Be Different: Adventures of a Free-Range Aspergian With Practical Advice for Aspergians, Misfits, Families & Teachers (13 page)

The trouble was, the assistant principal expected some expression of remorse from me, and it just wasn’t there. He thought he could yell at me for what I’d done, and I would feel bad, just like that!
Why? Why should I feel bad for Don, just because he was whining down the hall, in the nurse’s office? I didn’t torment other kids like he did! Far from remorse, I felt PRIDE! I’d faced down a bully, and won!

None of the grown-ups ever saw into my mind to understand how I felt and why I acted as I did. They just took my behavior as evidence of my psychopathy, sociopathy, or general evilness. That was really bad, both for them and for me. They were convinced that I was a little monster, waiting to go out and savage the world. Meanwhile, I was just a kid trying to protect myself. What did I know?

(Those adults and their incorrect interpretations of my behavior had a corrosive effect on my self-image that lasted for years. Well into adulthood, I was haunted by the possibility that I might be a serial killer waiting to emerge. No amount of gentle behavior on my part cured me of that ugly nagging fear, even though I never hurt anyone or anything.)

I’ve had many experiences like that, when people expect me to show remorse or distress or sadness, and I just can’t. Maybe I’m too logical, or maybe that part of my brain is simply weak. But when I see someone I care for come to harm, my feelings for them are very strong. I don’t have any weakness at all in that regard; it’s just a question of what triggers my response.

In any case, the Lord of Discipline finally gave up on me that long-ago day. He had to do something, so my mother was called, and I was sent home for the day, victorious. That was the last time Don bothered me, or anyone else in that class. He became, as they say, meek as a lamb.

A diplomat would call my actions a proportionate response. There were lots of things I could have done in response to Don’s tormenting. My choice was reasonable in light of the situation and Don’s actions, and it worked. A weaker response may have failed, and put me in a worse situation. A stronger response might have gotten me in trouble with the law. It’s all a matter of balance.

Modern-day teachers assure me that I’d get expelled for using pliers on Don today, but things were different in 1970. One thing, though, has not changed. Bullies are still bullies, and whatever you may think of my tactics, they worked. Unfortunately, they won’t work for everyone. You can read about my problems in these pages, but one thing you can’t get from reading was my size. I was always a big kid, and walking six miles to school most days made me pretty strong. By the time I got to high school, I was one of the biggest kids in my class; I was far
from being the class weakling, even though my self-image made me feel that way at times. As a result, I was able to stand up for myself in a direct and physical way that might have left a smaller kid battered and bruised.

I wish I had more answers to the problems of bullying, especially in today’s world, where much of the bullying is online—ethereal and hard to trace and fight. In the end, my best advice is this:

I wish there were a better answer to this age-old problem, but there isn’t.

(A few years later, inspired by my actions, the Firesign Theatre released a record called
Don’t Crush That Dwarf, Hand Me the Pliers
. You should check it out.)

T
he older I got, the more my long history of failed interactions with other people weighed on me. I became chronically sad and angry, skating on the edge of depression. I began to expect and even anticipate failure or rejection.

I became wary, especially of large groups of people.
Some of them are probably unfriendly
, I’d remind myself.
I’d better watch out
.

Looking back, I realize that I could stay calm when I was surrounded by my family or in groups of twenty to thirty kids, the usual pack size I encountered in nursery school and elementary school. A few became my friends, more became acquaintances, and a few had to be watched. All in all, it was manageable. I did not fear recess or going to school. The other kids may not have been my buddies, but they weren’t my enemies, either. I didn’t know how to make friends, but I did learn to avoid fights by staying mostly to myself, not grabbing other kids’ stuff, and not calling them names.

That was a vital skill I had learned by elementary school—how to not make enemies. Some people think it’s automatic, or somehow goes with making friends, but they’re wrong. Not making enemies is a distinct skill in its own right, and I began to master it when I learned to keep calm and quiet and to mind my own business.

