One Spectrum of Humanity

The medical terminology for the diagnosis of autism is Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD). Depending on their overall functioning levels, people with autism are placed on an autism spectrum that ranges from mild to severe. Once they are placed on the autism spectrum, their atypical attributes are subject to a heightened level of scrutiny by us -- the “neurotypical” caregivers and professionals -- through our deficit-tinted lenses.

Using our conventional frameworks of reference, we are constantly measuring how far they fall short of their norm as though being typical is tantamount to being ideal. In fact, as we seek to “normalise” autistic people in our own image, we can be so fixated on their deficits that we fail to recognise that some of the attributes of autism constitute strengths that can be of tremendous value to humanity.

For instance, many autistic individuals have an heightened visual-spatial sense that enables them to perceive the environment in vivid detail that escapes the notice of most typical people. A testament to this extraordinary ability is Temple Grandin, a world-renowned expert and professor in livestock, who utilises her visualisation capabilities to design outstanding livestock handling facilities. Yet if you were to encounter her on the street without knowing about her impressive abilities, you may have only noticed her social awkwardness and the monotony of her voice.

The reality is that we neurotypical people, as with autistic people, have our fair share of strengths, deficits and idiosyncrasies; they are just different from those of people on the autism spectrum. Considering our own clustering of distinctive traits, we should all be placed on one spectrum – the spectrum of humanity that celebrates our diversity. Each of us is no better and worse than another, just different.

In our interactions of people with autism and other special needs, we “typical” caregivers and professionals often assume an unquestioned stance of superiority in our role as helpers of people with special needs. Unfortunately, in our fixation on their weaknesses, we can be blind to our own. As a caregiver of Sebastien, my 13-year-old autistic son, I, too, am guilty of this perception at times, which challenged me to think about him and our relationship in a different light…

Sebastien is an outstanding skater who moves with a natural sense of grace and ease. In spite of his unique style of skating with an erect posture, his hands covering his ears and singing at the same time, he has been promoted to “Advanced” level seemingly without effort. In contrast, I become tense and rigid the moment I put on skates. After almost two years, I have finally been promoted to the “Intermediate” level. Yet not once has Sebastien ever mocked me for the sheer amount of time I have taken to grasp the fundamentals of skating.

Apart from skating, Sebastien is also a strong navigator of city streets, who scans his environment and records physical details in his mind. Left on my own, I can feel lost and disoriented in the maze of stores, passageways and escalators in shopping malls, let alone city streets. In the company of Sebastien, I am informed about the bus stop I need to alight at, and then guided to the aisle where the item I wish to purchase is located. In the face of my hopeless navigational sense, Sebastien never rolls his eyes in disbelief. All he ever says is: “Mama, that way.”

Sebastien is also moderately autistic with significant delays in his language. In spite of the painstaking progress that he has made in this area, Sebastien continues to struggle with verbal communication. When he fails to respond to my questions that seem so easy to me, I often shake my head in despair, barely suppressing my frustration.

“You must be very patient to homeschool your autistic son,” many people have told me. But their comment only makes me think about the ten years that Sebastien patiently waited for me to get out of an unhappy marriage in which he bore the brunt of the verbal abuse of my then-husband who outright despised him. When I did finally leave him, Sebastien did not gloat about how right he was, nor begrudge me for the amount of time it took for me to pluck up my courage to do the right thing.

Looking back upon our uninterrupted relationship of 13 years, I can see that as much as I have had to deal with Sebastien’s limitations, he has had to put up with mine. While I have jumped through hoops to work around Sebastien’s language and learning deficits, he has suffered through errors in my homeschooling programme and life decisions. Just as I have put up with his tantrums in public, which have waned in frequency and intensity in recent years, he has endured my angry outbursts that are at times disproportionate to his misdeeds.

More than mother and child, we are partners supporting one another in our journey of growth, learning and development. On our road less traveled, I have been especially grateful for Sebastien’s forgiving nature. Instead of nursing a grudge (as we typical people are wont to do) against me after our conflicts, Sebastien prefers to brush away his tears and flash a reassuring smile that tells me: “It’s alright now, mama. Let’s move on.”

To me, his ready forgiveness reflects his mature acceptance of his fundamental difference from most people and the inevitable “clashes” that would occur due to our conflicting perceptions and ways of being. Coming to terms with this challenging reality, which has been years in the making, has enabled Sebastien to cope with the mainstream world that has little room and tolerance for deviations from the norm.

Out in the real world, when Sebastien, delighted at catching his own reflection in the window of the MRT, grins from ear to ear, fellow commuters will stare at him as though he were crazy. Yet on another day, not too far away from the spot where he had stood, there could be a bunch of kids pushing and shoving each other, while laughing hysterically and making funny faces at each other. But no one would call them crazy…

More recently, with his newfound athletic vigour from his weight training, Sebastien has taken to expressing his joy by skipping happily down the aisles of shopping malls or sidewalks. With his swinging arms, bounding strides and an enormous smile plastered on his face, the skipping Sebastien is a refreshing gust of happiness. Yet when passersby see him, they are taken aback. Instead of opening themselves to experience his joy, they ridicule his euphoric display, pointing at him and sniggering to their friends.

Perhaps, in their limited imagination, they simply cannot fathom how anyone could be so happy as to skip with so much effusive joy. When I see Sebastien skipping merrily, it only evokes a sense of nostalgia of the days when I once had the youthful energy to skip. In retrospect, I only wish that I had skipped more frequently than I had. Who are we to decide that skipping is a lesser or inappropriate way of expressing one’s happiness?

While I am not suggesting that we should jettison the autism spectrum and replace it with my tongue-in-cheek notion of “the spectrum of humanity,” I think it is not a bad idea to step outside the box sometimes and play around with our points of view. If we bother to examine our assumptions about what constitutes special needs, weaknesses, or even our socially-constructed notions about sanity and happiness, we may come to realise that the conventional way is not necessarily always the best, and certainly not the only one.

At the end of the day, when we really think with open minds, what stands out with glaring certainty is the delightful diversity of humanity, with each of us compensating for one another’s weaknesses and showing a different way of living. And when we are humble enough to value people with autism and special needs, we will find out that it is our world that has expanded in infinite beauty and delight.

©Choo Kah Ying 2010. No portion of this article may be reproduced without author's permission.