To Siri with Love

by Judith Newman

  “Why, Mommy?” he asked.

  “Because your body is changing,” I said.

  “Changing into what?” he asked, panicked.

  “No, it’s not changing into anything else, it’s just growing, and soon you’ll get hormones and—”

  “What are hormones?”

  “They are body chemicals that will make you grow muscles and hair on your body, and, um, other things change, too.”

  Gus thought for a moment. “So hormones are magic?” he said.

  For many years I never gave adolescence and sex a thought, not only because Gus was so babyish, but also because his preoccupations were already so odd that it all seemed kind of amusing. From the time he was a baby, for example, Gus loved feet. I mean really, really loved them. They even had their own gender: women’s feet were feeties, and men’s were peeties. He never did anything overtly sexual, but feet spoke to him—literally. They meowed, or rather he meowed at them. My neighbor and attorney Jen, a Latina glamazon with caramel skin, perfect pedicures, and size-twelve clodhoppers, would automatically kick off her shoes when she walked into my house, and Gus would start petting her feet. “Do you think we’re encouraging him?” I’d ask worriedly, to which Jen would reply, “Who the fuck cares? Look how happy he is.”

  Eventually Gus learned to confine his admiration to staring at, or merely complimenting, the feet of women he didn’t know. But that took a long time. I spent the first ten years of his life dreading sandal season. When he was eight, we were on the subway platform when he knelt in front of a gorgeous Filipino woman sporting three-inch Manolos and flawless peach nails and started mewing. Coolly she looked down and said, “You could at least buy me dinner first.”

  I hated getting pedicures—in fact, I dislike anyone touching my feet—but Gus was so enthusiastic that I steeled myself and got them. I reasoned that for a child who did not readily pick up new words, the pedicures provided a teachable moment: he might not know the difference between a quarter or a dime, but thanks to his interest in my toes he knew the difference between rose, raspberry, and magenta. I recorded a bedtime conversation we were all having one night, when Henry and Gus were nine.

  Gus: Mommy, what are the names of the new babysitters?

  Me: Blair and Kelly.

  Henry: I have to go to law school if I want to get a high position in government, right?

  Me: Not necessarily, honey, but it may help.

  Gus: Are the new babysitters friendly?

  Henry: What kinds of law are there?

  Gus: Do the babysitters know how to sing?

  Henry: What kind of law pays the most?

  Gus: Do they have nice feeties?

  As it turns out, they both had nice feeties, so after several interviews I picked the one who wasn’t insane. Though if the nutty, rude one had had a perfect pedicure, there might have been a problem. I figured that loving pretty feet was such a benign fetish that at best, Gus would become an excellent shoe salesman, and at worst he’d have lots of company in the chat rooms.

  * * *

  But that was then. Now Gus was fourteen. He still likes pretty toes, and nags me if I don’t get mine done. But while it wasn’t distressing that Gus may have had an unusual predilection, it was very distressing that he seemed to not understand anything about reproduction and sexually transmitted disease, never mind anything about affection and romance. Could I let him be in high school—even a high school for other special ed kids—with this degree of ignorance? But I just didn’t know how to broach the subject, because when I mentioned it—“Gus, do you know where babies come from?”—he’d say, “They come from mommies,” and then continue talking about the weather or sea turtles or whatever happened to be on his mind at that moment.

  First, I decided to attend a very well-intentioned lecture about disability and sexuality at Gus’s school. There was a great deal of talk about safety—good touch and bad touch, how to say no, and so forth. Implicit in this discussion was the idea that the bigger problem for people on the spectrum is abuse, not simply sex. Also implicit is the idea that being socially awkward is its own form of birth control. The millions of grown men who collect Star Wars action figures may agree, and of course there’s an element of truth here. But at a time when there’s better sex ed, less shame around sexuality, an Internet that makes connecting and hooking up easy enough for a kid to master, and so very many people on the spectrum, there are also more opportunities. Also, I could talk to Gus about good touch and bad touch till the creepy cows come home and he would still not understand that kissing, holding hands, and touching—let alone the merging of genitalia—have consequences.

