by Ron Fournier
In the decades-old mythology of our family, Ronald and Florence Fournier were the perfect couple, and the stubborn refusal to forsake that myth kept Dad from acknowledging and treating his disease. Expectations were, literally, killing him. A few months before Holly’s wedding, my brother Tim and I confronted our father. Sitting on Tim’s backyard patio in Grand Rapids, sipping a light beer, Dad said he’d accept the diagnosis and begin treatment (albeit five years or so after the initial diagnosis) on one condition: He didn’t want us steamrolling Mom, intruding on her control of their lives and his treatment. “Respect your mother.”
When our parents arrived for the wedding, Lori had them sit in the back of the church so they wouldn’t have far to walk in the procession. Dad slowly, painfully, eased himself into the wooden pew and flashed me a weak smile. He looked small, hunched, and spent. I crouched close to his ear and whispered, “Thanks for coming, Dad.” Then, without thinking, I kissed him on the cheek. I hadn’t kissed my father in 45 years. I was surprised how natural it felt—the softness of his skin and the smell of his body so close.
“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” he said. The reporter in me knew better. My parents damn near missed the wedding, in part because they didn’t want family and friends to see him so frail.
When it came time to form the procession line, Dad told me, “I got to take a piss.”
“Can’t it wait?”
“No,” he said. The bathroom was at the front of the church, near the altar, so Dad had to walk past family and friends awaiting the ceremony’s start. Some checked their watches, while others whispered or nodded in sympathy as Dad baby-stepped from the back of the church to the front, a trip I could make in less than a minute. It took Dad ten times as long. For such a proud man, this was hell, and I don’t know whether I’ve ever been so impressed.
Mom was angry. She had wanted to stay home to protect Dad’s dignity and health, and came only after intense lobbying by me and Tim. I was a mix of emotions: proud of Dad’s effort up the aisle, but angry at his sickness—and at my parents for not seeking treatment for him sooner.
Finally, my father and Lori’s mother joined their spouses in the procession line, and the wedding began. I now was able to focus on Holly and walk her down the aisle. Halfway to the altar, I asked her how she was doing. “Fine,” Holly said with a smile, squeezing my arm. She never took her focus off Tom as we approached the altar. I lifted Holly’s veil, kissed my daughter, and told her I loved her. Then I shook Tom’s hand, noticing for the first time that tears were streaming down his face. My doubts evaporated. Man, he does love her.
After the service, I walked out with my parents, trying to convince them to attend the reception. Mom insisted Dad wasn’t up to it, and said they were going to the hotel. I buckled his seat belt and was closing the door when I heard Lori calling for us. It was time for a family photo, she said, and Holly wanted my parents in it. I asked Mom if Dad could handle the short walk across the street. She pursed her lips and said, “You have to ask your father.” I leaned into the car to speak to Dad, but Mom interrupted. She sounded desperate, almost pleading: “His pants. His zipper.” Dad’s fly was down. He could no longer zip himself up.
—
My parents didn’t make the reception. Lori’s parents managed to attend for a bit, although her mother, Shirley, seemed confused and agitated. In a quiet tribute to her grandmother, whom the kids called Nanny, Holly wrapped around her bouquet a locket that once belonged to Shirley’s own grandmother. “I knew past-Nanny would have been so touched,” Holly said.
The next morning, I swallowed my disappointment and visited my parents in their hotel room. They looked exhausted. The brief wedding ceremony had drained Dad. Worry had worn Mom. I gave them the highlights of the reception and leaned closer to Dad as he whispered, “I can’t believe you’re taking this so well.”
“What?” I replied.
“I messed up the wedding.”
I wasn’t sure if he was referring to delaying the ceremony, missing the reception, or something else. Was he ashamed of how sick and old he looked? No, he couldn’t be that vain—not the guy who’d taught me to be good, do my best, and not worry about what other people think.
“You mean, the trouble you had walking down the aisle?”
“Yes.”
