dis/lit 20

Emily Saunders

Foss

ENGL384-02

Word Count: 1126

I pledge. –Emily Saunders

Rhetoricity: The Voice of Autism

Consider this: human beings have a fascination with language, with communication, and use it in every action that they take. Words are prescribed to objects, people, abstract concepts, animals, relationships, et cetera, and they are used to convey endless messages across endless modes of communication. There are very few (if any) ways in which human beings do not exist and communicate at the same time. In particular, voice (both literal and metaphorical) is often taken for granted as essential to the human experience, but what happens when that voice doesn’t conform to the standards set forth by the masses? What if your communication looks different? What if your language doesn’t match the one prescribed to you? Autism is frequently treated and discussed in ways that disregard the personhood, and therefore voice, of people with autism, despite their rich, albeit different, experiences with language.

A close look at Melanie Yergeau’s Introduction to her book, Authoring Autism, and Ralph James Savarese’s essay “Toward Postcolonial Neurology: Autism, Tito Mukhopadhyay, and a New Geo-poetics of the Body” shows an intense focus on the ways in which language and autism interact. Though they take two differing approaches to the subject—Savarese focusing primarily on the experiences and words of Tito Mukhopadhyay, and Yergeau focusing on (non)rhetoricity—both works critically engage with the topic, arguing against common conceptions and prejudices.  

Yergeau spends much of her introduction discussing her idea of rhetoricity—what it is, how it’s used, and the politics of being able to participate in it. She writes, “It is not uncommon. . . for rhetoricians to claim that rhetoric is what makes one human. . . [its] precondition for humanness or personhood is typically and deeply connected to how we conceive sociality, or our modes of relating and relatedness with our (neurotypically human) surrounds” (Authoring Autism 6). By this, she means that rhetoric—or the meaning-making system by which we as social animals live—governs both our society as well as how we as individuals relate to it. This is a pretty straightforward concept but becomes twisted when brought into atypical contexts. Consider how, for example, characters representing a minority are portrayed on television. Black men are the funny guy, the athlete, the criminal, and generally angry. Black women are “crazy”, hypersexual, matriarchs, and welfare queens. Members of the LGBT community are flamboyant, dramatic, caricatures, and often victims of violence. The disabled . . . well, the disabled are hardly visible to begin with. All of these tropes are rhetorical tools used to define and confine minority groups in order for the majority (straight, cis-gendered white folk) to maintain power and control.

In the case of disability studies—and more specifically autism—this can be not only degrading but dehumanizing, which Yergeau goes on to explore in her introduction as well. People with autism are often framed as being nonrhetorical (Authoring Autism 5). But, if rhetoric is what makes us human, as we discussed earlier, then what does that mean for the autistic? Do they not compose stories, interact with the rhetoric-laden world around them, and communicate? Scholarly literature would have you believe, as Yergeau points out, that “In all things discursive, autism represents decided lack” (Authoring Autism 7). The disability, according to this literature, inhibits the autistic from being able to meaningfully interact with and produce rhetoric, despite copious evidence of the opposite. The difference is, well, difference. Autistic rhetoric may look, sound, and/or feel different than that produced and consumed by neurotypical folk. However, this preconceived idea that rhetoric—and therefore humanity—must mimic one specific kind is what keeps autistic rhetoric from being integrated into modern literature and scholarship. There’s no effort to include and explore the rhetoricity of the autistic, and that is what ultimately keeps them from being able to establish their own voice.

What, then, does autistic rhetoric look like? How exactly does an autistic person produce and consume it? Ralph James Savarese takes an interesting stance on the subject, entering the conversation through discussion of “severely” autistic author Tito Mukhopadhyay (Savarese 5). Savarese is quick to point out Mukhopadhyay’s use of language and how it starkly undermines the current conception of people with autism as being nonrhetorical, including a staggering number of quotes from the young author’s works. Mukhopadhyay writes, at only eight years old, “One day I dream that we can grow in a matured society where nobody would be ‘normal or abnormal’ but just human beings, accepting any other human being—ready to grow together” (The Mind Tree 90). By including this particular quote, as well as emphasizing the age at which Mukhopadhyay wrote it, Savarese effectively challenges the idea of nonrhetorical people with autism. The young author clearly has a voice, has rhetoric to be shared, has a way of consuming rhetoric and translating it into something he understands, and that is an important thing to notice.

