Asparagus Disorder

I was reading over the transcript of a psychological report I had dictated and was amused by the diagnosis the transcriptionist had rendered to my patient: Asparagus Disorder. I had no idea if the patient - a young man who exhibited painful social awkwardness and repetitive and ritualistic behaviors – had an unusual, obsessive fondness for or aversion to a certain green vegetable favored by foodies but, in my professional opinion, he did have a condition that was then known as “Asperger’s Disorder.” This was a term that described individuals at the higher-functioning end of autism. The misunderstanding on the part of the transcriptionist (or, perhaps, my miscommunication through a failure of articulation) was quickly remedied before it was sent out into the world.

Unfortunately, individuals with autism are easily misunderstood, and not only on paper, where the error can be laughed at, and harm can be averted. Add to this that, as children, they are at the mercy of their uncomprehending peers, and you have a recipe for a lot of hurt borne on those misunderstandings.

Robert was in my Honors Social Studies class in high school. He was an affable, smart young man, with a broad, almost cartoon-like smile erupting readily from a wide mouth. His jaw almost seemed suspended on wires as it moved up and down when he laughed. He had a staccato way of speaking with a habit of repeating the beginning sounds of words, like he was pushing them out faster than he could think them -- something between a stammer and a stutter, but not quite either. He was friendly to everyone, and he was the type of kid with whom you could discuss classwork and current events in an intelligent, if concrete, manner, but with whom you would never think of discussing girls or whom you would never invite to your house just to hang out. He was nice, but...different. And being different, unfortunately, was not embedded with much social promise.

In that Social Studies class, the teacher had us elect a class president whose role it was to stand in the front and start each class off with a review of current events and class announcements. The class almost unanimously elected Robert, because we wanted to enjoy the silent amusement of watching and listening to his odd mannerisms. We were all laughing inside and smiling on the outside and, I like to believe, Robert was pleased and encouraged by the smiles and oblivious to the hidden laughter at his expense. I remember Robert going through his morning announcements and myself chuckling inside – an attempt to squeeze one more fleeting, uplifting spark of levity from the tedium of a high school day. Now, a person might read this and think that this was a cheap way for me and my peers to feel superior, but I don’t think that was true (although I am not so infused with my own feelings of superiority that I wouldn’t be open to considering a cogent argument to the contrary). I was sufficiently satisfied with my interests, my social circle and my academic achievements not to need any further bolstering of my self-worth, and sufficiently cognizant of my own family’s relatively low socio-economic status to ensure a certain healthy degree of humility in who I thought I was.

It was after embarking on a career as a clinical psychologist and meeting, evaluating and treating individuals with higher functioning autism that I came to look back on that class with Robert. The work I do has grown in me a deeply-felt fondness and respect for these individuals who face the challenges that I believe Robert faced and probably still faces in life. And now that I have decades of experience in identifying people with these traits, I believe that I count a number of them among my friends, acquaintances and colleagues, although most do not know that I “know” and may or may not know themselves. That is immaterial. What is important is that these individuals are able to form connections with others, have enduring relationships that nurture and support them and are embraced by friends and family in their individualities, including their gifts and their quirks, which is nothing less than we all deserve.

In retrospect, Robert had a challenging road ahead of him, a road maybe not smoothed over much by the group of knuckleheads in his Honors Social Studies class. But, maybe, in our own odd way, we did make him feel important and maybe we were good, polite and well-bred enough to hide how different we felt he was. Maybe it was a good experience for him. Or, maybe, he was hurt by our actions in ways he might or might not have been aware of. I have no idea which one was true. But I also figure that he might not have had many real friends, and that must have made for a painful adolescence.

My speculations can have me running around in mental circles chasing the tail of my imaginings. The real “comedy” here is not Robert’s deficit in social understanding, but our own – the bungling by those of us who supposedly had “normal” social skills. What we thought was comical was sad. What we told ourselves was amusing was insensitive at best. What we intended as harmless amusement was social exclusion. What we thought was his obliviousness was actually ours.

I can only hope that Robert was blessed with a loving, supportive, empathic and wise family, and that, as he traveled his path, and as he travels still, he met with an abundance of understanding and encouragement, as well as, simply, patience and calm, from teachers, mentors, colleagues, supervisors, supervisees and professionals, along with clerks in stores, waiters in restaurants, ushers in theaters and attendants at gas stations -- that these people, in ways large and small, formed for him a village that helped him navigate a sometimes treacherous, sometimes wonderful world with the confidence and fulfillment that he deserved. Whether or not he had a thing for asparagus.