Autism through the ages

When my baby brother was 3 years old, he couldn’t start getting ready for preschool each morning until Sesame Street announced what the letter and number of the day was. It became his gospel, a ritual that defined his day. As soon as Cookie Monster unveiled the daily selection, William would grab the corresponding characters from the plastic magnets from the fridge to carry in his pocket and hold them up an inch away from his eyeball, whispering their name in appreciation. While his three older sisters were fighting over the hair-crimping iron, William would flip the pages of his alphabet books to the day’s sacred letter, ask for his peanut butter sandwiches and waffles to be cut in their shapes and incorporated the choice characters in every single one of his daily doodles, Christmas cards and Mother’s Day posters. And even though he was 3 years younger, he’d piss of his big sister when he’d interrupt her study sessions to spell all the worlds on her upcoming spelling quiz.
His obsession with numbers and letters lasted for another year until roller coasters became his new religion. He’d ask for Hot Wheels tracks for his birthday and take over the living room with his customized interstate highways while his boxes of number and alphabet paraphernalia collected dust. A year later, his Hot Wheels sat in storage as he created a massive Pokémon collection, memorizing every detail of every character ever introduced.
Although William showed unworldly intelligence in some areas, there were some concerning developmental disconnects. He was uncomfortable making eye contact and didn’t usually enjoy engaging in conversation. And although he could recognize and spell most words, he didn’t know how to put them together in any functional way.
William was diagnosed with hyperlexia, a type of high-functioning autism. Like him, children with hyperlexia have a constellation of symptoms, including precocious reading skills—far above expected at their age—paired with significant problems in language learning and social skills, often harnessing the socially uncomfortable Asperger’s syndrome.
At first, his diagnosis came as a shock for my parents who were scared that they weren’t able to parent a child with special needs. Growing up, my parents saw that kids who were different were retarded, and therefore picked on. However, after the first months of William’s social skills courses, teachers were able to also instruct my parents that William is still William, a vibrant and quirky young boy, and autism doesn’t define him.
Just like the growing acceptance of gays in pop culture was paralleled with a deeper understanding and looser prejudice for the minority group in society, films and television have a hand in introducing how autism is seen in the current generation’s conjecture of what is normal. In his review for the 1988 Academy-Award winning film “Rain Man,” Roger Ebert points to something that has seemed to cast a dark shadow on how people were able to swallow the film’s unknown qualities: “Is it possible to have a relationship with an autistic person? Is it possible to have a relationship with a cat? I do not intend the comparison to be demeaning to the autistic; I am simply trying to get at something. I have useful relationships with both of my cats, and they are important to me. But I never know what the cats are thinking."
In 1988, autism was portrayed as most people knew about it at the time; when we recall Dustin Hoffman’s autistic character in “Rain Man,” we often recall the scene when he freaks out in the airport, demanding to watch certain TV shows or his inability to “love” in any recognizable fashion. Because of “Rain Man,” some people’s ideas of autism are skewed, assuming an autistic life is an endless cycle of arbitrary yelling, confusing arguments and the occasional spurt of extraterrestrial mathematical intelligence.
However, as autism diagnoses have risen since 1988—today, one in 88 American children has an Autism Spectrum Disorder, according to the Centers for Disease Control. And although television is usually painstakingly slow to adapt to such shifts in demographics, some of the challenges faced by the autistic population have captured the imagination of TV writers, who are increasingly penning eccentric characters whose quirks would seem to align with typical characteristics of ASD. Representations of the autistic in film and television have gotten more sensitive, depicting autistic characters as relatable, and even humanistic, such as Sheldon’s seemingly hyperlexic character in “The Big Bang Theory,” or Max in “Parenthood.” In visual art, Jill Mullin’s art compilation Drawing
 Autism rounds up remarkable samples of work by people from all across the autism spectrum, showing how people with different mental processes display their emotions through art. On the other
 hand, the word “retarded” is commonly used in hip-hop as a slur, as seen in J. Cole’s verse in Drake’s “Jodeci Freestyle”: “I'm artistic, you niggas is autistic, retarded.”
There’s been more nuance to the depiction of “nerds” in movies and on television in recent years, but it is still a complicated issue, as comedy writers try to reference what’s familiar. The Big Bang Theory is one of the most popular shows on television, but it is also the most divisive because of it’s attention to detail. The show centers on a quartet of nerd friends that each have unique quirks. In the episode “The Bakersfield Expedition,” the characters’ girlfriends visited a comic book store, which showcased the series in a telling light. The most obnoxiously stereotypical and arbitrary moment of the episode was when the store owner had to tell the customers to stop gaping at the girlfriends since these were just women and thus, “nothing you haven’t seen in movies or in drawings.” However, the when the proprietor suggested to the women that they might enjoy the comic book Fables, it was a specific and perfect recommendation. The Big Bang Theory has often been criticized as a nerd satire by some, but its writers do know their subject and attempt to flesh out the stereotypes, even if they still lean on the stereotypes too heavily.