Things changed when I went into seventh grade. I went from a small-town primary school to a regional junior high, with seven hundred kids. It was huge, and I didn’t know anyone. Most of the kids were from Amherst, the largest town in the district, and many had been together since nursery school in the Amherst system. Being from Shutesbury, I was an outsider, in more ways than one.

Every day, when I got on the bus, I felt like Lloyd Bridges, the scuba diver in
Sea Hunt
, swimming out of his submerged steel cage into shark-infested seas. When I looked out at the mass of kids in the lunchroom, I saw an amorphous mass of humanity. Hundreds of them, roiling and teeming, like a school of fish. But there was a big difference between the star of
Sea Hunt
and me. He was big, and he had a speargun. I was thirteen years old, and totally unarmed. I was also essentially alone. My elementary
school was so small, it sent only a dozen seventh graders to Amherst Regional. We were all lost. With seven hundred other kids around us, we were truly in the belly of the beast.

Most of the new kids were harmless. One or two even liked me. But I quickly discovered I was right to be wary. Sprinkled throughout the crowd were a number of bad seeds … sneak thieves, bullies, and predators. At any moment, they could pounce on me. The danger was there, but I was always ready. I’d learned how you should handle yourself: Never let down your guard. Always watch your surroundings. Look left, right, and behind. And if you’re outdoors, look up, too. Predators can jump from trees.

Walking through Amherst Regional School, I employed the same senses and skills that I used to stay safe from poisonous snakes and alligators in the swamps behind my grandparents’ home in Georgia. None of those threats ever reached me, despite being nearby every summer day. I had a deadly water moccasin drop right into my rowboat one hot August day, but he didn’t get me.
And these kids won’t get me either
, I resolved. I kept all my senses wide open. Eyes, ears, and nose. And that sixth sense I had for danger, the one that knew what happened when
the woods went all silent. My ability to read faces may have been poor, but my ability to sense movement and danger was extraordinarily good.

Some of the kids had reputations—I learned that as I watched and listened. I remember one in particular. He had a name, but no one used it. Everyone called him Blob. He was a belligerent slug, and if you saw him coming toward you, it was sure to mean trouble.

“Whatcha got there?” Blob would sound friendly as he sat down next to some hapless kid and picked up his dessert. “Tasty,” he’d say as he started to eat it. His victim would freeze, afraid to fight back.

Blob tended to pick on scrawnier kids. I was skinny, but I sure wasn’t weak. Thanks to my animal wariness, I was ready the day he sat down at my table.

He always seemed to pounce when the cafeteria served chocolate cake with white frosting. It must have been his favorite. Trouble was, it was my favorite, too, and I wasn’t giving up my cake without a fight. He sat down next to me, looked me in the eye, and slid his arm across the table.

Smack! I brought the sharp edge of my notebook down on his wrist as hard as I could. As Blob cried out and shook his wrist, I kicked back from the table, jumped up, and got ready to nail him if he moved from his seat. To my surprise, he backed down instantly. “Hey, man! It’s cool! Calm down!” He slid away slowly as the buzz of conversation around us began again.

The tables had suddenly turned. I sat down and resumed my watch for predators.

It took a lot of energy to be on guard every moment at school, but that’s what I had to do. I think the other kids sensed it after a while. I gave off a vibe. It said:
This one is not good to eat
.

Something remarkable actually happened with Blob after that day. He became friendly to me, and almost went out of his way to talk to me. At first I thought his friendliness was false, but then I wasn’t so sure. I engaged when he spoke to me, though I always kept my distance. I never saw him snicker at me like he did at some of the other kids. Some kids just don’t respect you till you stand up for yourself. Blob and I didn’t become real friends, but he never gave me a bit of trouble after that day.

By holding my tongue and holding my ground, I got through school without any fights or indeed any serious incidents at all, with the exception of my own pranks. And none of them were violent.

