Grade One and Harry Potter
May. 17th, 2011 04:16 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
msagaraI've been absent for far longer than I intended, but while I was absent I made a little list of things that I wanted to write about, a continuation of the small posts about life with my ASD son.
I had been writing my way up to -- and through -- grade one, and I'll continue from there, although if anyone has any questions they want to ask, I'll also happily answer them if I can. I do want to make clear, though, that this is my perspective, my memories, and the things that I found either helpful or instructive; my son's memories of grade one are actually pretty dim at this point. He remembers Jane Fletcher, and he remembers his grade one teacher, but he doesn't remember very much with any specificity. So this is largely one parent's perspective. I know that ASD children frequently have many traits in common -- but those traits meld with personality, so some of the things that worked for us won't necessarily work for other ASD children.
With that caveat, I want to talk a little about Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone. Or the Sorcerer's Stone, if you grew up reading the US version.
In grade one, the first Harry Potter book hit the reading public with a large splash. All of the kids in class read the book, many with their parents.
My son's interest in popular culture was not in synch with his peers; if his peers had been fourteen, it would have been closer (Age of Empires, Diablo). Most of the kids in his class weren't actually allowed near computer games, so the computer games that fascinated my son didn't mean very much to his peers. He was always comfortable--even happy--in front of a computer.
By this point, we expected a lot of social divergence given the Asperger's diagnosis. But we were, in our parental way, really trying to encourage interests that would overlap with those of his classmates. So I went out and picked up the Harry Potter that everyone was so excited about.
He was interested in it, in theory, because all of the kids did talk about it--and so did their parents. So we sat down to read it together.
He found it confusing. It's not that he couldn't follow the plot; he could. What he couldn't follow was the Dursley's and their motivation. He could understand that they were being mean to Harry. He didn't understand why. He understood that they were not Darth Vader; they were meant to be an otherwise 'normal' family. (although he did ask me, upon viewing Star Wars for the first time, why Darth Vader was always so angry.)
In particular, he couldn't understand why they cared whether or not Harry was a wizard. I explained that they were afraid that other people would think badly of them by association -- and the explanation made no sense to him at all. Harry wasn't them; they weren't Harry. Why, then, would they care? He would have understood if they were afraid of being wizards themselves -- although even that was a stretch -- but every single thing they did (hiding the mail, etc.) stopped him dead in his reading tracks because he could not follow their logic.
Since I had never, ever been able to get through a book of any sort (even the Hungry Caterpillar) without a battery of questions about Why, this wasn't unusual. He didn't want to move forward while reading if he didn't understand what was happening. But he also had trouble accepting something that made no sense to him.
Harry's relatives, and their fear of social censure because of Harry -- who they clearly weren't -- made no sense. I tried several different variants on guilt-by-association, but it wasn't something I could clearly explain in a way that he could grasp at the time.
Was he afraid people wouldn't like him?
Oddly enough, yes -- but at the same time, he had no sense that changing his behaviour would change their reaction. I accredit this to the very slow pace at which he developed theory of mind. The same thing that prevented him from lying -- the certainty that anything he knew was known, period -- prevented him from understanding the ways in which social behaviour accrued social points. He was who he was. If people didn't like him, it saddened him - but he had no sense that he could change who he was, and at some base level, that's what he felt would have to happen to affect how people felt. That would come later; it wasn't even on the horizon at age six.
I think ASD children don't understand the amount of time and effort being popular in a social sense can take, and I think that inability is grounded in the late development of theory of mind. It would never have occurred to my son that it took time to look a certain way; he would assume that that's just the way children looked. Or dressed. As if it was a completely natural outcome of genetics.
Harry was a wizard. Hiding this or lying about it or suppressing the information didn't change Harry.
But he never finished the book. Or rather, we didn't. He gave up on it because he couldn't really follow the personal interactions around which the plot turned.
He then went and picked out Brian Jacques' Redwall and read that instead. That, even given that it was peopled by clothing wearing, weapon wielding, talking animals, made plot sense. He could suspend disbelief because talking animals figure prominently in children's stories (like the three little pigs). Suspension of disbelief didn't extend to the realm of the social.
ETA: for some reason my LJ defaults were set to screen anonymous comments - a setting I've never previously used. So I've fixed that.
I had been writing my way up to -- and through -- grade one, and I'll continue from there, although if anyone has any questions they want to ask, I'll also happily answer them if I can. I do want to make clear, though, that this is my perspective, my memories, and the things that I found either helpful or instructive; my son's memories of grade one are actually pretty dim at this point. He remembers Jane Fletcher, and he remembers his grade one teacher, but he doesn't remember very much with any specificity. So this is largely one parent's perspective. I know that ASD children frequently have many traits in common -- but those traits meld with personality, so some of the things that worked for us won't necessarily work for other ASD children.
With that caveat, I want to talk a little about Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone. Or the Sorcerer's Stone, if you grew up reading the US version.
In grade one, the first Harry Potter book hit the reading public with a large splash. All of the kids in class read the book, many with their parents.
My son's interest in popular culture was not in synch with his peers; if his peers had been fourteen, it would have been closer (Age of Empires, Diablo). Most of the kids in his class weren't actually allowed near computer games, so the computer games that fascinated my son didn't mean very much to his peers. He was always comfortable--even happy--in front of a computer.
By this point, we expected a lot of social divergence given the Asperger's diagnosis. But we were, in our parental way, really trying to encourage interests that would overlap with those of his classmates. So I went out and picked up the Harry Potter that everyone was so excited about.
