Be Different: Adventures of a Free-Range Aspergian With Practical Advice for Aspergians, Misfits, Families & Teachers

by John Elder Robison

  That’s why I never attend concerts where I’m not working. In the audience I am constrained, and I have nothing to do, so I freak out, just as I was starting to do at the Flutie Bowl. I don’t enjoy it, even today. For the same reason, I can’t be alone in a crowded bar. If I have someone to focus on or a book to read, I can ignore the bedlam around me. Take that away, though, and I will be out the door and down the road in two minutes flat. Now that I understand what’s happening, I am able to arrange things to avoid situations like that, and if people wonder why I don’t do certain things, I have a good answer.

  It seems like my “focus strategy” applies to sensory overloads of all sorts. Earlier, I talked about how I used concentration and focus to overcome touch sensitivity. So focus helps me with touch, noise, and probably a whole host of other issues. That may be because I have a greater-than-normal power of concentration, something that’s pretty common in Aspergians. For me, it’s key to managing sensory overload. It’s funny, because I developed the ability long ago, before I had any knowledge of autism or the underlying issues.

  * Getrag is a German manufacturer of automobile gearboxes, or transmissions.

  A Walk in the Woods

  I have always loved being in the woods. One of my favorite activities involves putting on my backpack and walking five or ten miles along forest trails here in western Massachusetts. I’ve walked many sections of the Appalachian Trail and Vermont’s Green Mountain trails, and I hope to cover even more this coming season. I probably feel more at peace in the woods than anywhere else.

  Walking in the woods is calming and tranquil. I listen to the birds and the bears, and the wind in the trees. Squirrels and snakes flit through the brush. Deer graze and hawks dive-bomb unsuspecting rodents. There’s nothing quite like the rush of a mountain stream, tumbling through a gorge or down a ravine. I love the fresh mountain air, the textures, and the smells. And best of all—it’s good for me. Walking is great exercise, especially when you carry a thirty-pound backpack.

  Some people look to nature for the sound of silence, but the woods where I roam are seldom truly quiet for more than a moment. Those moments—when they come—are magical. But when the woods go quiet for long seconds and you feel an unseen presence … watch out! It usually means some big predator is moving into the area, slow and quiet. Stealthy and hungry. Ready for action. That’s the time to remember that humans are not always the top of the food chain, especially when you get far into the wild.

  But I didn’t start out in the wild. I started in some kinder, gentler woods behind my parents’ home in Hadley, Massachusetts, just minutes from the busy UMass campus.

  We moved to Hadley when I was eight, and I immediately headed for the hills. I never looked back. I can still remember how it felt to climb the high cliffs on Mount Holyoke, which towered above our house, less than a quarter mile away. The fear I felt when I got lost up there one dark night is still sharp and clear, but the memory of fun is even clearer. The neighbors’ kids and I would hunt for amethyst crystals in the loose rock on the hillsides, and we imagined ourselves collecting priceless gemstones.

  Yet some people hear about my love of the outdoors and they look at me like I’m crazy. My brother is a good example. “There are things out there that use trees for back scratchers, John Elder. I shine my flashlight into the woods at night and eyes reflect back at me. From eight feet off the ground!” Needless to say, my brother does not venture out to find the real answer—that those eyes belong to squirrels whose eyes glow as they sit on low-hanging tree branches.

  What else can I do but feed his fears by agreeing? “Those are pine demons,” I say with a serious expression. “Fierce fighters.” Nothing more needs to be said. He remains in his house with windows closed and doors locked. I live next door, but I haven’t even seen him in six months. Meanwhile, squirrels remain the unsung heroes of the rodent world.

  My brother and I are opposites in many ways. He sees vicious predators at the border of his suburban lawn. I see even worse in the alleyways of Chicago and Houston. In a sense, both of us are right. It’s just a matter of where one is comfortable, and what you choose to fear, if anything.

