Be Different: Adventures of a Free-Range Aspergian With Practical Advice for Aspergians, Misfits, Families & Teachers (12 page)

The first big piece of wisdom came about at age ten, when I made a life-changing discovery. I figured out that I had to make “context-sensitive” replies in conversation. For example, if I was playing solitaire on the card table at school, and Ben Parker came up to tell me about his new bicycle, I had to say something about bicycles in response.

Before that revelation, if Ben said, “Look at my bike,” I would have answered, “I have three aces.” Looking back, I can see that those two statements don’t go together, though my response made perfect sense to me in light of what I was doing. Why should I have to talk about
his
topic? I was playing cards, and Ben had approached me. Logic suggests that Ben should have walked up and said something like, “Neat game of solitaire you’re playing!” He shouldn’t have talked about his bike at all until the conversation got going.

Yet that never happened. Kids walked up to me and said, “Look at my bike,” or whatever was on their minds. And they expected me to answer whatever weird thing they said. It sure seemed illogical and unfair. I didn’t comply, and the interaction broke down. Usually, I ended up alone, without the hope of a new friend.

Today, if Ben said, “Look at my bike,” I would reply, “Nice bike. I like that seat,” and the conversation would take off. “Nice bike” is a correct contextual response; “Look at my helicopter” is not. Now that I understand, it’s obvious. But it was not obvious before.

What a simple and powerful conversational rule that is:

You should respond to what others say, not just speak what’s on your mind. Teachers had been explaining that to me for years, but until I was about ten I didn’t recognize that other kids had thoughts and feelings that
were fully independent of my own. When I finally figured all that out, I made a big leap forward socially.

I learned a few other things by the time I entered junior high. For example, big words were problematic for me. I knew I had a good vocabulary—all the grown-ups said so—but big words turned out to be another tricky aspect of dialogue. Though adults were impressed when I used words like “prognostication” or “reciprocity” or coined a witty turn of phrase, like “You can lead a horse to water, but a pencil must be lead,” the response of kids was much less consistent. Some laughed at my cleverness, while others laughed at me. A few smart kids threw their own big words right back at me until it felt like a contest to see who had the most esoteric language.

I could usually win those contests, because I was blessed with the ability to make up big words, like “repugnatron,” and then use them in some totally made-up context that no one else understood, but which sounded believable anyway. I had a lot of kids believing that repugnatrons converted sewage and lawn waste into edible foods in New York City cafeterias.

Even though I won the contests, I knew I was losing the war. I realized that my use of big words and complex phrases set me apart from the other kids. Instead of helping me to fit in, my sophisticated speech isolated me. To solve the problem, I fell back on my grandfather’s sage advice: Listen to what the others do, and act like them. I became something of a chameleon of language, talking like a little professor when I was among the real professors
at my parents’ college, and talking like a little thug in the Amherst High School garage.

Some of my classmates didn’t use any words longer than five letters and didn’t understand any word longer than six. I initially followed the lead of grown-ups, interpreting certain kids’ poor speaking skills as a sign of their diminished intelligence. But as I realized that many kids with marginal speech skills often had fascinating interests and abilities, I became hesitant about making that assumption.

The guys in the auto shop were a good example. “You can recognize greasers by the well-developed muscles in their heads” was how my friend Juke described them, meaning they had muscle instead of brains in their skulls. He may have acted contemptuous toward them, but those greasers could do things like tune a carburetor and set up an engine—things I just dreamed of at that age.

I might have known lots of big words, but the engines they worked on were far superior to the bicycles I tinkered with. That’s why I decided to look beyond their poor grammar and limited vocabulary. There were things in that shop that I needed to understand.

Once I began talking their language, I got to know a few kids in the shop, and I learned for sure that they weren’t stupid at all. They sounded rough, but they were actually quite intelligent.

“You guys sound pretty stupid, but you are actually smart” may have been an accurate expression of my feelings about the guys in the shop, but by the time I was able to communicate with them I had luckily come to my
third important realization: There are times when it’s better to keep your mouth shut.