“Hell, Dad, you did great. You did what Holly needed you to do. Despite what’s going on now.” I couldn’t say it—Parkinson’s.
“Thank you, Rock,” Dad said, calling me by the nickname he had given me before I was born. (He had been a fan of the baseball star Rocky Colavito.) “That means the world to me. I can’t tell you what that means. I hope I didn’t let you down.”
My stomach clenched. Dad’s words reminded me of his grandson and of the evening at the White House when Tyler had awaited his turn to meet the Obamas. I hope I don’t let you down, Dad.
The wedding was a hard and happy event. Notice that this story doesn’t include memories of big feasts, boozy laughter, and illicit romance—though, for the record, the reception at the Detroit Historical Museum (and the post-reception party at Tom’s bar) included such pleasures.
What sticks with me are the small acts of goodness: My father and mother-in-law swallowed their pride and came; my mother let down her defenses; my son-in-law cried at the sight of his new bride; my daughter paid quiet tribute to “past-Nanny”; and Lori insisted we take a family photo for Holly. It would be the last photo with all of us together.
It almost didn’t happen. His pants. His zipper. I’ll never forget how Dad looked down at his crotch and then at me. “It’s okay,” I said, zipping his fly closed. That’s when I convinced him to get out of the car and pose for the photo. I could see the pain and shame in his face. He could see Holly and Lori waiting. He was still The Guy, full of goodness.
All I had to say was, “It’ll make the girls happy, Dad.”
GRIT
“He Talked a Lot About Himself and His Stuff”
Little Rock, Arkansas—The road trips are coming to an end. Lori had wanted me to bond with Tyler, to understand him better, and to grow closer to him. She wanted Tyler to interact with a world mostly unlike him—with “neurologically typical” people, who instinctively socialize, empathize, and read social clues.
Our first stop was the White House, where I felt the shame I had caused Tyler. Then we toured the homes and libraries of Theodore Roosevelt, John and John Quincy Adams, Gerald Ford, John Kennedy, and Thomas Jefferson, where I began to rightsize my dreams and realize I needed to help Tyler develop his. Each of these trips forced me to think more broadly—beyond just Tyler and even his sisters—and wonder: Why do we do this to our kids?
I read child development books and studies, interviewed experts, and met dozens of parents in search of answers. And then former presidents George W. Bush and Bill Clinton agreed to meet privately with Tyler. He’s going to visit Clinton today at his library in Little Rock, and eight days later, Bush at his Dallas office.
I’m not sure why they agreed to do this. While I respect both men, I never spared my criticism during their presidencies, and now, retired from elected office, neither Clinton nor Bush would expect their favors returned. I chalk it up to something you don’t hear much about in politics: decency. Like most politicians, the former presidents are public servants at their core. Far from perfect (as journalists like me never fail to point out), most men and women who enter politics are fundamentally good people in a bad system. But that’s another book.
A therapist once called Tyler courageous, which I simply hadn’t understood. How could a boy afraid of bees, needles, and dark rooms be brave? But this young man who faces up to his fear—to introduce himself to new people every day, for instance—might be the bravest person I know. The therapist had said Tyler was more determined to learn how to make social connections than anybody else in his practice. “It would be very easy for him to just give up, but he keeps coming back and tries to make those connections.
”
We’re standing at the back of a news conference at the Clinton library. The governor-turned-president is talking to reporters about education policy, just moments before our scheduled meeting. Tyler tugs at my elbow. His face is pale. “I don’t want to do this,” he says. “You interview him, please.”
I tell him no—and not to worry: “You’ll do fine, buddy.” But the truth is, I’m not so sure.
“Let me show you around, Tyler,” Bill Clinton said as he opened the door to the suite atop his presidential library, a 68,698-square-foot fortress jutting over the Arkansas River like a half-finished bridge. His penthouse is long and narrow, like the shotgun shacks that once dotted rural Arkansas, but much longer, wider, and brighter, with polished blond wood floors and an art collection befitting a head of state. An imposing west-facing wall flanked the bedroom, an oval-shaped office, a dining room, and a den with floor-to-ceiling windows that gave Clinton a full view of Little Rock: the city that launched both of our careers—his as a politician and mine, far less auspiciously, as a reporter.
