap
May who ne’er hung there. Nor does long our small
Durance deal with that steep or deep. Here! creep,
Wretch, under a comfort serves in a whirlwind:
All life death does end and each day dies with sleep.
The rhyme scheme, abbaabba cdcdcd, dvides the poem into an octet (8 lines) and a sestet(6 lines), characteristics of a Petrarchan Sonnet. The octet is a personal cry for relief from a pain that does not relent. The opening “No worst” sets the tone of complete despair. Thrown (pitched) low (pitch) in is grief, it continues to worsen as grief only intensifies, as the mind remembering (schooled) past griefs only adds to the intensity (wilder ring) of further pain (pangs). The “p” alliterations suggest pounding heartbeats, an assault on the senses. He can find no relief in his religion (Comforter, Mary), a desolation to a priest. His cries from the assault gather, like a herd of animals, huddled together into a “main, a chief Woe,” a sorrow that, for him, pertains to his whole world; the alliterative h’s suggest gasping (heave) in pain from the assault and the w’s onomatopoetically suggest a kind of stuttering. The cries metaphorically are a hammer that beats incessantly (wince and sing) against the anvil of his being, but eventually wear down (lull), and finally cease (leave off), leaving him spent and empty from the intense (Fury) focus (no lingering, fell (fierce, savage)) of the blows.
The sestet is six lines of despair and complete despair, harrowing in their total lack of hope. The mind has frightening depths of descent (cliff of fall) into despair, unfathomable to anyone who never made the descent in the insignificance of life (our small durance). The poem ends in an ironic collapse, as he/we (pun on wretch) are summoned (pun on creep) to seek the only “comfort” in this whirlwind of despair: death and oblivion. No worst, there is none.
Which brings up a question: do we even want to read such a poem? Is the brilliance of the language and artistry enough to compensate for the painful message? Should we confront our demons?
The following excerpt, which chronicles one boy’s despair, from my novel, Notes from under the Skin, I had originally included in a separate post, “Bullying,” but was tempered by some of the reactions to it, so I included it here, with the caveat:
This may not be for everyone.
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I’m short. I’m skinny. I have weak hands and arms. I’m afraid of people. I guess I’m sorta cute. I don’t have acne. I can’t play most sports. I am afraid of gym class. I love books and poetry. I hate History. I love Math and languages. I love music. I like flowers and plants. I love movies. I love to watch baseball. I hate professional hockey. But I like Olympic hockey. I love everything Olympics, Winter and Summer. I love Ice-Skating. I love Downhill Racing. I love Snowboarding. I don’t like Curling. I don’t like the one where they lie down, shoot, get up, snowshoe, lie down again. etc. I am afraid of big ships. I like to dance–alone. I am afraid of bullies. I like school–except for bullies and gym and history–but only when the teacher and class aren’t boring. I am afraid of changing in front of other boys. I love my father. I don’t like my mother. I like rain. I like snow. I like sun. I like trees. I hate parties. I can’t swim. I like bike riding. I hate noise. I hate talking on the telephone. I like computers. I hate small talk. I like being alone. I am afraid of shopping malls. I am afraid of big cities. I am afraid of acting. I am afraid of church. I am afraid of playgrounds. I get sick when I see mean things. I cry a lot. I hate jokes. I don’t like being touched. I love my father and my parakeet. I love gorillas. I am afraid of kids. I hate having to talk to people I don’t know. I hate shopping. I hate bargaining. I hate sitting in waiting rooms. I hate getting haircuts. I hate most clothes because they are itchy. I like sneakers. I love pianos. I hate buses. I hate people who eat popcorn in the movies. I hate people who eat dinner in the movies. I hate people who talk in the movies. I hate tall people in the movies. I hate havingto watch people eat. I hate having people watch me eat. I am afraid to meet new people. I am afraid of looking weak. I am afraid of girls. I hate barking dogs. I hate scratching cats. I hate being told to do something I don’t want to do. I hate waiting in line. I hate talking to the doctor. I am afraid of fist-fighting. I am afraid of prison. I am afraid of policemen. And women. I am afraid of the dark. I am afraid of high places. I am afraid of spiders. I love Christmas. I hate Halloween. I hate dark streets. I hate motorcycles. I like sunshine. I hate that I am so hyper, especially around dogs and babies. I hate that I can’t sleep. I hate cafeterias. I hate watching people chew gum.
I like boys.
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I’m scared shitless. We were told today that we had to take showers after gym. I’m panicking. Compared to some of the other guys, I look like a kid—or worse, like a girl. My arms and legs are sticks. Bony chest. And my penis hardly even shows in my underwear. How can I be naked in the shower? I don’t know what the fuck I’m gonna do. As if that’s not bad enough, even though I try so hard not to, I can’t help looking at the other guys. Fuck, what if I get a boner–though nobody would probably even notice? Some of them have such ripped arms and legs, all muscles that move when they move. Seeing them in their underwear makes my face burn. What will happen when I see them in the shower? I’m fucked. I’m trapped. If only I had the balls to kill myself. Why not? How the fuck can I go every day afraid that I’ll be found out? There’s always a pit in my stomach. I can’t stand it. I’m trapped.