The wariness I acquired as a kid followed me into adulthood. It was a strain, but when I think of some of the places I went and some of the people I hung out with, it was probably a blessing that I had it. People saw that I never backed down, so they didn’t push me.

In that manner, I got older and started a business. As I moved into creative and technical work, I also moved away from bullies. It seemed like the bullies from my youth made some fundamentally different career decisions, because I seldom saw those kinds of people in the places I went now. Life became more comfortable. I seldom felt threatened.

In high school I was like a soldier in wartime, on patrol
and waiting to be ambushed. It’s an exhausting way to live. But it doesn’t have to be that way. There are schools around now that control bullying and other threats, where students, even the wary ones, feel like they’re in a safe haven.

The first school where I really felt a sense of safety was Monarch School, in Houston, Texas. They specialize in programs for kids with neurological differences. I spoke there a few years ago, and was immediately struck by the peaceful environment. It was evident as soon as I stepped through the doors. The whole place felt gentle. And in that safe world, the kids did not have the cornered-animal look. The difference between them and me in high school was striking. Being there made me wish there had been schools like that when I was a kid. Maybe I wouldn’t have felt the need to leave in tenth grade.

For that realization, the Monarch School awarded me an honorary high school diploma in May of 2008. So I’m not a tenth-grade dropout anymore. I’m a high school graduate, thirty-some years too late. All I need now is an honorary doctorate from some prestigious college, like Harvard or Yale or the University of Idaho, and I’ll be one hundred percent legit.

H
ow was I supposed to get a girlfriend, when I was a total nerd with no social skills? That was the pressing question for me and all my geek friends. We talked about it all the time, but the girlfriend problem seemed incredibly intractable and totally resistant to the application of logic or reason.

By age sixteen I had overcome many of my earlier limitations. I knew how to share. I could even sit quietly while the kid next to me did something totally wrong and made a complete mess. I’d learned where to find other geeks like me, places like the computer labs or the University Science Fiction Society. In those rooms it was easy to strike up a conversation with other guys, because we had stuff in common. Trouble was, there weren’t very many females in those places, and the ones that were there always seemed taken by some lucky geek.

We were able to watch those fortunate fellows for ideas, but that was dicey. If you watched too closely, you were a stalker or a perv. Still, through careful and discreet
observation my friends and I formed some theories on Girlfriend Acquisition. I also got ideas from my nongeek friends, many of whom had mastered GA by that time.

I didn’t know about Asperger’s back then, but you didn’t need to understand psychiatry to separate the geeks from the nypicals when it came to dealing with girls. Nypicals were successful, whereas geeks were not. My friend Denny was a nypical, but we were buddies because he lived right next door and we rode the bus together every day. Otherwise, he probably would have turned up his nose at a kid like me.

“Just walk up to a girl and start talking to her. Ask her about her English assignment or invite her to sit with you at lunch.” That sounded pretty easy. I even watched him do it. “Go ahead,” he said. “Try it!” I resolved to do what he said, but when I started toward a girl, I found myself seized with terror. I was unable to move, unable to talk. Needless to say, the female escaped and I was left with a new respect, envy, even, for Denny’s confidence and courage.

By this time I had developed a rule of thumb for how other boys would respond to me. If they were clean, neat, and popular, they would not want anything to do with me.
If they were geeks—freaky looking, with wild hair, mismatched socks, and inch-thick glasses—they would probably be friendly to me. If they were greasy or smelly, I avoided them. I didn’t want to be around grubby kids, because I was wary of crabs, head lice, and poisonous body odors.

There were a decent number of geeks at Amherst High. It was truly unfortunate that they were all guys. All the guy friends in the world didn’t add up to one girlfriend. I knew it, they knew it, and we were all frustrated. The worst thing was, we suspected there were similar numbers of lonely females, but we had no idea how to identify or reach them. It was a terrible and desperate situation.