On top of the words themselves, Savarese takes time to discuss the physicality of Mukhopadhyay’s language, and how the difference in the author’s proprioception (“a sensory modality that can be defined as an awareness of one’s body in space” [10]) informs his rhetoric. The purposeful manipulation of voice in his book, The Mind Tree, sometimes in first person and sometimes in the third, speaks to the disconnect felt by the author between his personhood and his body (Savarese 10). Throughout the essay, Savarese’s purpose is to highlight and underscore the unique and rich way in which Mukhopadhyay uses his voice in his book. Of course, the young author is but one person, and one voice among many that deserve to be heard.

The important thing to remember is that rhetoric—language, relations, consumption, production—is not limited to one kind of format. Similar to how different languages express similar idea, or how there are different genres of writing, of poetry, of music and media, the language of autism isn’t somehow less than that of a person without it. It’s just different. Yergeau and Savarese both attempt to point this out in their own ways throughout their works, as have many other scholars as the disability studies scholarship expands over time. One tackled the concept of rhetoricity head on, emphasizing its importance and the significance of excluding an entire group of people from it. The other delves into the specific language of one autistic author in particular, exploring the difference in special relation to that of a neurotypical person and challenging the conception that people with autism—especially those who are nonverbal—are somehow incapable of meaningfully relating to and producing language. Both of them work together and individually to break down the harmful stereotypes and de-humanization of people with autism in order to allow them to establish their own voice in its stead.

Works Cited

Mukhopadhyay, Tito.  The Mind Tree.  New York: Arcade, 2003.

Savarese, Ralph James. “Toward a Postcolonial Neurology: Autism, Tito Mukhopadhyay, and a New Geo-poetics of the Body.” 2010.

Yergeau, Melanie. “Introduction: Involution.” Authoring Autism, Duke University Press, 2017, pp. 1–34.

As I was reading Ari Ne’eman’s piece on the conflicting narratives of Neurotypical and Autistic individuals, I was reminded of research I did on the book The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time, specifically in regards to the author Mike Haddon’s writing process, and how he actually did very little research when creating the character of Christopher Francis Boone. At the time of my digging into the book’s history, I was impressed by Haddon’s stance that he felt he did not need to perform in-depth research because the autism spectrum is so broad and vast that there is no singular set of requirements for an autistic individual to have, and the critical response to the book led me to believe this was a valid stance to hold. However, after reading Ne’eman’s piece, I have come to wonder if this was truly the best course of action for him. In this essay, I will use Haddon’s Curious Incident to discuss the merits of autistic consultation in media and why I believe that the story of Christopher Boone is one of the better depictions of autism, despite the ways in which it could have benefited from an insider perspective during the writing process.

            Christopher Francis Boone is, in no uncertain terms, a savant; in many ways, he is a stereotype of autism, gifted in math, a personality built around the logical world which falters and fizzles out when faced with emotional spontaneity and anything he cannot reason his way through. To Ne’eman, this in and of itself might be a piece of damning evidence in condemning Curious Incident alongside other stories about autism written by neurotypical individuals, and I sought out critique of the book written by individuals on the autism spectrum, in search of a more personal view point. In researching this, I came across a blog post by Nomi Kaim, an autistic individual, which focused on her reaction to the character of Christopher. One of the first things she brought up was the ways in which Christopher is a textbook example of an autistic individual;

“Many of Christopher’s character traits fit the textbook definition of autism. He has profound difficulty communicating and interacting with people, including overly literal interpretation of language; difficulty interpreting gestures and facial expressions; and an inability to take other people’s perspectives. His speech is excessively formal, and he is incapable of social spontaneity or reciprocity. He constantly misses the big picture, or context, of what is going on. He fixates on a few themes he cannot let go of, rocks or groans when overwhelmed, and is hypersensitive to sound, smell, and touch.” (Kaim)