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I’ve been bullied my whole life. I might as well have a target on my chest. Anybody can tell that I can’t defend myself in a fight. I’m not only fucking small, but I’m not strong–shit, I’m weak. I keep thinking it’s just a phase, that I’ll grow, that I’ll bulk up, at least a little, but it hasn’t happened. I look like I’m 10. Some guys are just built to pick on other guys, and when they see me they know I’m easy. What am I supposed to do? I can’t fight them. Run away? They would only catch me, and then it would be worse. So I try to walk behind other kids on the way to and from school. I try not to be alone out of the house. But just writing this makes me sick to my stomach, and, fuck, makes me want to cry–who wouldn’t want to stomp on such a baby?
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So far, they’ve left me alone. I try to get in the shower either before or after most of the other guys are there, and I just let myself get wet so it looks like I showered. But the whole time, I’m shaking inside. I still have to undress at my locker in front of all of the others. And I have to walk to the shower and back. I can’t even imagine what it would be like not to care about all this shit. What would it be like not to care about showers, pool changing rooms, to be able to go skinny-dipping, to be normal. I’m stuck in this body. I hate it. I hate me.
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Worse. It was worse. It couldn’t have been any worse. I can’t go back.
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Principal’s Report on Locker-Room Incident
Brian Miller, a sophomore, was “hazed” while showering after Gym class, Fifth Period. Apparently the “bigger” boys circled him and started taunting him. They began to snap towels at him until he fell to his knees, covering his head. One of the boys, Samuel Anderson, grabbed Brian by the hair and forced Brian’s face into his crotch, calling Brian a “wimpy faggot,” and making lewd suggestions. When some of the boys began to hoot in encouragement, Mr. Damon, the gym-teacher, heard the ruckus, entered the showers, and intervened. He immediately told Anderson to get dressed and come to my office, accompanied by Mr. Allen, another gym-teacher; told the other boys to get dressed and go to class; and attempted to console Brian, who was very close to being catatonic. Brian is borderline Autistic, which exacerbated an already deeply disturbing and humiliating experience.
Under our zero-tolerance policy for bullying, pending verification of the details of the incident, Anderson will be suspended and assigned to mandatory counseling. In light of the fact that none of the other boys stepped in to stop the abuse–and I use that term markedly–the entire gym class will be subject to after-school counseling. It is at least somewhat to their credit that some of the boys did come forward to Mr. Damon and supplied the details that I described above.
We are deeply concerned for Brian’s welfare. Not only did he endure the humiliation of the actual event, but the whole school is now aware of it. This is a hard thing for a young boy to endure.
Post-script: Brian’s parents, understandably angered, called and said that Brian would not be returning to our school; they will be transferring him to the Arts School, where they feel he stands a better chance of finding a supportive environment. I did not attempt to “defend” our school and offered them complete cooperation and our very heartfelt best wishes for Brian in the future.
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(For another of Hopkins’ Terrible Sonnets, see post How to Deconstruct Gerard Manley Hopkins’ “Carrion Comfort.” Despair as Genius. 19thC.)
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My Mom made me go to a wedding reception. I try to explain to her how painful that is for me, but, as usual, she doesn’t get it. Hardly anybody would get it. Saying it’s painful just sounds too extreme, but it’s the only way to describe it.
It starts out shitty and goes downhill from there. Of course I’m seated with other teens because I have the most in common with them, right? Maybe make some friends? By the time we’re seated, I’m already sweating. Great way to start. Everyone introduces him or her self. As always, I immediately forget all their names. Some people get insulted by this, I know, which makes me more uncomfortable. But I can’t help it. I try; I’ve tried. Just can’t do it, so I’m always starting off on the wrong foot and dread that I might have to greet someone. “Hi, Brian, I’m Amy.” “Um, hi.” Pause. “Who do you know that’s getting married?” “My Cousin.” Pause. “Do you like weddings?” Pause, my brain racing, but my read/write function isn’t finding anything on my hard drive. I sweat even more and start to panic. Which always happens. And which always makes things worse. I try but just can’t break the silence. Amy turns away. And that’s how it always is. Then someone on my other side taps my shoulder and I jump as though I’ve been stabbed. “Whoa, sorry.” I turn beet red, which only adds to my feeling like such a loser. Like someone who has never been touched before. But again, I can’t help it. It’s just some hidden anxiety inside me that jumps out when I’m touched, especially by surprise. At this point I can tell that everyone at the table is aware of my being weird–and pathetic–and I’m red and sweating and panicking and feeling trapped. I try to shrink in my seat to wait for the night to be over. No one but somebody as big a mess, as big a joke as I am could understand how a wedding reception could be torture. I try not to cry–big baby that I am–and make it to the end of the night, but beaten down with embarrassment and humiliation–again. On the way out, my mother asks, “Did you have a good time?” And she really means it.