  I’m certainly aware of the dangers that lurk in the countryside, but I don’t dwell on them or let them hold me back. I grew up around the woods as a kid, both at my parents’ home in Massachusetts and at my grandparents’ farm in Georgia. When I was a teenager, I even left home and lived outside for a while, becoming a feral child. So I’ve had a lot of experience being in the country. All that time, I was aware of possible dangers, but I never felt threatened. And my confidence was justified, because nothing ever ate me.

  It’s true there are dangerous things in the woods, and nature can be harsh and unforgiving. But there’s also great beauty and a sense of freedom. For me, the joys far outweigh the threats. My time outdoors has taught me to appreciate the natural environment around me, and now it’s almost second nature to read the signals of the outdoor world. I’m aware of changing weather, conditions underfoot, and wildlife around me. I sense all those things without really thinking, in the same way nypicals read the people around them at a party.

  I can tell the call of a coyote from that of a bobcat, and I know the feel of the changing air pressure just before the storm. I may be blind to the unspoken signals of other humans, but I read the messages of the natural world with a clarity few nypicals can muster.

  I’m comfortable because the signals of the natural world are logical and unemotional. They don’t try to trick or deceive me. In some cases animals can be tricky, but their motivations are far simpler than those of most humans, and they are seldom nasty or mean, at least to me. I’ve pondered why it is that I have succeeded at learning to read the natural world, while I am still largely oblivious to the social cues of people. I think it comes down to simplicity, predictability, and logic. The natural world has all those things; people don’t.

  That’s why, as hard as I’ve tried, I’ve never been truly comfortable at parties with groups of strangers. Yet I am completely comfortable walking up a strange hillside, even when the weather has changed and darkness falls. I’ve always felt secure and confident in the woods—two things I never feel at a party.

  Given that reality, it’s no surprise that I prefer nature to people. Some of the time. A wild animal won’t act like your friend and then turn on you. Domestic animals don’t behave that way, either. That’s a uniquely human trait. The danger from animals is predictable and foreseeable. The same is true of other hazards in nature. An ice storm can kill you, but it’s something anyone can anticipate, and most of all, storms are not malicious. People often are.

  Over the years, many people have accompanied me on walks. Some companions have told me how safe they feel with me in the wilderness. Why would they say such a thing? When I ask, people say something like, “I’d be afraid to be out here by myself. But you seem to know what you’re doing. You notice stuff.”

  For many years I listened to those remarks without giving them a second thought. But when I learned about Asperger’s, and I learned about those weak mirror neurons that don’t read feelings from other people very well … I started to wonder. Could they be doing something totally different in me? Is it possible that some part of my brain is attuned to subtle signals from the natural world, in a way that the brains of most other people aren’t? And if that’s true, is it an autistic thing or just a peculiarity of me? I don’t know.

  Temple Grandin may have alluded to something similar when she suggested that people with autism have more in common with animals than nypicals do, when it comes to how we see the world.

  When I set out to write this chapter, my original point was that a walk in the woods allows me to unwind from the stress of dealing with other people. I still think that’s true, but my unwinding happens in a place where there are even more true threats than the environment I’m escaping from. If I wanted “safe” relaxation, I’d be better off getting it at the local swimming pool,
or on a treadmill in the security of my own home.

  It’s always stressful, trying to unravel the complex signals from other humans. Being in a crowd always tires me out for that reason. When I’m in the woods, I am free of that stressor. But I don’t think that’s the whole explanation for why being there feels better. Maybe it’s a combination of things: the lack of people, the tranquillity of nature, and its natural beauty. Maybe outdoors is simply a place where I feel safer, and that’s why I can unwind in a place where many people would feel alone and scared.

  All of us need places where we feel safe. For some of us, it’s in a small space, while others find solace in the wide-open outdoors. If you find a place where you can relax and unwind, you should treasure it and use it. I use nature to relax when I’m stressed and I just can’t deal with humans anymore, or I’m tired of trying to figure out their motivations. I hope you have a place just like that.

