When I First Knew What To Call It: Asperger’s
When my son was in the first grade, his teacher became alarmed. He didn’t seem to be picking up on social cues. He would wander off to do his own thing when the other kids were dutifully lining up. He didn’t understand why he had to wait there when they were going outside anyway. The rocks and bugs were more interesting than the other kids jostling to be first or last. That he was alone on the playground studying the world didn’t bother him a bit. It bothered his teacher a lot.
Her brother had been different like that, she told us, and his life hadn’t ended up as successfully as she and her parents had hoped, given his creativity and intelligence. He was a nomad wandering somewhere in California (from the Midwestern perspective, a wilderness). She didn’t want that for our son. We wondered. So we got him tested. The diagnosis was Asperger’s.
We had difficulty accepting the diagnosis. My husband and I are both intellectuals: artistic, nerdy, odd, introverted, quick. We’ve navigated the world all right, without any diagnosis. We’ve each worked at highly demanding professional positions. We have advanced degrees. We worried that Asperger’s would be a label that would stigmatize our son, following him through school like a bad odor, keeping him from opportunities he deserved, like gifted classes. Kids with Asperger’s, despite their gifts, can be work to manage in a classroom, and the fact is that many teachers who teach gifted students are used to them being well behaved and focused on good performance. Kids with Asperger’s are interested in what interests them, and not in performing for its own sake. They can be excessively talkative, poorly self-organized, inclined to give or receive social cues that are off base, easily frustrated, and go off task as soon as they are the least bit bored. But, as it turned out, the thing that led us to out our son at school wasn’t any of these things. It was his poor handwriting. That’s typical of Aspies, too. We have fine motor and gross motor issues, and his were pronounced. As it turned out, some of our fears about stigma came true, but our hopes that he would find support and nurturance came true as well. Now that he is in middle school, we are glad that we came out at school.
But then, there is me and my own decisions about whether to hide or reveal my Asperger’s. I learned during the process of my son’s being diagnosed that I have Asperger’s too. It had never occurred to anyone before, not even to myself. I fit the criteria to a “t,” all of it. What was so surprising at the time was that each of the different aspects of myself I had assumed were entirely separate, chance developments, functions of experience, or personality, were so comprehensively related and grounded in neurology. These differences were hardwired into my brain. I had trouble accepting that. I didn’t want to feel so determined by the physical. I was a mind riding atop a meat vehicle, one that I and yes, perhaps my culture and experience, had shaped; not a meat vehicle that had manifested a certain type of mind through electrochemical patterning. Eventually, I did accept that I have Aspergers, and that having Aspergers has impacted every relationship I’ve had and every choice I’ve made in my life, the good and the bad. But I wouldn’t change who I am. The way my brain works has given me significant gifts, abilities and pleasures, even if it has cost me. And I am raising my son to see the value in who he is, in who others are, whatever our difference.