Different . . . Not Less. Temple Grandin

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СКАЧАТЬ did walk like a swaying ship, as my classmates said. Perhaps it was my many food aversions, which made me an extremely picky eater—a circumstance which some found amusing.

      I consulted my mother. She advised me that the other children were all jealous of me because I was so highly intelligent. I doubted the soundness of her opinion. In my eyes, I was not particularly bright or gifted. Anyone could open up a book or study a map and learn things. Where was the magic in that? I admired children who possessed skills that I coveted but entirely lacked—those who could turn perfect cartwheels, keep a Hula-Hoop up on their waist, or make sculptures with papier-mâché. At the age of 7, I was the last kid on the block to take the training wheels off my bike and learn to keep my balance. In many ways, I felt like a first-class dummy.

       Life Is Not Meant to Be a Bowl of Cherries

      Despite these challenges, I rather enjoyed elementary school. Back then, kids seemed to understand that life was not meant to be a bowl of cherries. All of us expected to get some bruised knees and hurt feelings at times, and we all had battles to fight. Some students could not keep up their grades, and others could not play sports. Some were called names because they were too fat or too skinny. Some were Jewish and got no presents at Christmas. Eventually, I learned to stand my ground and ward off the bullies. I tamped down my urge to misbehave, which appeased my teachers.

      I also benefited from the freedom that was granted to youngsters back then. Our parents did not expect to know where we were every hour of the day. We left in the morning and came home for dinner. If I was on the outs with the other kids, I did not have to stick around, nor did I have to run home and hide. I could hop on my bike and pedal across town to the home of a relative who would listen sympathetically. Or, I could go to the public library, where I could lose myself in stacks of tantalizingly unread books. I could go to the sweet shop, get a soda, and read the comics—or, I could simply ride down an unfamiliar street and explore.

      My favorite subjects in school were history, geography, and social studies. The other kids hated history, and I wondered why. To me, history was full of wonderful stories, and I could easily recall names, dates, and places.

      I also had a bent toward theology. My parents did one good thing for me—they made sure I had a religious background. Both my parents had been raised Roman Catholic. Dad had lost his faith somewhere along the way, probably during the war in Japan, but Mom was more steadfast. She rarely went to church herself. However, she made sure I went and attended catechism class on Thursday afternoons at the local catholic school.

      When I was small, I became aware that having no siblings made me different. One day in 1st-grade art class, the teacher told us to draw pictures of our siblings. The other two “only children” in the class submitted pictures of their pets. I had neither sibling nor pet and had nothing to draw. After school, I ran home and angrily confronted my mother. Why had she made me such a weirdo? Why didn’t I have a brother or sister, like “normal” kids did? To my surprise and delight, she replied that it was indeed a good idea and that she would think about it.

      As it happened, a few months later, my mother presented me with my very own brother. I was ecstatic. A little pal! A second in my corner! Someone to talk to when everyone else deserted me! I proudly took his baby pictures to school for “show and tell” and declared that I now had a “real” family, just like everyone else.

       My Younger Brother Was Unlike Me

      Unfortunately, the promise of a baby brother turned out differently than I’d hoped. At first, all went according to plan. He dutifully toddled around the house after me, calling me “Yar-Yar” in an attempt to say my name, “Charli.” As he grew older, however, he treated me with complete indifference. All my life, I have grieved the loss of the brother and pal I wanted and expected. In his place stood the perfect stranger.

      My brother could not be more unlike me. He is quiet and shy, sensitive and withdrawn—a natural introvert. His one lifelong obsession has been music. As a tot, he drove us all crazy with his constant repetition of television commercials. As a child, he raided my record collection with seeming impunity. I cannot recall whether he had friends in school, but by college, he had fallen in with some musically inclined students, and his life improved. All his friends are musicians. As an adult, he became a music writer and even published two books on rock music. Like me, he has never married, but he has had a proper series of live-in girlfriends. If fame and fortune are the standards by which to judge “success,” then my brother had the career success in the family. However, I do not believe it brought him much long-lasting happiness or self-fulfillment. He has been out of work for some time now and fears that, at 50, he is washed up.

      My brother is so dissimilar from me that, even when I began to suspect that I might be on the autism spectrum, it never occurred to me that he may be, as well. Two years ago, when I received a formal diagnosis, my psychiatrist gave me books on Asperger’s syndrome. One of the books indicated that autism runs in families. A light went on in my head, and I immediately telephoned my brother. However, a lifetime of misunderstanding is not easily overcome.

      Seventh grade was the best year of my life. Junior high brought a greater variety of class work, and advanced courses were available in my favorite subjects. I took violin and played in the school orchestra. I played sports the other girls played—floor hockey and softball. I was fairly good, despite some deficits in motor skills. Both the disciplinary problems and the bullies were behind me. I even went to dances and began looking at boys. It seemed that I had finally conquered whatever-it-was that had kept me from fitting in. Just to be certain, I consulted my guidance counselor. “Do you think there is anything wrong with me?” I asked him. “Not at all,” he replied. “You seem like a typical 12-year-old to me.” I beamed in satisfaction.

       My World Came Crashing Down When I Was Uprooted from My School and Friends

      Unfortunately, my world soon came crashing down. The summer I turned 13, my parents purchased a crumbling old estate further up the Hudson, in the middle of nowhere. I was uprooted from my home, my school, and my friends—life as I knew it was over. I had no one to talk to, nothing to do, and no place to go. I mean no one. There were no neighbors. There were no kids my age around, nor even any grown-ups. My brother had already locked me out of his world. Aunts and uncles came up to see us at first, but my mother did not encourage visitors, and gradually I lost touch with my relatives. The nearest village was 3 miles away, and although I soon learned to bike there and haunt the small public library, the icy fingers of deep loneliness reached into my heart and paralyzed me. I foundered. I regressed and fell apart. As B.J. Thomas sang, “I’m so lonesome, I could die.” He could have been singing about me.

      For the most part, my parents did not understand what was happening as their little savant shattered into pieces. My mother believed that it was all make-believe and that I was pretending to be abnormal to punish my parents for tearing me away from my friends and my hometown. My father was convinced that my breakdown was physical in nature, and indeed I showed physical signs of distress. I had begun my menses 6 months before we left Croton. Once we moved, they stopped entirely. As a child, I had always been one of the tallest kids in my class. By 7th grade, I had attained my full height of 5 feet 4 inches and never grew a smidgeon more. My dad believed it was an indication of some unspecified illness.

       Unbearable Loneliness in a Big High School

      Eventually, I was sent back to school, but that did nothing to alleviate my unbearable loneliness. The high school I attended was a modern, sterile, overcrowded facility to which teenagers were bussed from surrounding towns. The teachers were too busy to devote personal attention to any one student. I made no new friends to replace those I had left behind. The necessity of riding the school bus seemed a humiliation. In Croton, school buses were associated only with the very youngest СКАЧАТЬ