  I came home from the lecture a bit disheartened, and no more confident about my ability to impart useful knowledge. Some people are natural teachers. I am the opposite of that. On paper I’m OK. But in person, let me discuss a subject with you that you think you’re interested in, and by the time I’m finished with you, you will have unlearned everything you know.

  Of course, I was concentrating on the sexual aspect of relationships because that seemed far more concrete, and easier, than dealing with my fears for Gus over the emotional aspects. It is far easier to ponder the question “Will my autistic kid have sex with someone?” than “Will my autistic kid have someone to love?”

  * * *

  At about the time I was mulling over all of this, I saw an extraordinary documentary called Autism in Love. The filmmaker, Matt Fuller, followed four adults on the spectrum who were navigating their way through relationships. One was single and yearning for a girlfriend. Another couple were “high-functioning”—employed, independent—yet struggling with what it takes to make a relationship work. And one man was barely verbal, yet a Jeopardy! savant; he had been married twenty years to a woman with a slight cognitive impairment but great emotional intelligence. At the time the movie was being filmed, she was dying of ovarian cancer. His wife’s death barely registered on his face or in his words. But as the movie unfolded, the toll on the man became incalculable. And yet for all his silent suffering, his resiliency gave me great hope.

  “It just seemed to be such a burning question to me,” said Fuller when I called him. “If you don’t have a fully developed theory of mind, how do you connect romantically? Do you even want to?” In other words, for autistic people who have difficulty conceiving that the person in front of them might have an entirely different set of needs and desires, what can romantic love mean?

  I decided to call one of the women in the film, Lindsey Nebeker. You would never have guessed the hyperarticulate Nebeker had been entirely nonverbal before she was five years old. Nor would you guess this sensual, bohemian woman had all sorts of sensory issues that made it perhaps a little miraculous that she and her husband—who turned his childhood obsession with weather into a job as a meteorologist—were able to touch, never mind make love. But they did. And she didn’t mind talking about it.

  “Each individual has their own pathway of learning relationships and sexuality. It’s kind of tricky,” she said. “My father used to say that those of us on the spectrum arrive here without having the antennae that other people have naturally. We notice other people are able to connect their signals and have nonverbal cues, and we have to acquire those tools.

  “I really didn’t date when I was younger. I had crushes, and friends would tell me if a guy liked me, but I couldn’t see it. The signals between me and other people never matched up. I never knew if someone liked me, and I guess I didn’t let people know if I liked them.” Despite her beauty—which in high school is usually all that’s necessary—encounters were few and far between. At the same time, the one person she trusted to talk to about her disability in high school, one of her teachers, ended up sexually abusing her. “I didn’t really get it at the time that that’s what it was. But I knew it felt wrong.”

  What was innate for most people required book-learning for Lindsey. She studied Dale Carnegie’s How to Win Friends and Influence People. The v
ery idea that you had to make other people feel you were interested in them in order to connect to them was completely novel to this young woman. But that realization changed her life.

  Still, connecting with people, as much as she yearned for it, was supremely difficult. As she grew older she was more and more able to appear “regular” to the outside world. But that didn’t mean she could have a relationship with a “regular” guy. “Eye contact has always been a problem for me, and it still is. Sometimes, if I’m just in a conversation with someone, it’s easier to look at another focal point, in order to concentrate. A face can be very distracting.” Another reason had to do with emotional intimacy. “I find that if I have emotions for someone, it makes me feel like I’m made of glass. Like someone can see right through me, can see my exact emotions. That sense of being out of control can make me break down.” Which of course is true for all of us—figuratively. Imagine if you literally thought someone could see every thought and feeling you had.

  With her now husband, it wasn’t love at first sight. They met at an autism conference. “I knew when I met him there was something different about him. I thought perhaps an interesting friendship would evolve out of it. I couldn’t really label it. At that point in my life, I had vowed to not be in a relationship again.” Interestingly, Lindsey was more open to sex than she was to a committed relationship.

