dinner invitation“, the college’s reward for employees who in a whole year had not missed a day of work. That Jessy was pleased, proud, that she went to the dinner and enjoyed it, that she was recognized as a good worker in a way she could understand — all that is a measure of social growth that could only take place in the context of her job. This year — incredible anniversary — she’ll go to the luncheon for twenty- year employees. She’ll go alone. Though I accompanied her to the 100 percent dinner, that was six years ago. I don’t need to anymore. She knows how to do it now. There won’t be much casual conversation, but she’ll manage.
Still, social growth in autism is an uneven process. There’s the student who told me that when Jessy smiles at him it makes his day. But there are also less encouraging incidents. Jessy went to the restroom one day, a year or so after the recognition dinner, and came back to find the chair she’d vacated occupied by a coworker. Without a word, she plumped herself down in the young woman’s lap. It didn’t make her day. „She criticized me“, Jessy told me. I can imagine she did. Some things are funnier to read about than experience. But it is her supervisor, who observes so carefully and records so truthfully, who should have the last word on autism and employment. When she saw Rain Man she commented, „I don’t see why he had to be in an institution. If Jessy can hold a job, he certainly ought to be able to“. And with a lot of help, Jessy can.
Friendliness is learned among friends and social behavior in society. That society has opened up a place for Jessy is what, more than anything else, has made it possible for her to live in, even contribute to, the community she was born in. Ordinary people will be extraordinarily helpful when they know how much they contribute to Jessy’s development. Storekeepers, bank tellers, checkout clerks, like supervisors and coworkers, will be patient, smile, and make allowances, as long as the behavior they see is not too disruptive and bewildering. They will smile out of the goodness of their hearts, and once they involve themselves they will smile because they see progress and know they have a part in it — a part more important than they can ever know. Let Jessy herself close the chapter:
„Guess what! Some of the people at work are my friends! Jim, and Betty, and Mary, and Diane, that pretty girl, and Ginny, and Karl, and Carol that I pounded on the door, and Gary who is fat but I won’t say that to him. And I will make them all paperweights for Christmas!“
Chapter 12
Valedictory
I will make them paperweights“. It comes out easily, as it should. It feels easy, in her mouth and at her painting table, where soon she will transform beach stones into colorful gifts. Jessy’s used to giving Christmas presents. But of course the giving of presents, like any other social transaction, is easy only if you know how. Even for normal people, Thinking of Others requires education. Jessy’s learned the general principle: you should do it. But that’s quite different from applying it in particular cases.
Seven years ago, entirely spontaneously, Jessy gave me a Mother’s Day present. I was accustomed to Mother’s Day cards; Jessy never misses a holiday. But I wasn’t expecting a present. I certainly wasn’t expecting this one. Elegantly wrapped, it contained a can of cat litter deodorizer — Jessy takes care of the litter pan — and one of those little give-away packets of strawberry jam.
Now, Jessy’s not a tightwad. She long ago became acclimated to taking money out of the bank as well as putting it in. She was perfectly willing to contribute five thousand dollars to the renovation of our kitchen. But with the best will in the world, Thinking of Others runs into problems if you haven’t got a working theory of mind. So most of the time we prompt and suggest. Painted paperweights, one step up from cards. For very special friends, a painting. Repeated suggestions become internalized; for birthdays, Jessy knows we all like a homemade cake (although if it’s to be anything but chocolate we put in a special order). Beyond that, it’s best to follow the example of Anna and Diana, always practical, who specify exactly what to buy and where.
The experience of autism has many ports of entry. Presents are as good a way as any to begin this valedictory chapter, the chapter of Where Is Jessy Now? Categories bleed; Strange morphs into Ordinary, and back into Strange again. Or we can reverse the terms, since with Jessy they have no clear boundaries. If it ends with Ordinary, it will still be Strange enough.