Standing at the windows, Clinton and I pointed to downtown buildings and lost ourselves in the 1980s: the Capitol Dome, beneath which we both worked; the shuttered remains of a storied newspaper; the headquarters of one of Clinton’s first political benefactors. I pointed to a hotel dominating the skyline and said, “I remember interviewing you there about rumors that you were running for president.” (What I didn’t say: A state employee named Paula Jones later accused Clinton of sexually harassing her in that hotel just moments before my interview with him.)
“I don’t remember that,” Clinton replied. “I do remember those days, though, Ron. We’ve come a ways.”
I reminded Clinton of the time, early in his presidency, when he took an emotional tour of warring neighborhoods in Northern Ireland before stopping in a market that had been bombed just 18 months prior. “You turned around from a fruit stand, saw me standing there taking notes, and said, ‘Man, this is a long way from Arkansas.’ ”
Clinton smiled. “I remember that.”
So much to remember. Toward the end of Clinton’s first year in office, less than a year after moving to Washington, Lori and I attended the traditional press corps holiday party at the White House. In the reception line, the Clintons greeted us warmly. The First Lady asked me about Holly and Gabrielle. She had known the girls well enough in Arkansas to remember their names. The president asked Lori, “How are you guys settling in?”
Lori replied, “We miss Arkansas.”
We weren’t very happy in Washington. I was traveling too much, and when I was home, I often was too tired and impatient with Lori and the kids. Whitewater, health care reform, the White House travel office—a bad political year for the Clintons had made 1993 a banner year for my career, and a lousy time for my family. My work-life balance was out of whack, and would remain so for years.
Lori joked to Clinton, “We should all go back to Arkansas.”
The president laughed. “As if.”
Three years later, Clinton and Lori would have a laugh on me. A cell phone malfunction allowed Lori to overhear me teasing a female colleague about “sleeping” with another reporter, a seatmate aboard Air Force One. A sexist double entendre. Fortunately, Lori knew I wasn’t serious and told me to knock it off. Unfortunately, the gaffe got to Clinton, who decided to make me squirm. This is where it gets bizarre. The president of the United States called my wife from the plane. “Hello, Lori? This is Bill Clinton.”
Lori thought it was a joke—and an imposter. “Well, hello, Mr. President,” she deadpanned. “I need to make this quick. Cher is at the door.”
Clinton plowed ahead. “I just wanted to let you know that when we left Little Rock last night, Ron wasn’t with us. He might have taken up with some ladies.” That’s right: As a practical joke, Bill Clinton insinuated that I was unfaithful.
“Oh, that’s okay, Mr. President,” Lori said. “He loves Little Rock.”
Later that day, Clinton asked me what Lori thought about the call. “She didn’t believe it was you,” I said.
Clinton laughed so hard his face turned red. “Oh,” he said. “That explains a lot!”
—
Tyler was bored. While Clinton and I stared out the window at downtown Little Rock, lost in our memories, Tyler pointed to a picture on a shelf. “It’s hard to find a picture of two polar bears fighting,” he said.
“You like that?” Clinton enthused. “You interested in polar bears?”
“Yes,” Tyler replied. Then he repeated himself, as he tended to do, at warp speed. “It’shardtofindapictureoftwopolarbearsfighting.”
“Take it.” Clinton pulled the picture off the shelf, and I realized that it was actually the cover of a book called Polar Dance: Born of the North Wind.
“No, sir,” Tyler said, “I couldn’t possibly accept this.”
Clinton insisted, “It’s yours,” and Tyler hugged the book to his chest.
It was a gracious thing for Clinton to do. Inscribed with a bookplate—“President William Jefferson Clinton. Hillary Rodham Clinton”—the volume had obviously meant enough to the former president to be displayed in his private suite.