“If you don’t have anything nice to say,” my grandmother said, “just keep your thoughts to yourself. You’ll never get into trouble if you follow that rule.” I made a mental note of the kinds of things I should not say to people, even when they were true. These are the things I do not say. I do not tell people they are

In fact, I distilled all those things into one simple rule: Do not talk about someone else’s appearance unless it’s a compliment. Even if I am really, really curious about the disgusting pus-filled sore on Fred’s cheek, I know it’s best to not mention it. If I am lucky, Fred will volunteer the whole gross story, but if he stays quiet, so do I. It’s better that way, but it’s hard to be quiet when goo starts dripping off his cheek.

In addition, I do not compare other people unfavorably to myself, even though the comparison may be apt. I
know from hard experience that saying, “I could do that better when I was seven” may well be true, but the statement virtually guarantees a bad outcome to the conversation.

There are instances, though, when it’s not clear if someone will take what you say as an insult or as a compliment. For example, if I say, “You look really pregnant” to a girl who is merely overweight, she might turn vicious. But if she is pregnant, she will be complimented. The outcome hinges on my guessing ability, which isn’t too good.

There are people with greater social sensitivity who can handle conversations like that, but I am not one of them. I find it best to just talk to the person without commenting on her appearance. That’s almost always safe, especially when dealing with females.

And that brings me to my last learned rule of conversation: I have to be a lot more careful around females than around males. There are certain conversational missteps that seem to provoke hostile reactions only from girls. Anyone will be insulted if I say, “Jeez, you sure smell bad today.” But females can also get insulted if I don’t praise them, whereas guys don’t generally expect compliments.

For example, I remember my first girlfriend getting mad at me one day. We were talking about Larry Niven’s new book,
Ringworld
. She seemed to be getting snippier, and I could
not figure out what was wrong. Finally, she blurted it out. “I cut my hair, and you didn’t even notice!”

It was true. I had not noticed. Was that a failure of conversation, or a failure to notice? I now believe it was both. I am not very observant about changes in other people. Haircuts and changes of clothing style usually pass right over my head. My friends have come to know and accept it. But I have learned that new acquaintances and especially girls may hold me to a higher standard in that regard, so I pay closer attention to what I say when I’m around them.

I taught myself to look for nice things I can say, things that are somewhat complimentary without seeming over the top or fake. That can be dicey, because many positive adjectives tend to be taken the wrong way. For example, “You smell clean today” seldom goes over well. I said that to a girl once, and instead of thanking me, she responded, “Why, did I smell bad last time?” I used to have a problem with questions like that, because I felt I had to tell the whole truth, which might be something like, “No, but you smelled really bad last Tuesday and Wednesday.” Truthful answers like that led to trouble. Now I know I can say something like, “That’s not what I meant. Smelling good today doesn’t mean you smelled bad yesterday!” Even if she did smell bad, my statement is still true, and it saves the conversation.

Today, I understand that the whole testy exchange can be avoided with an innocuous “You look nice today.” For some reason, I can say a girl looks nice and it’s a compliment,
whereas praising her for smelling clean is chancy and open to challenge.

A guy would never respond that way. Girls are the trickiest and most unpredictable creatures a fellow like me will ever talk to.

D
on Mclean sat in front of me in Mr. Styspeck’s chemistry class in eighth grade. I wasn’t friends with Don before that class, though I knew who he was. Don was a quiet kid, but he did some annoying things. One was throwing spitballs. He’d roll up these disgusting wads of wet paper in his grubby damp hands and toss them back over his head when he thought I wasn’t looking. What kind of animal would do that?

The worst part was when a cold wet chunk of paper landed on my face. It was revolting. I imagined breathing in a spitball, the way I occasionally inhaled bugs. Gross. I used a clean piece of paper to wipe it off, after which I discreetly flicked it off my desk with a fingernail. Which I then wiped clean on my pants leg, many times over.