He was interested in it, in theory, because all of the kids did talk about it--and so did their parents. So we sat down to read it together.
He found it confusing. It's not that he couldn't follow the plot; he could. What he couldn't follow was the Dursley's and their motivation. He could understand that they were being mean to Harry. He didn't understand why. He understood that they were not Darth Vader; they were meant to be an otherwise 'normal' family. (although he did ask me, upon viewing Star Wars for the first time, why Darth Vader was always so angry.)
In particular, he couldn't understand why they cared whether or not Harry was a wizard. I explained that they were afraid that other people would think badly of them by association -- and the explanation made no sense to him at all. Harry wasn't them; they weren't Harry. Why, then, would they care? He would have understood if they were afraid of being wizards themselves -- although even that was a stretch -- but every single thing they did (hiding the mail, etc.) stopped him dead in his reading tracks because he could not follow their logic.
Since I had never, ever been able to get through a book of any sort (even the Hungry Caterpillar) without a battery of questions about Why, this wasn't unusual. He didn't want to move forward while reading if he didn't understand what was happening. But he also had trouble accepting something that made no sense to him.
Harry's relatives, and their fear of social censure because of Harry -- who they clearly weren't -- made no sense. I tried several different variants on guilt-by-association, but it wasn't something I could clearly explain in a way that he could grasp at the time.
Was he afraid people wouldn't like him?
Oddly enough, yes -- but at the same time, he had no sense that changing his behaviour would change their reaction. I accredit this to the very slow pace at which he developed theory of mind. The same thing that prevented him from lying -- the certainty that anything he knew was known, period -- prevented him from understanding the ways in which social behaviour accrued social points. He was who he was. If people didn't like him, it saddened him - but he had no sense that he could change who he was, and at some base level, that's what he felt would have to happen to affect how people felt. That would come later; it wasn't even on the horizon at age six.
I think ASD children don't understand the amount of time and effort being popular in a social sense can take, and I think that inability is grounded in the late development of theory of mind. It would never have occurred to my son that it took time to look a certain way; he would assume that that's just the way children looked. Or dressed. As if it was a completely natural outcome of genetics.
Harry was a wizard. Hiding this or lying about it or suppressing the information didn't change Harry.
But he never finished the book. Or rather, we didn't. He gave up on it because he couldn't really follow the personal interactions around which the plot turned.
He then went and picked out Brian Jacques' Redwall and read that instead. That, even given that it was peopled by clothing wearing, weapon wielding, talking animals, made plot sense. He could suspend disbelief because talking animals figure prominently in children's stories (like the three little pigs). Suspension of disbelief didn't extend to the realm of the social.
ETA: for some reason my LJ defaults were set to screen anonymous comments - a setting I've never previously used. So I've fixed that.
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no subject
Date: 2011-05-17 02:41 pm (UTC)I was 40 before this light bulb came on for me fully. Sure, I cognitively understood earlier that social facades impacted others, but I didn't really understand how that worked. Consequently, I told myself people were stupid for caring about such things and immersed myself in things I did understand--putting my refusal to 'play the game' on other people and their own stupidity. At 40 I finally realized the impacts of some of my blind spots. It hasn't been easy to be diagnosed as an adult, but in some ways I think it's been easier, because my growth has proceeded at very organic pace. Makes me feel stupid sometimes, to be so slow at things others discover naturally, but I'm glad your son has you to guide and understand him.
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Date: 2011-05-17 03:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-05-18 12:13 am (UTC)I think we all do this to a greater or lesser extent; it's why the phrase "get a life" is common. My son has a clear sense of perceived value for required work, though. He understands intellectually that a shift in his behaviour will shift the reactions of the people around him. This would be now. At six this was entirely beyond him.
He did once ask, while have a heated discussion with my sister, "Mom! Do I have to care about this?" I more or less said no, he didn't, since it wasn't a matter of safety, health or harm. But he came back to me later and said, "I want to make sure I understand this. I'm supposed to change the way I dress, speak and interact so that people I don't know will like me."
"That's the theory."
"But then it won't be me."
"That's the problem."
"So. I'm supposed to change things about myself so that people I don't necessarily respect and don't necessarily want to spend any time with will then want to spend time with me?"
I pointed out the ways in which this was the most extreme interpretation, but that, yes, in this case he hadn't misunderstood.
He decided at that time that the amount of work this would take for the amount of joy he would receive was not well-balanced.
And that's what I want for him. I want him to know what he can do to smooth out the rough edges, but I also want him to be aware that that's his choice. He can make it easier for people to be almost subconsciously comfortable in his presence - but sometimes that does take work; he can ignore this, but sometimes that causes friction and dislike.
I did point out that when he starts to work full-time, it's different. Co-workers are not expected to be his friends - although they can be - but the reason social normative behaviour is the rule is to deal with dozens of different cultural and familial contexts in a homogenous way in a place where in theory they're not the point of the gathering. He doesn't have to like his co-workers, and conversely, they don't have to like him - but he has to be able to get along with them, and vice versa. It's effectively part of his job, even if it's not part of the job description.
The goals and the reasons for behaviour choices are different in those two cases, imho. He could easily accept my explanation of social behavioural requirements as part of a business environment -- i.e. it's part of professional behaviour. But who betide those who attempt to force this on his personal life. (He was, at the time, fourteen, but it is a discussion we revisit).