I was equally impressed with Tyler, who until a few months prior to the visit would not have known how to handle such a delicate social interaction. He had just learned to greet Lori after school: “And how was your day?” Lori would answer with the details of her day and ask Tyler about his. “Good,” he’d reply before repeating, “And how was your day?” What comes naturally to most people is a practiced and circular loop for Tyler. Caring about our day doesn’t come naturally to Aspies, because they’re wired to view their world inward rather than outward.
Clinton showed us to a sunlit corner of the penthouse with a small table and three overstuffed chairs. From my seat, removed a bit from their knee-to-knee conversation, I slowly watched my son transform. He sat rigid at first, his white-knuckled hands gripping the chair’s brown leather arms.
“I’m a huuuge Theodore Roosevelt fan,” Clinton said, stretching out his vowel. “I read in the notes my staff gave me for this that you were a big Roosevelt fan, and the moment in history when he was president…was the moment in history that most closely approximates the period I served, in the sense that we were moving from a rural to urban economy under Teddy…”
And off he went. If you covered Clinton, worked for Clinton, or spent any time around Clinton, you’ve heard this riff: Roosevelt was the bridge to the 20th century, just as the Clinton presidency was the bridge to the 21st. Income inequality…new technology…land conservation…and peace.
“I had to figure out things like how to spread information technology through every aspect of the economy faster, how to make it more accessible to people who didn’t have money, how to make sure it was in all the schools so kids could learn about it as quickly as possible; because then there weren’t nearly as many personal computers as people have in homes as now,” Clinton said.
He was in professor mode—a brilliant and verbose personality who, as an extraordinarily accessible governor, earned an irreverent nickname from some members of the Little Rock press corps: “Monologue Man.”
Clinton continued: “We didn’t even have email when I first became president. Email was all interoffice except for a few research projects. When I became president, the average cell phone weighed 5 pounds and there were 50 sites on the World Wide Web and when I left there were like 50 million and so I was into all that. And also when Roosevelt became president we were becoming a world power, you know, he fought at San Juan Hill against the Spanish occupation of Cuba…”
—
Grit is it. If there was one attribute I could teach to my children, particularly one like Tyler with a label that isolates him, it would be what psychology professor Angela Duckworth described as “perseverance and passion for long-term goals.” Based on research into the lives of famous historical leaders, Duckworth and her co-authors in 2007 c
reated a “grit scale” to determine how well people overcome adversity while maintaining motivation and enthusiasm.
George Washington, Abe Lincoln, and Franklin Roosevelt must have been off the charts—leaders who plowed past great suffering en route to greatness. When he declared, “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself,” Roosevelt was appealing to the populace’s true grit.
Bill Clinton never knew his biological father. His stepfather was an abusive drunk. His political career seemed over in 1980, when Arkansas voters tossed him from the governor’s office after one term. His presidency nearly collapsed in 1998, over the Monica Lewinsky affair. Historians will long debate his place in history, but nobody can say Clinton lacked persistence.
There are other words for it. Courageous is what I wrote in my datebook the night Tyler looked into Obama’s eyes, shook his hand, and said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. President.” Years later, as Tyler shook hands with Clinton, I scratched another word in my notebook: Gutty.
With every conversation, an Aspie risks failure. It takes a special mettle, as Alan Dworkin said of his adult Aspie son, Mitch, during a telephone interview: “That guy suffered so much and yet he has been independent. He takes care of himself.” I heard pain in the father’s raspy voice. “He lived a horrible existence. Anytime he’d be knocked down he’d get back up again.”
In his bestselling memoir, Look Me in the Eye, John Elder Robison, also an Aspie, wrote, “I was well into my teenage years before I figured out that I wasn’t a killer, or worse. By then, I knew I wasn’t being shifty or evasive when I failed to meet someone’s gaze, and I had started to wonder why so many adults equated that behavior with shiftiness and evasiveness. Also, by then I had met shifty and scummy people who did look me in the eye, making me think the people who complained about me were the hypocrites.”