I sat there behind Don, silently stewing and wondering what to do about the situation. What grown-up could I turn to? My grandfather always stood up for me, but he was a thousand miles away in Georgia. My parents were
no use; they were wrapped up in their own craziness. The teachers didn’t like me or didn’t care, and I didn’t trust them anyway. Experience had shown me that all I could count on from the school was punishment after the fact. If I told a teacher about Don, she’d say, “Now, Don. Be nice,” and he’d just laugh and act even worse because I had ratted him out to a teacher. As much as I wished otherwise, this was a problem for me to solve on my own.

I considered acids and poisons, like I’d read about in Sherlock Holmes stories, but I was afraid they’d just get me into bigger trouble. A few days passed. He continued spitballing, and I continued pondering. Something had to change. And it did, when he decided to escalate things.

He started pinching.

I was not his only target; I wasn’t even the first. His proclivity for the pinch first appeared as we stood in a group watching an experiment.

“Hey!” The yelp came from Holly, who was standing a few feet away from me. “He pinched me,” she said, pointing at Don. Don backed away, smiling slightly, and class continued. From that moment on, I watched him even closer than before. But not closely enough. One day I felt a sharp bite in my lower back, and I spun around to see him backpedaling slowly with
a smug expression. I didn’t yell, but I resolved to do something.

But what? Extermination was too extreme a punishment. Suddenly, the answer came to me. Pliers. As soon as I got the idea, I couldn’t wait to get home and examine my toolbox.

Later that day I stood over the box, reviewing my options. The wire cutters would do a job on him, but I’d surely get in trouble if I cut off a finger or an ear. Ear removal was too extreme a response to a pinch. Even I could see that. With some reluctance, I put them aside. I picked up the regular pliers.
Too blunt
, I thought. I couldn’t grab him under his shirt or pants. That’s when I saw what I needed: needle-nose pliers. They were just the thing. Able to reach through clothing, but not sharp enough to sever big pieces of kid. I brought them to school the next day.

When I sat down in chemistry class I felt a renewed confidence. No more would I be the victim of bullying. I waited, and my chance was not long in coming. A spitball landed on my desk, right in the middle of my class paper. Don sat there smugly, not even turning around. I slid the pliers out of my pocket and reached forward. I grabbed a good chunk of kid through his shirt, and I gave a hard pull and a twist. The response was immediate.

“Oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooow!” He gave a very satisfying howl and erupted right out of his seat and onto the floor. He turned to see what had grabbed him, and I gave a friendly smile of acknowledgment. I
snapped the pliers like a lobster claw, indicating there was plenty more where the first bite came from. He backed away like I was some kind of poisonous snake. Mission accomplished.

Unfortunately, his howling and carrying on attracted the attention of the teacher. I found myself packed off to the office to face the Lord of Discipline, also known as the assistant principal.

“Well,” he said, “what do you have to say for yourself?” I had recently learned about the U.S. Constitution, which I had originally thought was just an old wooden ship tied to a dock in Boston’s Charlestown Navy Yard. I knew it contained this provision called the Fifth Amendment, which meant I did not have to answer him. So I didn’t.

However, I could not help showing the slightest of grins on my face. That drove the Lord of Discipline wild. The madder he got, the more I grinned. Within a moment, he was almost shouting and I was almost laughing. It seemed like his anger produced the opposite effect in me, and I just kept grinning more.

Yet I knew my expression could get me into even more trouble. I wasn’t really amused; being yelled at by a belligerent assistant principal wasn’t fun or funny at all. My expression was backward for the situation, but I was powerless to change it.

I’ve thought long and hard about why that was, because it’s happened to me many times since that day. I think I smiled because my brain interpreted what was going on in the context of me and me alone. As I stood before the Lord of Discipline, I figured I had good reason to rejoice. I had beaten an obnoxious pest and a bully, and I had every right to be relieved and pleased.