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Authors: Gene Brewer
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rituals and compulsions. Yet none of these miserable creatures were more tragic than the inhabitants of 3B, the severely autistic ward.
Autism was once blamed principally on unfeeling and uncaring parents, especially the mother. It is now known that autists suffer some sort of brain defect, whether genetic or induced by organic disease, and no amount of nurturing will alter the progress of this debilitating affliction.
Stated simply, autists are missing the part of brain function that makes a person a soulful human being, someone who can relate to other people. Although often able to perform extraordinary feats, they appear to do so entirely mechanically without any “feel” for what they have accomplished. The ability of the autist to concentrate on whatever it is that occupies his or her thoughts is astonishing, and typically to the exclusion of everything else. There are exceptions, of course, and some are able to hold jobs and learn to function to some extent in society. Most, however, live in worlds of their own.
I found our twenty-one-year-old engineering wizard, whom I’ll call Jerry, working on a matchstick re-creation of the Golden Gate Bridge. It was almost finished. On display nearby were replicas of the Capitol Building, the Eiffel Tower, the Taj Mahal. I watched him for a while. He worked deftly and rapidly, yet seemed to pay little attention to his project. His eyes darted all over the room, his mind apparently somewhere else. He used no notes or models, but worked from memory of photographs he had glanced at only briefly.
To Jerry, who may not even have noticed me, I said, “That’s beautiful. How long before it’s finished?”
“Before it’s finished, ” he replied, without changing his pace.
“What’s next on the agenda?”
“Agenda. Agenda. Agenda. Agenda. Agenda. Agenda”
“Well, I’ve got to go now. “
“Go now. Go now. Go now. “
“Bye, Jer. “
“Bye, Jer. “
And so it was with the others, most of whom were wandering around or staring intently at their fingertips or studying the blemishes on the walls. Sometimes someone would let out a bark or start clapping his hands, but not one of them paid the slightest attention to me or glanced in my direction. It is as if autists actively practice a kind of desperate avoidance. Nevertheless, we continue to try to find some way to relate to them, to enter their worlds, to bring them into ours.
One feels sorry for such individuals, to pity their lack of contact with other human beings. Yet, for all we know, they may be quite happy within the confines of their private realms, which might, in fact, encompass gigantic universes filled with an incredible variety of shapes and relationships, with interesting and satisfying visions, and tastes and sounds and smells that the rest of us cannot even imagine. It would be fascinating to enter such a world for one glorious moment. Whether we would choose to stay there, however, is another matter.
SESSION TWENTY-ONE
Still trying to come to grips with what I suspected was prot’s upcoming “departure” date, I took a stroll on the grounds, where a spirited game of croquet was in progress, though what rules were in force was impossible to determine. Behind this circus I spotted Klaus over by the sunflowers talking animatedly with Cassandra, a woman in her mid-forties who has the ability to forecast certain events with uncanny accuracy. How she does this is anybody’s guess, including her own. The problem with Cassandra is that she has no interest in anything else. By the time she was brought to us she had nearly starved to death. Her first words, after she had seen the lawn with its plethora of chairs and benches from which she could contemplate the heavens, were, “I think I’m going to like it here. ” One of the areas in which she excels is that of weather. Perhaps this is because she’s outdoors so much, winter and summer. If you’ve ever heard the five-day forecasts of the
Autism was once blamed principally on unfeeling and uncaring parents, especially the mother. It is now known that autists suffer some sort of brain defect, whether genetic or induced by organic disease, and no amount of nurturing will alter the progress of this debilitating affliction.
Stated simply, autists are missing the part of brain function that makes a person a soulful human being, someone who can relate to other people. Although often able to perform extraordinary feats, they appear to do so entirely mechanically without any “feel” for what they have accomplished. The ability of the autist to concentrate on whatever it is that occupies his or her thoughts is astonishing, and typically to the exclusion of everything else. There are exceptions, of course, and some are able to hold jobs and learn to function to some extent in society. Most, however, live in worlds of their own.
I found our twenty-one-year-old engineering wizard, whom I’ll call Jerry, working on a matchstick re-creation of the Golden Gate Bridge. It was almost finished. On display nearby were replicas of the Capitol Building, the Eiffel Tower, the Taj Mahal. I watched him for a while. He worked deftly and rapidly, yet seemed to pay little attention to his project. His eyes darted all over the room, his mind apparently somewhere else. He used no notes or models, but worked from memory of photographs he had glanced at only briefly.
To Jerry, who may not even have noticed me, I said, “That’s beautiful. How long before it’s finished?”
“Before it’s finished, ” he replied, without changing his pace.
“What’s next on the agenda?”
“Agenda. Agenda. Agenda. Agenda. Agenda. Agenda”
“Well, I’ve got to go now. “
“Go now. Go now. Go now. “
“Bye, Jer. “
“Bye, Jer. “
And so it was with the others, most of whom were wandering around or staring intently at their fingertips or studying the blemishes on the walls. Sometimes someone would let out a bark or start clapping his hands, but not one of them paid the slightest attention to me or glanced in my direction. It is as if autists actively practice a kind of desperate avoidance. Nevertheless, we continue to try to find some way to relate to them, to enter their worlds, to bring them into ours.
One feels sorry for such individuals, to pity their lack of contact with other human beings. Yet, for all we know, they may be quite happy within the confines of their private realms, which might, in fact, encompass gigantic universes filled with an incredible variety of shapes and relationships, with interesting and satisfying visions, and tastes and sounds and smells that the rest of us cannot even imagine. It would be fascinating to enter such a world for one glorious moment. Whether we would choose to stay there, however, is another matter.
SESSION TWENTY-ONE
Still trying to come to grips with what I suspected was prot’s upcoming “departure” date, I took a stroll on the grounds, where a spirited game of croquet was in progress, though what rules were in force was impossible to determine. Behind this circus I spotted Klaus over by the sunflowers talking animatedly with Cassandra, a woman in her mid-forties who has the ability to forecast certain events with uncanny accuracy. How she does this is anybody’s guess, including her own. The problem with Cassandra is that she has no interest in anything else. By the time she was brought to us she had nearly starved to death. Her first words, after she had seen the lawn with its plethora of chairs and benches from which she could contemplate the heavens, were, “I think I’m going to like it here. ” One of the areas in which she excels is that of weather. Perhaps this is because she’s outdoors so much, winter and summer. If you’ve ever heard the five-day forecasts of the
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