My graduate advisor, “Anna”,was a truly brilliant woman. She spoke four languages fluently, she performed as a jazz musician and she was influential in research and teaching that made early social experiences for toddlers affected by autism with neurologically typical peers so effective that some mildly autistic children lost their diagnosis.
The social exposure of the structured play group could be excruciating for those on the spectrum, it was unbearable sometimes for parents to watch. The chlldren who were affected by autism had extreme anxiety and fear. Even the educators who had helped form the protocol admitted that it was a stressful experience for all involved, except the neurotypical toddlers, who could have cared less.
As the neurotypical toddlers grew from parallel play to group play, their austism affected peers did as well. As the toddlers began to use language to negotiate their interactions and to pick up strategies for communication more effective than just swiping the other kid’s ice cream, doll, truck, shoe or throwing yourself on the floor to weep, (it’s always good to keep those kinds of extreme moves in one’s toolbox, of course, and most of us do), they all made missteps and encountered both gratification and frustration in approximately equal measure.
Anna often told us in class, perhaps as a result of her work with people who process things differently than the average person but also perhaps as a result of her being insightful and kind, that language is the poorest possible way of communicating with one another and yet it is the one we rely on the most.
It took me years to see what she meant. My whole life has been enriched far beyond any possible lived experience of mine could have been by me reading the words someone else wrote down for me sometimes many centuries ago and in places too far away to visit except via the writer’s words. I love poetry, song lyrics, errant comments said by a loved one, texts, emails, even shopping lists. Language is, sort of , my thing and I thought other homo sapiens felt the same way.
It was a slow “aha” for me, it took decades. That which is obvious is, at least for me, sometimes invisible.
I’ll tell you the example I used to talk to someone in my book group, one of my book groups (wordswordswordswordswords): Let’s say you see a woman sitting on a bench waiting for the bus. It’s cold. She wears a worn, out of fashion coat. She looks tired and hungry and then she looks at you and silently begin to weep. Everything in you, or, okay, it’s the Trump years, let’s say some small part of you wants to move over to her, put your arms around her and let her rest her head on your shoulder. Maybe rock a little back and forth together, pat each other like people do, maybe hum. Breathe. Sigh.
Instead, if you are very bold and don’t mind risking being invasive you might gently incline your head and ask the woman, as uncondescendingly as you can, if they are all right.
Don’t feel bad, I wouldn’t hug her either. I am afraid. Of being obtrusive, inappropriate, obnoxious. I am also afraid that she will scream out that she’s trying to find David Bowie or hit me up for money or grab my purse or stab me or shoot me, you know, like on tv. Like on the news.
It would be better. I know that. Look, it bothered me so much I am writing about it today, these many months later, using nothing but words words words words words.