Ultimately, The Big Bang Theory has pushed us leaps and bounds through understanding austists in pop culture because of the character Sheldon Cooper, the Asperger’s-esque astrophysicist played by Jim Parsons. His lovable quirks and Einstein knowledge toward outer space and science are familiar to the way William operates. Like my brother, Sheldon avoids physical contact, sticks religiously to routine that he won't let anyone sit in his spot on the couch, is pointed and determined to correct any logical mishap to the point of exhaustion and treats social convention like one complex puzzle he can never quite solve. Sheldon summed up these issues in a recent monologue toward the end of an episode. "You may not realize it, but I have difficulty navigating certain aspects of daily life," he said to his friends. "You know, understanding sarcasm, feigning interest in others, not talking about trains as much as I want to. It's exhausting."
Interestingly, Parsons and the show’s writers very carefully avoided labeling Sheldon as having anASD, because they’ve said they don’t want to be limited by what an autistic person would or wouldn’t do. But by not defining Sheldon, they’ve indirectly captured an important aspect of autism—the disorder has common tendencies, but flexible boundaries. Sheldon is an exaggerated version of a person with Asperger’s, but his fussiness is very familiar to those of us with family members on the spectrum. However, if his character was labeled with having Asperger’s, it would help viewers identify with an example of the humanistic qualities that autists have.
A more recent example of autists on television is 2010 sitcom Parenthood, in which creator Jason Katims (Friday Night Lights) created the character Max Braverman—an intelligent, inscrutable, insect-obsessed youngster with Asperger's—inspired by his own son, Sawyer, who was similarly diagnosed. The character is lovable and pointedly true to the Asperger’s tendencies, which Katims was able to accomplish through sharing his personal anecdotes with the writers. The show also employs behavioural psychologist Wayne Tashjian to work with the show's cast and crew to ensure accuracy.
However, like most times I’m faced with depictions of autism, I viewed Parenthood with a defensive mind frame because the struggles and relationships connected with autistic characters can set a
precedent for viewers. And although Max’s character is adorably accurate in some regards, the show is ultimately frustrating, a quirky parent comedy-drama unviewable for anyone under 30. Its clichés are evident through its dealings with druggie 18-year-old daughters, single mother life and just about any other drama whiteys struggle with in suburban, middle class families.
If nothing else, Parenthood introduces Max into the conjecture of normalcy in the same way Glee did for it’s gay character Kurt—it’s painfully cheesy and stereotypical to watch, but at least the show attempts to thrust a new taboo on the train, which will set a precedent for viewers’ experiences with autistic characters. You can never show too many examples of autistic characters as actual human beings; most people unfamiliar with autism are instantly uncomfortable with an autist’s unique presence, so giving viewers a tangible example of someone they can reference and care about, be it a character on a dopey parent sitcom, will help their understanding of how to interact with them in the real world.
The show focuses on a large, tight-knit extended family, almost exactly like mine. The first episode shows Max’s grandpa, unaware of Max’s autism, frustrated about how Max couldn’t care less about his baseball league and putting pressure on Max’s dad to be more assertive with his son. When they try to get him ready for the game, Max screams in frustration and expresses that he won’t go because he knows he’s the worst player on the team. He escapes to his room and buries himself in his pirate toys, where his dad secretly wages him two scoops of ice cream in exchange for his attendance at the game.
The episode results in Max striking out and feeling ashamed, blaming his family for forcing him to play. After the parents get Max diagnosed, they start helping the rest of his family through the process of how to interact with Max: his counselor says "get into his world and connect with him there." His dad begins to play pirates with him, and helps his own dad try to understand the developmental difference Max has, and he extra sensitivity and patience he needs.
This episode reminded me of how my hardass father tried to convince my brother to eat spaghetti. When presented with the meal, William had a hysterical fit, gagging at the sight of the googly noodles and mushy red sauce. He saw the dish as one would see a dice rat on a plate; he couldn't even breathe at the thought of eating it. My dad, raised by a strict veteran on a farm, pushed my brother to tears every meal. "He will get over it," my dad would garble, "if he wants to become a man, that is."
After my parents got William diagnosed, my dad took a few years to understand how to introduce new things to him. His lack of patience contrasted with William's tenderness and sensitivity.
Parenthood did a good job in displaying the frustration that sometimes comes with the difficult miscommunication with an autistic child, however, the show often takes care of the issues in the same episode they're introduced. Max's grandpa understood how to support Max's pirates instead of forcing him to continue his baseball legacy; it took my father much longer to be understanding of how a hyperlexic functions.