My children were 9 and 6 when I received an email from my father with the subject line “Joke – Read It to the Kids”. After getting to know Papa, I thought to read it first. The title, “What Exciting Thing Starts with F and Ends with K”, helped me make up my mind. It was a corny joke about a kid asking a series of double standards questions. The answers were always innocuous – F____K was a “fire truck”. Dad’s explanation was literal and naive. He does not get double entrance. When I told the story to my mother and sister, they were surprised but not surprised. It was usually Dad.
Over the years they have pondered what we find odd about ‘Asterix’, ‘Friends’ or PG Wodehouse. When we were kids, reading the Sunday papers, he’d show me and my sister the ‘Peanuts’ strip in the comics page and ask, “Why do you both find this funny? Let me explain that! What’s so funny?” ” We hated to explain because then it wouldn’t be fun anymore, but they needed to be told what their daughters found amusing. However, a few decades later, he fully understood his grandchildren’s sense of humor. When my children called Thatha Come quickly! Tom and Jerry’s on!” He’d scurry over to sit on the couch with them.
You’ve probably concluded that my father isn’t the sharpest tool in the shed. Not true: Dad is one of the smartest people I know. At 88, he knows more about neuroscience, quantum physics, astronomy, and the evolution of humans than most professionals in the field. And he learned it all on his own – Afterwards Getting a PhD in Chemical Engineering. But if I read him the first sentence of this paragraph, he will be amazed. What shed? Which equipment?
He doesn’t get analogies and sarcasm escapes him most of the time. He’s shy around strangers, but once he’s started, he can go on for hours on end on one of his favorite subjects. One time we rescued a kind computer repair mechanic who was stuck in the study with Dad for over an hour. There was a wild panic in his eyes. He only asked dad what he sees on the computer. This led to a detailed explanation of why there is no such thing as ‘race’ as the journey of man out of Africa has been documented through mitochondrial DNA… you get the drift.
The thought that he might be on the autism spectrum crossed both my mind and his. He thinks he may not be autistic because what he has read doesn’t match his experience. But while it doesn’t make much sense to either of us, it gets me thinking about a fundamental problem with diagnostic categories: They have a cookbook approach that ignores nuance. Can’t cope. They tell you what is wrong with people with autism – a ‘deficit’ in social communication and a ‘restricted’ range of interests. What they don’t tell you is that my dad is a funny, loving, honest, and smart guy who doesn’t really care what you’re wearing or who you are in the social hierarchy. It doesn’t tell you that what I feel when I am with my father is not ‘tolerance’ or ‘acceptance’ or even filial affection; I just love hanging out with her.
I know very well where I stand with my father. We can spend hours reading together quietly without expecting either of us to talk or be entertained. If I ask for an honest opinion, I’ll get one, but if I don’t ask, he won’t offer it. The only parenting advice she ever gave me was one evening when my kids were driving me crazy. I rolled my eyes and said, “What do I do with these kids?” He replied quietly: “Play with them. They miss you in the evening. This is the only parenting advice I follow diligently.
I don’t mean to trivialize the problem of dual empathy: it presents a challenge when he doesn’t get something from us and we don’t get it. A typical situation in my parents’ house is when they have decided to have people over for dinner. My mother loves to entertain, and my father delights in making her special dish for special occasions: sambar with shallots. At dinner time, the guests begin serving themselves, and my mom watches in agony as Dad fishes out his third helping for all the little onions in the sambar. She catches his eye, widens it and nods her head imperceptibly. He stops in mid-air with the ladle. “What are you trying to say? Huh? Oh I get it. I shouldn’t eat any more because there’s not enough? Okay.” My mother, the gracious host, wants the earth to open up and swallow her up.
As for Dad, he gets frustrated at family gatherings when we are all talking, and doesn’t make a move towards the dinner table at 7.45 pm. We forget the time when the alarm bell rings in her mind for dinner (“It’s 7.45 and I must be hungry,” says her inner voice). He becomes anxious, extravagant and irritable.
But we make do, because over the years my mother has learned to put extra onions in the sambar and invite guests who understand my father, and the rest of us, to come over to my parents’ house for dinner. But let’s set the phone alarm for 7.45 pm. , On his part, Dad bows out with good grace to be a part of the occasional family outing to the restaurant when he has foresight that dinner might be as late as 9 p.m.
Over the past few decades, I’ve recognized more family members and friends who are on the autism spectrum. The eye does not see what the mind does not know, and now my mind knows. I enjoy discovering new things about the world and myself when I am with each one of them. I find it comforting to be with a man like my father, who does not make social demands on me. As a therapist, I wonder how I can use this personal knowledge to help the families I see. I know how to help a child with speech delay to develop language.
but where do i get this possibility Enjoying A child who is different? I see the journey of so many families, filled with the challenges of accepting others and including your child. Autistic adults diagnosed late in life talk about the relief of receiving the diagnosis, of finally understanding that they are not bad or defective – just different. It makes me wonder why we don’t resist the culture where you are made to feel like there is something wrong with you if you are different from those who are powerful in the social pecking order. What if, instead of trying to ‘fix’ people different from us, each of us learned to be curious about them: How do they communicate? What are they good at? What can I learn from them?
I don’t claim to have solved it for myself. I am not yet enlightened enough to accept the differences of people I encounter with curiosity and without judgment. But it’s helpful to have a father as a reference point when I meet someone I don’t fully understand. It makes me pause and reflect more often before I judge.
My father lived in a simpler world. He went to a small government school in Salem, Tamil Nadu. He excelled in learning and that was enough for his school. He didn’t have to deal with gossip in the lunchroom or social media messages telling him he wasn’t as good as others. Somehow, he managed to work in an engineering firm, unafraid and oblivious to any criticism on his social skills. He is immersed in the pursuit of knowledge and retains his sense of wonder and curiosity about the world. With the scientific information he is tracking, he is convinced that the world will be a better place for his grandchildren and their children.
I’ve diagnosed her with a serious case of optimism, and we’re basking in her label’s sunshine.
Vibha Krishnamurthy is a developmental pediatrician and founder of Umaid Bal Vikas Kendra in Mumbai. She has been working with children with disabilities and their families for over 25 years.