  Lindsey explains that over the years, sex can be easier than touch. “Our sensory wiring can be advantageous in the bedroom,” Lindsey says, laughing. “But at the same time, if there’s any kind of resentment or fight between us, touch can be very irritating to me. Even just a touch on the shoulder. Communicating all this is . . . Well, it’s still a challenge.” Like it is for all of us? “Yes! But maybe more for us, because it’s all conscious. We may want to say what we’re interested in, but find it very hard to verbalize.”

  I have no idea whether Gus would find it hard or easy to say what he wants. But did Lindsey have any advice for me about teaching someone who never asks questions about sex?

  There is a long silence as she thinks.

  “There are many things that took me much longer to figure out than the average person. He may not need to hear from you quite yet. Or he may be aware of many more things than you think.”

  Lindsey, the woman who was considered profoundly autistic until she was five, reminds me of a notion that’s popular in autistic circles. Autism is characterized by developmental delays, but “delay” does not mean “never.” It means delay.

  * * *

  I decided to give this topic a rest for a couple of months. Henry, however, did not.

  “I want to show you something, Mom. Gus doesn’t even watch porn. It’s not normal.”

  I remembered opening my phone when Henry was seven years old to find that the opening page was something called JuggWorld. Henry, who has always been a terrible speller, nevertheless knew how to spell “boobs” and type it into Google. When I asked him why he wasn’t playing Club Penguin like he told me, he looked at me solemnly and said, “I’m very interested in the human body.”

  “First of all,” I say, “I don’t want to know what you watch. But I need to tell you—”

  “Yes, I know, real women sag. I know, I know.”

  “Second, Gus may not be on the same trajectory as you are, but that doesn’t mean . . .”

  As I begin my lecture, Henry goes to Gus’s computer history, and I see a tiny flicker of alarm in Gus’s eyes. This is because, I reason, I am always telling him to watch things that are more age-appropriate than what he actually watches.

  “Look!” Henry continues. “Wiggles, Sesame Street, Teletubbies, Boomerang, and—whoa.”

  Gus slams down the computer. We will draw the curtain over what we found, but suffice it to say that it put to rest my question about whether he is gay. Also, it appears that someday he may move to Japan. As startling as that is, I immediately don my Autism Mother Goggles, which allow me to see many things that might be a little upsetting in a neurotypical child as progress. Hey, maybe he won’t be watching Barney when he’s forty. This is OK!

  Then another thing happened.

  * * *

  However much I love my son, I could not imagine that any girl, anywhere, would find him interesting at this point. Especially a girl like Parker. Parker was slim and leggy, with cascades of wavy brunette hair and eyes the color of blueberries. She was exceedingly pretty, a year older and a head taller than Gus, and given to wearing Star Wars paraphernalia. She wasn’t autistic, but had some sort of unspecified learning issues that partially manifested themselves as a need to chat constantly. This was A-OK with Gus, who, while fully verbal, is not exactly a scintillating conversationalist. So a person who filled in the chat gaps, all the time, even chat that involved a fifteen-minute discourse on the importance of protein . . . Perfecto!

  They met at school, and then the planning for their “hangout” began. I realize now that the planning was entirely Parker’s doing, but Gus would report back to me what she had decided. “Parker is coming over Saturday.” “No, she’s coming Sunday.” “We’re staying here.” “We’re going to a movie.” “She’s coming next week.”

  We ended up going to see The Peanuts Movie in 3D. I accompanied them; Gus had never gone anywhere by himself. I was happy that he had a new friend. He seemed happy, too. I bought them each a hot dog, chicken nuggets, and the trough of popcorn, but cheaped out after buying one ginormous Diet Coke. I went to sit next to Parker to share the Diet Coke. “Oh, why don’t you sit back there?” she said, pointing to the row behind. Sheepishly, I went to get my own Diet Coke and settled in behind them. I usually feel queasy at 3D movies, but this one had a beautiful snowfall, and the Red Baron zooming toward me didn’t make me want to hurl. I tried to concentrate on the movie, but Gus, occasionally, would look back, putting his hand back to hold mine. Parker would redirect him. “Eh-eh-EH,” she would say, and dutifully his hands went back to his lap. When we got out of the theater, he automatically reached for my hand, again, and she stopped him, took his hand firmly, and they raced down the street.