However, she spends just as much if not more time talking about the depths of Christopher’s character, and the ways in which he breaks the mold pushed so often by neurotypical authors. She relates to his confusion born from vague terms like “keep off the grass”, his love of animals, and the way he uses logic and reasoning to make his way through an emotional world. Yes, this is only one kind of autism, but it is a portrayal of autism that resonates with real individuals. One thing that Curious Incident succeeds in, which I think Ne’eman would agree with, is the way that those around Christopher interact with him. One of the key goals of autistic self-advocates is to the push for “both support and acceptance throughout society” (Ne’eman). This is, I feel, one of Curious Incident’s most noteworthy triumphs. Christopher’s parents, Ed and Judy, both strive to support Christopher to the best of their abilities, within realistic limitations; Ed cooks the simple meals that fit within Christopher’s particular palette, while Judy does her best to understand Christopher without allowing her own neurodivergent traits to get in the way. Judy in particular was an interesting character to me because of how far from the stereotype of a “refrigerator mother” she is.

If anything, she cares far too much, without any outlet for the ways in which she cares. Christopher, like many autistic individuals, rejects her offers of physical affection, and lashes out when she tries to touch him without consent, yet as the book progresses she makes strides in learning about Christopher and his boundaries so that she can be the best parent she is capable of being for him.

When Ne’eman talked about those who “define disability not according to its effect on individuals with disabilities, but on the basis of how it is perceived by those around them”, I was prepared to reread Curious Incident with a critical eye, remembering a good deal of time spent on how Christopher’s parents reacted to his unique sense of self, but found that their reactions to him were often background noise compared to the way the book focused so heavily on Christopher’s life and the way autism effected it. It left me wondering how Haddon had managed to write a story that seemed to succeed in its depiction of an autistic character when he didn’t even go into it with the intention of writing one. For the most part, I agree with Ne’eman’s assertion that it is the author’s moral obligation to consult autistic individuals whenever they seek to represent autism in the literary space, yet somehow Haddon created a character that resonated with many and disturbed very few, without having done so.

I am led to believe the aspect of this book which aids the most in its success in depicting an autistic character is the fact that it is told from a first-person perspective. There is never as large a focus on any aspect of the world as there is on Christopher and his perspective of it. He is the most important character, and the book frequently asserts his competence and independence, while balancing this out with his limitations, such as the times in which he is overstimulated by loud noises and foreign environments. These limitations, however, never hinder Christopher so much that he cannot accomplish his goals, which goes a long way in establishing Curious Incident as one of the more positive representations of autistic characters.

Ne’eman spends a large portion of time in his Dueling Narratives essay discussing who has the power to control the narrative surrounding autism; that is to say, whose voice is most prominent, neurotypical individuals speaking for autistic individuals, or those autistic individuals themselves. Curious Incident is a strange case in that it does not truly fall into either of these categories; though the story is told from the perspective of an individual on the autism spectrum, can it truly be considered a story with an autistic voice when it was written by a neurotypical individual? One argument I make in defense of Curious Incident is based around the following quote, also used in Dueling Narratives:

“The tragedy is not that we’re here, but that your world has no place for us to be. How can it be otherwise, as long as our own parents are still grieving over having brought us into the world?” –Jim Sinclair, Our Voices

Haddon may not be an autistic individual, and he performed the minimal amount of research in writing one, and I find this to be a fault of the book, in that Christopher is still a savant, a child so talented in mathematics that he goes on to take college levels classes as a middle schooler. However, in much the same way Ed and Judy Boone desperately try to create a place for their child to be accepted in the world, Haddon is like a third parent to Christopher, crafting a realistic literary world that is not built for him, but making sure that he is strong enough to attempt to carve out a place for himself in spite of this. The book would have benefitted from an autistic perspective in the writer’s room, and this is not a statement I consider subjective; there is always room for improvement.

However, Haddon deserves at least a portion of the applause he has received for creating a character who is far more than the few stereotypes he fits into. I agree with Ne’eman, that for the most part autistic perspective is a requirement in the creation of autistic characters, and Christopher as a character could only have benefitted from this. Curious Incident’s success is in spite of the minimal research done, not because of it, and this is a fact that I stand by.

I would love to hear any thoughts Ari Ne’eman has on Curious Incident. It would be fascinating, I think.

Word Count: 1427