Funny Not Funny

Just before the winter break, my kid brought home a paper titled “The Gift of Words.” It was a way for each student to “gift” each other with the positive reasons why the other kids like you. It was written in about 20 handwritings, and the list of reasons took up the entire page.

“You are awesome. You are my best friend,” read the first line.

Aww, what a sweet idea, I thought.

“You are my most funniest and jolliest friend with so much to laugh about.”

Isn’t that nice?

“Diego is smart, funny, and awesome.” “You’re very kind, funny, and a great friend.”

My heart swelled a little. My boy is funny. We laugh all the time.

“You are really funny.” “Funny and over-all great.” “You are kind and very funny.”

Wow, Diego. I guess you’re funny.

“You are very kind and very funny.” “Funny and nice.” “Nice and funny.”

Hmm, Diego, they really must think you’re funny.

“You are very funny.”

Ok, he’s funny!

“You are funny and nice.”

Ick, my smile gets crooked.

“Funny…” “…funny…”

I get it, he’s funny, but is he really that funny? Does he tell lots of jokes that I am unaware of? Does he say funny things? Does he talk funny? Is he trying to be funny, or do the kids just find him funny because the kid has no filter, wears no mask, hides nothing, delights in the squeaking of sneakers on linoleum in the middle of class and the shadow his head makes when he eclipses the overhead projector light with his head, which elicits giggles from his classmates? I wondered. Is he really being funny consciously, or does he just make them laugh?

I admit. Telling me what you want for lunch by spelling out “Celeste pizza” with dominos and knocking them down when I walk in the room is funny. The way your head got trapped inside your shirt because you couldn’t find the neck hole and you walked in saying “I’m hiding” was cute and we both laughed. That morning you told me I had yellow teeth and a mustache, I did laugh out loud. But you weren’t trying to make me laugh. You are just cute. You are just … funny.

That word gift paper sent me into a little existential examination of my life. Is autism funny? Is it supposed to be funny? Can it be funny? Should it be funny?

Few things are truer than this: you’re screwed on this autism journey without a robust sense of humor. Just like my son who can see the beauty in the swirling of a toilet flushing and the Zen of a spinning ceiling fan, I can usually find the humor in most things.

Not all hilarity is instantly apparent, though. One minute, I might be in the throes of a nervous breakdown, but later I can usually find that laughable little detail, the hint of absurdity, or the mirthful madness of a manic moment. But is it really inherently ‘funny’?

Time has passed since we first boarded the Autism Express for a train ride we could never get off. Those first miles were rough before we learned to ride those rails with style and grace – and wit.

It was far from funny to find out my 1-year-old was autistic. Through the battles with health insurance, a grueling year-long residency in Canada, and the struggle to get my emaciated 3-year old to eat enough to grow out of his 18-month-old baby clothes, we were constantly struggling at the bottom of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. (I do recall desperately trying to get him to eat spaghetti – so desperate once that I sprinkled rainbow Jimmies on top to get him to eat it. That is actually kind of funny. What was funnier was the look he gave me and he still wouldn’t eat it).

Back then I was still in the I-need-to-cure-my-kid mode trying a number of different biological treatments and neither my wallet nor I was laughing and it would be months before I would discover the deliverance of the happy pill.

My “Intro to Autism is Funny 101” session came years ago when I attended an autism seminar by Dr. Barry Prizant, one of the best in the field.

Most attendees were professionals – speech pathologists, occupational therapists, and behavior specialists. There were some real-life case study videos of some adorable kids receiving sensory/behavior therapy. It was as if they were looking into the window of my own home. That boy up there on the screen was like my boy. My heart was broken watching it. Which is why when all the educators around me started laughing, I became confused.

I looked to Baby-daddy. My mouth opened to speak. My lip quivered. “Why are they laughing?” Meanwhile, the boy in the video resisted interaction, threw things, and made distressing noises. The people laughed. “It’s not funny,” I sobbed. “It’s not funny.”

What I didn’t understand yet was that these people were used to autism. They had seen it before and they laughed as if they had it all figured out. They found it cute. These people could speak the language of autism. I was still the grieving mother whose child would only look at her when he wanted to nurse or when she blew bubbles in the house for him. I couldn’t see the humor then. It wasn’t funny.

You know what else wasn’t funny? Fighting with schools. Even looking back today, I can’t find much to laugh at when it came to my child’s education. Well, except that one time when the pre-school paraprofessional came out after school and said to my non-verbal learning-to-talk son, “Diego, did you tell ya muthah you was {sic} countin’ yesterday?” (Yeah, she was gone the next day). I didn’t laugh then when it wasn’t so very funny, but I laugh about it now.

The day I made the decision to have the g-tube put in when my son was 5 years old wasn’t too funny, either. There’s nothing amusing about the medical term “failure to thrive” which I interpreted as “failure to mother.”

The two eighth-graders I recently saw walking behind my son on the way to school found Diego’s slanted skip-run rushing to school beneath the weight of an over-stuffed backpack and Chromebook slung across his shoulder funny. They amused themselves as they mocked him, thinking no one was watching. But I was. I didn’t laugh.

Most of the time it’s hard to tell where the autism ends and our life begins. Does autism make Diego funny or does he make autism funny? In the end, when Diego and I are happy and laughing, does it matter why? As long as we have plenty to laugh about, I guess we’re doing this autism thing right. I guess our senses of humor are doing what they are supposed to do.

When I pick him up from school today he will call me a spank-butt and we’ll laugh as he hits my behind. I’ll take a look at the daily digital photos taken of his school lunch – the ‘before’ photo of a steaming hot dog in a bun, the ‘after’ photo of the unrecognizable remains of a mutilated picked-apart bun that makes me chuckle. He’ll play “O Come All Ye Faithful” on the organ in April and I’ll giggle. Because autism’s funny like that.

Autism is no joke. But for us it’s a riot sometimes. (Like today when autism is a giant wall of stacked pepperoni Celeste pizzas coming down the check-out conveyor belt towards a Stop & Shop clerk who gives me a weird look and I have to laugh … and you’re free to join me).

By Jean Perry

 

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