  A Day at the Races

  I love the races at the Three County Fair. I’ve gone to the fair every Labor Day weekend for over thirty years. First my parents took me, and when I got big enough to drive, I took myself. It’s irresistible. They’ve got rides, games, food, and agricultural exhibits. There are local people, city slickers, and sharp carnies and lowlifes looking to fleece us all. I used to try the rides and play the games, but now that I’m older, I head straight for the real action—the racetrack.

  Many of my friends poke fun at my love of the fair and racing because they can’t see what I see there, and they don’t feel the track the way I do. If they did, they’d be right there beside me, waiting for the first race to start.

  I always arrive early so I can secure a seat right against the fence rails, at the end of the long straightaway. That’s the best place to be. During the race the champions thunder toward you full tilt, clods of dirt flying in their wake. As they struggle to make the turn in front, some of them will bounce off the railings and mix it up with the other racers. You can really feel the power of those beasts when you get that close. I like that.

  As soon as I get there, I look for a nice grassy spot, one where I can see the action without getting trampled myself. I want to see the whole straightaway, but be partway into the turn. I prefer to sit on grass, but if I have to, I’ll take hard-packed dirt. And I’m very particular about one thing: I won’t sit anywhere that I see cigarette butts, trash, or spilled and rotting food. I also stay away from mystery liquid spots.

  At a more upscale track those vile things would be easy to avoid, but this is the country, where all we have is dirt or grass. By the third day of a big fair, I have to do some hard and careful searching to find an acceptable place to sit.

  I settle in and start to daydream. Sometimes I imagine the big tractors used to groom the fields at the fair plowing under all the trash that surrounds me. Next spring, a field of popcorn and cotton candy bushes would sprout, with the occasional funnel cake tree.

  My daydreams are interrupted by the race caller, or talker. The talker is a carnie with a particularly loud and obnoxious voice who is able to talk reallyreallyreallyfast. His first job is to get the crowd going before every race, and he describes the action unfolding on the track for the benefit of any blind people in the crowd. He does it loudly enough so that the deaf know what’s going on, too, and people with good hearing leave some of it at the end of the day.

  Race callers have a long and sordid history. It all started with the invention of electronics to amplify the human voice to extraordinary levels, and loudspeakers to deliver the blast. By the mid-1920s, every track in the country wanted its own sound system, and a talker to go with it.

  One of the most famous early talkers was Clem McCarthy. According to David Halberstam’s book Sports on New York Radio, McCarthy was hired in 1927 as the first track announcer in the country. He worked at Arlington Park in Arlington Heights, Illinois. That was the first track in the country to get a high-powered PA system and a talker to use it. The system worked so well that the Arlington Park track is still in business today. The sound system is updated, but the talker’s routine is just the same as it was in the beginning, eighty years ago.

  A good talker can work the crowd up something fierce. When that happens, the lines form at the betting window and the track owners smile. That’s when they make their money. They take a small percentage of every bet, win, lose, or draw, and when millions are wagered their take can be substantial. Northampton doesn’t have betting windows anymore, though, so I have to lay my bets among the race fans and bookies around me. It’s more direct, and best of all, I don’t pay a cut to the track.

  Finally they’re in the gate, ready to run the race. The talker has worked himself to a fever pitch, and all the bets are down. It’s gotten really raucous, and I’m totally surrounded by people. What a hodgepodge of humanity! There are couples on dates, with the guys trying to look cool and impress their girls with their suave knowledge of the track. Flitting through their midst are countless kids, like human flies, with parents trying to catch or ride herd over them. Farther back there’s a group of hard-looking farmers: serious gamblers with fists full of cash and mouths full of chewing tobacco. In any other place I’d freak out in a crowded situation like this. But my Aspergian focus saves me. I’m concentrating so hard on the track that I don’t even see the other people. I lean forward as I wait for the starting bell.

