If I were a child today, at least one of my teachers would have referred me for an autism assessment. I was constantly questioning the decisions and reasoning of the children (and adults) around me and would argue my point incessantly. Most adults thought it was cute until right around the time I hit middle school, then people started thinking it was less and less cute. I couldn’t handle being in noisy or crowded rooms. Whenever I was in a line for something I had to exactly mimic the steps of the person in front of me. I frequently clicked pens and pencils, leading to my fifth grade teacher refusing to let me use anything that clicked in her classroom. I was loud. I was verbally aggressive with other students when forced to interact with them (so my teachers usually just let me work by myself while everyone else worked in groups). I was usually alone and content to be so, and often rocked gently when stressed or walked on my tip-toes (I liked to be very quiet and soft when I walked, otherwise it felt jarring and uncomfortable to me). I also always either crossed my legs or drew my knees up to my chest. Sitting in a chair “properly” was and still is torture for me.
I also never understood why my peers were so obliquely cruel to each other, but was also frequently blind to it when it was directed at me. I didn’t understand how to engage with social structures even in elementary school, and because I didn’t understand it and no one could satisfactorily explain it to me. My mom didn’t help much either (in the short term), her response to me asking why kids wanted me to do things that made no sense and hurt other people was to tell me that no real friend would make you do anything that made you uncomfortable, and anyone who tried was not worth your time (this was something my autistic brain seriously latched onto and still hasn’t let go of. It’s made it much easier to handle losing friends over the years, so thank you from adult Ashley, even though kid Ashley was a little frustrated. I wish every autistic kid had a mom like you!).
As I grew up in a small town surrounded by kids I had known since we were playing soccer together as tiny nuggets I learned the differences between friends and acquaintances. I became the kid no one was publicly friends with, but who several of the popular kids had play dates with outside of school.
When I was 10 or 11 a girl came over to play. This girl and I had played soccer together when we were six, and we may have been in girl scouts together, I can’t quite remember. We were never particularly close, but we stayed over at each other’s homes a few times (once I was finally able to make it through a sleepover). I once helped her shovel horse manure (one of her chores that she hadn’t done before I came over), so we could play sooner. I also got to watch a German Shepherd give birth at that house. Her mom bred German Shepherds for the police (or so someone told me).
On this particular day, at my house (I’m fairly certain there’s no way her mother or older sister would have “allowed” this at her house), we played in the mud. I’ve always loved playing in the mud and we had excellent dirt for it. There were a couple trees not too far from the house and there was a slight incline from the house up to the trees, which was ideal for making rivers and streams by dragging a hose up to the trees and leaving it on low.
My friend and I played in the mud for hours. She borrowed some of my clothes so hers wouldn’t get dirty. We made lakes and rivers and streams in my backyard and pretended to be lake monsters that would capture or eat the toys that were unlucky enough to float or explore downstream. We made mud pies and mud plateaus and had an incredible time.
When she was getting ready to go home for the day, she turned to me and said, “Ashley, please don’t tell anyone I played in the mud.” I told her I wouldn’t, partially because it wouldn’t occur to me to do so and partially because I didn’t really have anyone to tell. She was one of the popular girls at school.
That request has stuck with me (and my mom) as a source of sadness and a feeling of empathy for those constrained by ridiculous and nonsensical social rules. Some studies have shown that autistic folks tend to be resistant to social conditioning and pressure, and for that I am ultimately thankful.