  After we left the movie, Parker, still hungry, wanted to stop by a diner. Gus almost never eats in a restaurant, but it’s not as if he had much choice. Nor could he be his usual picky self about the food. “Gus, eat this lettuce,” Parker said. My son, who never touched any vegetable besides avocado (wait, that’s a fruit—so I’ll stick with “never touched any vegetable”), quickly stuffed it in his mouth. “See? He’ll do anything I tell him to,” she said, beaming and throwing her arm around his neck. Gus smiled shyly and looked away. Parker readjusted his glasses.

  We went back to the house, Parker clasping Gus firmly by the arm. When we walked in, the “hangout” officially began. Armed with a pint of frozen yogurt (a teenager’s metabolism is a beautiful thing to see), Parker led Gus to his room and shut the door behind them, pausing only to look back at me with a smile that was—apologetic? A warning? I’m not sure. Then I heard the piano playing, and a great deal of laughter.

  “What are you doing here?” said Spencer, my officemate. I had run up three flights of stairs to my office and slammed the door.

  “I’m hiding,” I said, and explained the situation. “But Gus was just playing piano. He said they were going to play Superhero and Villain. What’s the worst that can happen?”

  “Besides becoming a grandmother?” Spencer asked helpfully.

  I ran downstairs again. This was ridiculous. I shouldn’t be the one hiding! Then I remember that Parker had actually dated someone before, a gangly boy who looked like a young Michael Jordan and was a bit of a bowling savant. I knew this because at Gus’s last bowling party, while everyone was merrily throwing gutters, this kid got nothing but strikes and spares and didn’t seem to think that was unusual. He was fantastic. I’m not sure if he could speak, though. But whatever his issues, he was a fully mature young man.

  I just couldn’t imagine Parker going from that hunk to a fourteen-year-old w
ith the size and disposition of a boy of nine. She would have certain expectations. Gus was going to be entirely freaked out.

  But people find each other. They find their levels.

  By the time I got downstairs, Parker and Gus were out of the room. “Is it OK if Parker and I go for a walk, Mommy?” Gus said.

  Gus had never been out of the house without another adult accompanying him. Parker’s mother had told me her daughter went everywhere by herself, so this was not an issue for her. It would be hard for the average mother to understand the fear of sending a fourteen-year-old out alone. Try this: your kid is fourteen, but then again, when he sees a fire truck whiz by, he becomes three. Would Parker be watching Gus, or was I sending Gus out to an almost certain death?

  “Just text me wherever you’re going,” I said, trying to sound casual.

  Gus is, to put it mildly, literal-minded. “I’m in the lobby,” he wrote. “Now we’re outside the door.” “We’ve walked one block.” “We’re going to the candy store.” (A Parker destination, clearly, since Gus doesn’t eat candy.) I held my breath until the two of them settled themselves in the little park directly across from my building. I could see them from my bedroom window. Gus was hopping. “I see you in the window, Mommy!” he texted. “Hi! Hi!”

  We waved wildly at each other for a while, and then Parker drew him away and they sat on a patch of grass and talked. I suspect they were talking about Wonder Girl and Ursula, but no matter; they were together.

  Henry saw me looking out the window. “Oh my God, Gus is outside and we’re not there!” he said. Then he noticed that Gus and Parker were holding hands. “Oh, great,” he muttered. “My autistic twin has now officially gone further with a girl than I have.”

  * * *

  It is very strange not to know what your autistic child knows, and to not know how responsible you need to be for making sure he knows the basics—including the consequences—about sex.