  “And they’re off!” The talker’s shout is almost lost in the general bedlam and the sound of the bell, but then he finds his voice, and it soars over the noise of the crowd. “Here we go again, ladies and gentlemen! Pig Magic has the lead, but wait! Arnold Schwarzenpigger is coming up fast! And now Pigzilla is moving up! What’s this action in the turn? Pigzilla has gone wild! He’s just trampled Miss Piggy and he’s closing in on the lead. Folks, that is some fast-moving bacon out there today!”

  When you’re down low you first feel the pounding of the hooves and then you see them coming toward the turn. You can look them dead in the eye as they barrel down the straightaway, racing right toward you, just as fast as they can. Just as you’re sure you’re about to be trampled they lean hard, dirt flies, and they’re into the turn and past. The ground shakes from the pounding of hooves, and I smell their hot breath. In just a moment they’ve come and gone, with nothing left but the breeze and the smells and a few bits of grass and dirt swirling in their wake. These pigs really do fly, I say to myself. I’m glad they’re not chasing me through a field, bent on destruction. (I had some experiences like that as a kid, back on the farm in Georgia. I’m happy to have a good fence between me and them.)

  Every noise is a shout. The talker is yelling, and the crowd yells back. A kid in a blue shirt about ten feet from me yells loudest of all, after he stuck his hand through the rail with a Butterfinger bar, and Pig Mania bit his thumb off. Didn’t he see the sign: WARNING—THESE PIGS BITE! And that’s not all … they’re biting each other! “What’s that?” The talker picks up the chant. “Pigzilla has just bitten Pig Magic and she’s off like a shot! Pig Magic has the lead! It’s Pig Magic ahead by a nose. Now he’s ahead by a pork barrel and they’re on the final stretch. Pig Magic has it! We have a winner! Piiiiiiiiiiig Magic!” After stretching the “Pig” part, “Magic” comes out like the crack of a whip, and it’s all over.

  My ears are ringing, but I’m wearing a big smile because I’m up fifty bucks on a long-shot bet. Back in the crowd, there are smiles and frowns as piles of money are pushed across tables between furtive-looking men. Farm boys spit their tobacco, and small children wipe vile brown wads from their shirts as they look around in puzzlement. The alkies sip from brown-bagged bottles as medics tend to the foolish kid that lost his thumb. Next time, I say to myself, he’ll read the warning signs. Children run through the thinning crowd, pulling up clumps of grass and tossing them. Mothers chase them, and the scene devolves until it’s time for the next race.

  I really love a good pig race. There’s nothing to match it at the county fair, except maybe the mud wrestling o
r the demolition derby. Some people read my accounts of events like this and say, “You sure live in a different world from mine. I’ve gone to that fair all my life and I’ve never seen anything like you describe.”

  It’s not my fault that you didn’t see it. Just be glad I did, and consider it as one more example of how we Aspergians see the world in a wholly unique light. Where would society be without people like me to bring stories like these to the public’s attention? And if you see the fair the same way I do, congratulate yourself on being a fellow freak. There’s an open cage just waiting for you, out back behind the pig track.

  Part 5

  Finding Your Gifts

  In the previous chapters I’ve done my best to show you the why behind my own, sometimes strange, behavior. I hope that in doing so I’ve shed some light on your own behaviors and those of the people around you.

  There is more than one way to approach almost any problem. You can cut a tree down with an ax, a chain saw, a bulldozer, or a heavy machine gun. The path we choose is influenced by who we are and our environment. The more different you are from other people, the more likely you are to solve problems in a unique way. That may be a handicap in school, where they expect you to do things the teacher’s way. Once you get out of school, though, your difference can become a powerful competitive advantage.

  In this last section, I’ve tried to summarize some of the things I’ve done to take my knowledge of Asperger’s and my insight into my own behavior and forge them into a successful package. I hope you’ll be able to do the same.