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Many of us on the Autism Spectrum (ASD) live this type of moment, to some degree, over and over in our daily lives. It is not uncommon for some people to feel somewhat uncomfortable or nervous in a social situation, but it is the extremity of this feeling, exemplified above, that separates those on the Spectrum from “normals” or neurotypicals. The difference is so profound that most/many neurotypicals don’t/can’t understand it. I have sensed so many times that they in fact don’t/can’t even believe it.
The ASD characteristic portrayed here is just one of many symptoms typical of someone with autism.
“Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD) is a neurodevelopmental condition affecting social interaction, communication, and behavior, characterized by a wide range of symptoms (hence ‘spectrum’) from mild to severe, including difficulties with social cues, repetitive actions, intense interests, and sensory sensitivities, with some needing significant support and others living independently. It’s a lifelong condition, and early support can greatly improve outcomes, but there’s no cure, with management focusing on therapies to build skills.”
Since there are many characteristics of autism, how many of the traits and the level of severity is where someone places on the Spectrum. For instance, I hate noise, am very uncomfortable in social situations (“very uncomfortable,” is a much milder feeling than what is pictured in the incident at the beginning of this post) and simply cannot talk on the telephone, but I hug, have very close friendships, and was successfully employed my entire life. I doubt that any of my friends or family would realize that I am autistic, but many or most of them probably think I’m a little “weird.” In large part that is because I choose to “mask,” i.e., alter what for me would be natural behavior to accommodate the expectations of others, with the caveat that I hide–not deceive; not unlike what most people “keep to themselves” in some ways. I still think of myself as “authentic,” but it is less stressful to mask the severity of some of my issues than to have to confront the severity of people’s reactions otherwise. In any case, we are all neurodiverse. Do you know any two people who behave exactly alike?
I do grapple with whether the benefits of the intensity that autism has brought to my life are outweighed by the constant discomfort caused by, say, any kind of noise, or silence-filled “conversations.” And, on the plus side, being different often is being unique.
I was prompted to write this post in order to unmask here–it is critical in this kind of thought-environment to be forthright. How else could I hope to honestly portray what it is like to be on the Spectrum? You, of course, can judge whether I have been successful.
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If you would like to learn more about Autism, Click Here to visit the National Autism Association homepage, then click on “About Autism” in the menu at the top of the page.
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On this blog we will be exploring topics related to personal perceptions (which means, of course, pretty much everything, just as the first blog entry largely concerned the movie, “2001”), encompassing topics like autism, teaching/learning observations, literature, novel-authoring, etc. My background is complex, including, teaching, computers, retail, and real estate. After teaching English for fourteen years, I changed careers, working on the management level for companies as varied as General Mills and Ralph Lauren, and even combining two disciplines by designing curricula for end-user computer training. I lived most of my life in the Northeast but am now living in North Carolina. So much for profile! We will get to know each other not through biography, but through perceptions.
I am on the Autism Spectrum, but so high-functioning that if I didn’t tell you, I don’t think you would realize it through these blogs, except where I mention it directly. But you may find it interesting to imagine your life with some of my “quirks,” such as my inability to talk on the phone—apply that to your own life in today’s world; picture yourself without your phone! I conduct all of my correspondence by email, which presents problems, some of which may not occur to you. The major stumbling block is that most people today enjoy the immediacy of talking on the telephone, rather than the thought-out communication of email. Some people on the opposite side find emailing to be annoying, and, like me with phones, refuse to do so. This is troublesome, of course, though most of my friends and family have accepted that this is not a choice, but a phobia of sorts. What I have the most trouble conveying to people is that it isn’t that I don’t “want” to talk on the phone, but that I “can’t.” Oh, I can force myself to do so if it is urgent or an emergency, but imagine if you have claustrophobia and are forced to be “trapped” in an elevator for hours. That’s what it’s like. What is most frustrating and disturbing—and not usually talked about—is that deep down inside many (most?) “normal” people don’t really believe that autistics “can’t,” but that they “won’t.”
Now consider your own life. Is there anything about you that you feel you have to hide because others wouldn’t believe that you can’t change, but that you wouldn’t? Afraid you’re not manly or womanly enough, or smart enough, or not tall or thin enough? Do you affect mannerisms to counter this feared perception on the part of others? If so, this is what we autistics call “masking,” attempting to hide personal characteristics that might be frowned upon by others. I choose to mask and do it fairly well (note that this does not apply to my ideas or perceptions—I am vigilant about being open in those areas—thus this blog–only to the way my character appears to others). This is why I have always held that autistics and “neuro-typicals” are not really that different. In our heart of hearts don’t we all have something we want to mask so we don’t “ let the cat out of bag.” If not, you are one of a very fortunate few.
So let’s show each other compassion, overlooking each other’s foibles, and make the world a better place.
Thank you for listening.
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