Amelia K
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I spent most of middle school tracing the autism triskelion of being bullied (am), Talented and Gifted (lunch), and counselor's office (afternoon). The counselor did not like me. I learned this from him, because he showed me flash cards labeled Emotion and his face and body language showed dislike: a crease between the eyebrows, a tense jaw, an occasional eye roll. Some of the cards had positive and negative words to listen for: yes, cool, definitely / oh, hmm, well, anyway. The cards (and later, workbooks) were to make me seem more “human” and help me determine if what I was saying was interesting to other people; exercises in futility, in other words. Other children did not enjoy hearing about Koine Greek and caves and thermite, but I enjoyed the feeling I had when I talked about my topics: a sweet and numinous fizziness, scarcely borne. You could live your whole life over and not know half of all there is to know about anything at all, and that was so beautiful I wanted to pull it from the sky and hand it over. Is this human? I asked the counselor. (It was not.) I had a lot of books to read; could I simply discard the idea of having friends? I could not, I was informed, and what's more, I had to find new and relevant human topics to discuss with my human friends, humanly. But my human training left me hyper-attuned to bodily shifts and tonal indicators that could mean almost anything, and usually nothing: did they glance down twice because they didn't like what I said? Did they say "haha" because they're laughing at me, or because they made a joke I didn't catch? Should I be laughing? Did they touch their hair because I made them uncomfortable? If someone is having a cow, can I pet the cow? (Idioms often reduced me to meltdown.) I also learned to memorize scripts from social skills books, which had the effect of making me appear more inhuman; nobody actually says things like let's set a time to discuss this topic later!

 

It should probably be noted that in the 90s/00s, where our story begins, people were not yet using the word autistic to describe me, although my mom did have me assessed at 18 months, and again at 24 months. (I was a hyperlexic headbanger / toy-liner-upper.) I was clinically described as emotionally stunted or withdrawn or, my favorite, extremely left-brained. I am a white woman, but I shared the symptoms of white boy autism; since I was not a white boy, however, I was not yet able to access their diagnosis or treatment. (I don't know if it was any better back then, honestly.) My autism hovered in superposition until I was 20; it desperately needed to be eliminated, but never directly named or discussed. It was flashcards and femininity training for me: the collective delusion shared by the adults in charge of my mental health was that the boys threatening to shave my head would have no choice but to back off if I simply smiled pigtailishly at them. (You have to want to be their friend, I was told, when I reported that this was not helpful. Why would I want to be their friend? I asked autistically, and bid farewell to the lone star populating the cosmos of my social skills sticker chart.) Nobody could decide if I was a genius or worthless, a liar or the world's most honest fool.

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I remain intrigued (yet unconvinced) by the idea that simply feeling or thinking something always makes it visible, that that feeling or thought looks the same on everyone, that that visual is immediately understandable by everyone, that every action and feeling is congruous; that there's a perfect 1:1:1 ratio between the mind (feeling) and body (facial expression) and resultant conclusion, in other words. Autistic or not, everyone on Earth has had the experience of not being able to convey what they're feeling for a million reasons, the inherent ineffability of feelings chief among them, much like everyone on Earth has had their expressions and feelings misunderstood. But my so-called "lack" of expression is part of my expression, not an aberration, because it's my expression, not yours; my joy is not your joy, and the expression I was trained to wear is, for me, a mask, and not one I always have the energy or desire to wear. I'm not broken or empty or inhuman; the definition of humanity and human expression has just been narrowed to one that precludes me.

 

Subjectivity and marginalization are rarely discussed in tandem with body language. When they are, it's either cliche (flirtatious Italian men) or fetishistic (demure Asian women). But there is no definition or mood specific to any one instance or sequence of body language; crossing your arms can signal boredom, contempt, or playfulness. So can rolling your eyes, clearing your throat, or turning your feet away from someone, whether those actions are done together or apart. This does not mean you shouldn't pay attention – and respond – to body language, because sometimes our bodies do say what we don't want to, or can't, and you should always err on the side of caution. I am a domestic violence survivor who has come to accept that my autism made me not only more susceptible to abuse but seen as deserving of it, or at the very least not really hurt by it. I've given up on being angry over the interiority I'm often disallowed; my interior is simply so alien to other people that no interior at all is apparently the easier conclusion. But body language "experts" (there is no governing board, official licensing, certification, or training) sell you on the idea that the body is the site of ultimate truth: the mouth can say one thing, and the body can say another, but the body never lies. (Is the mouth not part of the body?) It is a system of beliefs approaching religion: the belief that you are the lone translator in a sea of non-speakers. The belief that X always equals Y and X + Y always equals Z. That no one can ever lie to you or hurt you without your knowledge. That the bad guy always loses in the end, and it isn't all that hard to catch him - so long as you're the right kind of good guy. It's a heady fantasy, to be sure, but, like polygraphs, it's hogwash all the way down, because it's based on strict right-left brain lateralization that doesn't exist, biological / gender essentialism that doesn't exist, “microexpressions,” and the myth that 93% of communication is nonverbal. I would consider it a misguided but understandable defense mechanism were it not a worldview found nigh exclusively among the utterly bitchless. It is not unique to America but there is something uniquely American about it, which is why it's beloved by true crime fans, cops, and cop wannabes alike, and that alone is enough to get and keep my hackles up. Of course people supportive of policing as a form of social control - and its constituent reification of oppression - believe anyone "iffy" should be preemptively harmed, killed, or sent to jail; don't worry, they're guilty of something. Of course people who believe in smooth 1:1 ratios between body language analysis and violent crime express those views through nuanceless, merch-ready singsong hashtaggery; how else will you build a dropshipping empire off the back of other queens, queen?

 

We need each other to interpret each other, simply put. Translation is a dynamic act. We need time with each other to learn what is typical of each other and what is not, what is expressed under undue or as yet unspoken weight and what is expressed freely and joyfully; what is set and what is movable. Not for the purpose of gotchas but for the purpose of I've got yous. Not for the purpose of comparing tally marks but for the purpose of etching ourselves into each other's hearts. Even if my social needs are considered lower than average, I wish I had been taught how to ask questions, not to study people like insects in a jar. I wish I had been asked questions, not abandoned to my own jar, wearing my wings into dust. I was never lonelier than I was in middle school, counting the seconds until it was normal to look away, watching the rise and fall of someone's shoulders or lips, calculating the angle of their feet to see if what I had to say mattered to them. I learned sleight of hand because the guidance counselor said it would make kids like me, when in actuality it relieved me of the burden of looking at their eyes, because they were certain that the secret was in the coin. It wasn't: the flick of the wrist nobody knew well enough to interpret was me all along. But I could teach you its meaning, if you wanted to learn.

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