The identification of suitable presents is a regular pre-Christmas activity for Jessy, and for us as well. If practice doesn’t make perfect, still, as we talk about friends and the things they like, individualities come into sharper focus. Rachel likes cats; Drew likes football; Betty likes flowers. Different people like different things. But finding the right present for Jessy herself presents its own challenges. Rachel likes cats, but what does she crave? Back in Nirvana the two-year-old wanted nothing enough even to reach for it. Even now, any one of us could list ten desires for every one of Jessy’s. Forget jewelry. Forget clothes; her attitude toward them is strictly utilitarian. Records, once „too good“ to listen to, she now doesn’t play at all. Stars and rainbows, the old standbys, are too familiar to cause a thrill. But study her current enthusiasms. How about a birthday cake iced as a bank? A copy of The Physicians’ Desk, Reference for Nonprescription Drugs? A medical dictionary? Find the right present, and Jessy’s face will light up to illuminate us all.
Her siblings, with forty years of experience, are artists in choice. Sheets emblazoned with Hershey’s Kisses. Sweatshirts bearing her own magic phrases. An assortment of cold remedies. And, this Christmas, a stroke of genius: a regime, a system of skin care. An array of tiny bottles, face creams, body creams, lotions; a brochure of complicated instructions for each; night/day, dry/oily, sensitive/normal; permutations and combinations, endless material for contemplation — and conversation, for Jessy’s enthusiasms are no longer too good to utter. All unbelievably expensive — except that the little bottles were advertising samples and the brochure was free.
The cosmetics company, however, lost nothing by such generosity. Jessy’s next stop after Christmas is urgent; the person who craved nothing (unless you count chocolate) has something to buy. Where is she now? She is at the mall at opening time, engaged in what is surely a typical, age-appropriate American activity, shopping. There are no other customers so early, which is fortunate, because Jessy requires the sales clerk’s undivided attention. Society, in its representative, reaches out with kindly interest to this forty- year-old woman who speaks so laboriously yet asks such well- informed questions. Can you use the day cream for night? What will happen if you switch the creams for dry and normal? She’s spent hours over that brochure; she’s mastered every detail. She’s searching for a rational system, which the charts suggest exists, but which of course doesn’t. Encouraged by me, the salesperson concedes you can switch creams, it doesn’t really matter. But Jessy insists; rules are what a regime is all about. The minutes tick past.
Jessy wants a particular bottle; the saleswoman looks everywhere and finally finds it in a drawer. After an hour I can’t stand it anymore; gently I bring the transaction to a close, pointing out that other customers are beginning to arrive. Jessy has spent a happy hour and seventy-six dollars; later, in another store, she’ll spend fifty dollars more to fill out the set. And no, she still doesn’t look in the mirror. Why should she?
I write, and anecdotes are all around me, new ones every day. Few of them, by now, are even as bizarre as this one. Everything she does is what she is; everything she does encapsulates the absorption of autism into the everyday. As I press to conclude a story that can have no real conclusion, I find a slip from the very week I began this book — one more record, a minuscule triumph. It’s breakfast time. Jessy has filled the kettle, brought it to a boil, and taken it upstairs to flush out the bathtub drain, a self- appointed weekly routine. I’ve sat down to read the paper, since the kettle isn’t there for me to make tea as I usually do. And now she’s back with the empty kettle; I ask her can she make my tea, and get her cheerful, confident „Sure“. She’s done parts of the process before, so I know the job isn’t beyond her. Still, I’m impressed. I’m not even looking at her, I’m absorbed in the paper, and she’s refilled the kettle, set it to boil, gotten the teapot, put in the right amount of tea, set the pot above the kettle to warm, poured in the boiling water, and left it to steep. She’s gone when I look up — it’s time to leave for work, and Jessy’s always on time. But to crown it all, when I come to pour the tea — real tea, not a wilted tea bag — there beside my cup is the tea strainer. I never asked for that, it’s not part of the process. But I always use it. She noticed!
Such a commonplace incident. That’s the point. Categories bleed. Strange into Commonplace, Talking,
