The Unspoken Rulebook
November 18, 2022
Writer: Deepa Ramesh
Editor: Ava Tomlin
There are many ways to describe life. A poet may describe the endless experience of meandering through a series of cavernous tunnels, seeking to find fragments of hope and light in a world that is always tilted on its axis, spinning in countless unpredictable ways. On the other hand, college students may lament for hours about the horrible anxieties that accompany midterm exams: the feeling of wearing our soles through from pacing back and forth outside the exam room or the ways in which a pencil slips through our sweaty, clammy palms. For us, life may seem like a “hellhole.”
However, I see life as — more or less — a rulebook. Among these rules are: Extend your hand to greet an unfamiliar face with a faint yet welcoming smile. Maintain steady eye contact throughout a conversation. Don’t speak in public unless spoken to.
The list goes on and on, but the ironic thing about these rules is that they aren’t taught in any classroom or textbook. We are just expected to know them as if they are obvious, unquestionable truths — like how oxygen is needed to breathe or that the Earth is round.
As you and I seamlessly navigate through the delicate and tangled cobwebs of social interaction, many people on the Autism Spectrum find themselves dangling on the threads, wondering why the rulebook dictates a constant game of chess instead of checkers and how the expectations of people seem to constantly change like the colors of the seasons.
This is a particular struggle for autistic youth, who often find themselves on the receiving end of a double-edged sword, tormented by their own nerve-wracking anxieties and targeted with the foul words of complete strangers.
The message is the same: you aren’t like us, you will never be like us, so why bother interacting with us?
Autistic youth are constantly told that their intelligence and capabilities are fixed — that, like a balloon released in the air, some prospects in life are simply too distant to reach.
Receiving the opportunity in the summer to coordinate a six-week social skills class for autistic youth was an unexpected blessing. I basked in delight for a period of time but soon found myself dwelling in a pitfall of worries. I’ve always deeply desired to be part of the solution — to provide autistic children with a toolbox and a sense of confidence that they can use when interacting with their classmates in school. Yet, I wondered if my supervisor, the other volunteers, and I had truly determined what it takes to not just foster meaningful and productive sessions, but to also have students genuinely excited about coming each week.
The day of our first session is permanently sealed in my memory. I’ll never forget how a mother’s voice quivers when she talks about her son’s social anxiety or the worried glances parents exchange when their child doesn't acknowledge the presence of the volunteer greeting them. There was this fear — this nagging sense of worry — that their kids were somehow trapped in a maze with no exit.
At first, many of the students were overwhelmed by the presence of dozens of complete strangers. However, when I saw what happened next, I felt an invisible weight being lifted from my shoulders. When the volunteers saw the students running to hide behind their parent’s legs, they didn’t furrow their brows in confusion or sigh with exasperation. Rather than forcing the students to follow the rulebook, the volunteers decided to veer off-script. They stood in place patiently and met the students at their level. The topic of conversation was never, “Here is what I want you to do,” but rather, “What would you like to do?”
When the students looked into the eyes of their volunteers, they didn’t see any sort of petulance or frustration. The volunteers were earnest and sincere, and there was an implicit message carried through their words — you are safe with me; you are safe to be you. And indeed, that was true.
Not long after, the students began to proudly carry their favorite toys to the session — soccer balls, Candyland, stuffed dinosaurs, painting kits, you name it.
When the whole group of volunteers gathered with the students to play board games we hadn’t touched in years, I realized that the way we connected with one another was something special — perhaps because it transcended the realm of words. We communicated with each other through laughter, song, and empathy. We smiled and cheered for each other. We fostered meaningful social interaction. Who cares if it wasn’t exactly the same as how neurotypical people interact?
To be completely truthful, while I thought I would be making a difference in the students’ lives, I didn’t realize the footprint they would leave on mine. They taught me what makes progress possible: It’s not about following a strictly-outlined rulebook. It’s about fostering a culture of inclusivity, where people feel comfortable being their authentic selves and are able to accept that it’s okay to not be perfect or to not fit within the lines of someone else’s script.
Autism is a highly individualized condition, so it manifests uniquely for people and progress looks different for everyone. Slowly but surely, I watched each and every single one of our students make meaningful strides. For some students, an accomplishment looked like being able to listen to instructions and carry out a simple task, such as solving a jigsaw puzzle. For others, the achievement came from simply leaving the setting of home and gaining the comfort to interact with a new set of people.
The inevitable truth is that the autistic youth of today will soon become adults entering a world besotted with slithering words and barbed insults. However, they have shown me that they don’t let their challenges define them, and that the inner world they hold within–and the desire to share it with those they care about — has the genuine ability to touch people’s hearts. They taught me how to maintain hope, and that any improvement we make in our lives, no matter how big or small, is one worth celebrating.
Image: Julia Bonnano
