Chapter 1:
Mask Off
May 19, 1998: that’s a day I remember well. It was a Tuesday. With my rumpled copy of Robert Jordan’s The Great Hunt tucked firmly into my backpack, I make my way into programming class. That’s my first-period subject, which — in Saltfleet High School — starts at the most ridiculous time. 8:13 in the morning. Not 8:00. Not 8:30. Not 8:15. Nope, 8:13.
I sit down next to a friend who went by the nickname, “Lip,” which I will use in place of his real name. We’re both reading The Wheel of Time series, and we discuss our theories about the books while working on the database programs that would be our final projects for the year.
At some point, Sarah and Jen — also not their real names — call me over to their table. Sarah is shy and quiet, but I’ve heard the other guys talking about her, and I know they think she’s hot. I personally have no opinion on that because, at this point in my life, I’m still pining for the zaftig girl who broke my heart six months earlier. Don’t ask me about that one. Let’s just say that I deserved it.
Jen is one of those girls who knows she turns heads. At least that’s what I get from her demeanour. And that’s relevant because she’s about to ask me a favour.
She opens with a few questions about the book I’m reading, which is sitting on the table, next to my keyboard, with its paperback cover bent. Her tone makes it clear that she couldn’t care less about high fantasy; in fact, she’s speaking to me the way my babysitter used to when I was seven years old — with exaggerated emphasis on certain syllables to feign interest in something that is clearly made for little children. Autistic people get that sort of thing a lot.
I don’t know if Jen realizes that I’ve noticed her condescending attitude. What’s more, I don’t even know if she realizes that she’s being condescending. From her point of view, she probably thinks she’s being nice. And I do appreciate the effort. So, I answer her sincerely and tell her about the Wheel of Time.
After about thirty seconds of small talk, she looks at me with a shy smile and big, brown eyes and says, “Can you help me with my program? I can’t figure out why it’s not working.”
Her problem is a nested if statement that she coded wrong. I clear it up in about three seconds. And then — because Jen is a genuinely kind and decent person — she asks me a few more questions about my book. This time, her tone is sincere.
When I get back to my desk, Lip mutters, “I don’t know why you help them.”
“I like helping people,” I reply. “Do you think Rand will ever cleanse the taint?”
“You know they don’t actually like you, right?”
“Who? Jen and Sarah?”
“Yeah. They think you’re a loser.” I’m genuinely mystified that Lip thinks I don’t know that.
He stares at me with a coldness in his blue eyes, the beginnings of a ragged beard lining his jaw. He’s got the whole skater aesthetic with the extremely baggy jeans and the wallet chain. This was 1998. Everyone looked like an idiot. “Yeah, Jen’s hot,” he says. “But she doesn’t actually like you. When she’s nice to you, it’s fake.”
Once again, I’m baffled as to why he thinks I don’t know this. Does he think that I would only help Jen out of some faint hope that maybe she would go out with me? Has the concept of doing something kind and expecting nothing in return never occurred to this man?
Suddenly, I wonder if Jen sees it the way Lip does. Does she think I’m just some idiot who is falling for her charms? This bothers me quite a bit. I don’t mind helping her, but I don’t like being seen as some rube who is easily manipulated.
About a week later, I would tell Jen — apropos of absolutely nothing — that I didn’t mind helping her, but I wasn’t interested in her romantically. Needless to say, that didn’t go over well. The poor girl was mortified.
But all of this is just a preamble. You see, the big aha moment is about fifteen minutes away. So, let’s get to the meat and potatoes, shall we?
Lip looks at me, and he says, “You’ll always be an outcast. I’ll always be an outcast. That’s just the way it is.”
I don’t argue with him. Deep down inside, I know that it’s true. I’ve been living with that reality for so long, it doesn’t really hurt anymore. But Lip seems intent on proving his point. “It doesn’t matter how many nice things you do. They’ll never see you as one of them.”
I nod.
Because he’s right.
The bell rings, and I find myself walking through the ridiculous pink and blue hallways of Saltfleet’s second floor. Within about thirty seconds, the corridor is packed. I have to dodge around clusters of girls in bellbottoms and boys in baggy jeans that are at least three sizes too large.
I don’t bother going to my locker because the challenge of switching books between every period means that I’ll be late for every class! Yay, executive function deficits! So, instead, I just shove everything into my school bag and walk around with fifty pounds strapped to my back. I have to replace the knapsack every two months because they rip from constantly carrying around all that weight.
Halfway through my aimless wandering during the fifteen-minute break, I start to think about what Lip said. It doesn’t matter how many nice things you do. They’ll never see you as one of them.”
He doesn’t get it. I don’t do nice things because I think it will change my status. The devotees of psychological egoism desperately want to believe that every altruistic action must have a selfish motivation. So, if that’s you, dear reader, let me put your mind at ease. There is a selfish component behind my random acts of kindness.
They make me feel warm and fuzzy inside.
That’s it.
Fixing the flaw in some random girl’s algorithm eases the pain of living in a world where I often feel helpless and powerless. For a few brief seconds, I get to feel like I’ve accomplished something. And I’m still young enough to believe that all these little acts of kindness will add up. If enough people follow my example, it will tip the scales of good and evil and fix this broken world. So, I guess I’m a bit of a megalomaniac. But these are the thoughts that tumble through my little, autistic brain.
But Lip’s musings have reminded me of my place in the grand scheme of things. I’ve tried the whole stay quiet and keep my head down approach. It doesn’t work. I was quietly walking home by myself, not bothering anybody, when this kid from my gym class comes around the corner from a neighbouring street and decides, on a whim, that he’s gonna beat me up. He failed. I guess the Tae Kwon Do kicked in. Thanks, Mom. But I’m quite convinced that the only reason he backed off was the possibility that I might fight back.
Did I mention that gym class was over a year ago? I haven’t crossed paths with this kid in over a year. Why did he want to beat me up? I don’t know. Because I was there? You see, I don’t actually have to do anything to provoke these people. Simply existing in the space is crime enough.
A few days after that, someone superglued my locker closed, and I had to ask the janitor once again to cut the lock off. This would be the fourth time that happened since the start of the school year.
A few weeks earlier, some kid from the grade ahead of mine started following me with a video camera, throwing packs of condiments at my back just to see if he could get a reaction. And when it worked, when I finally lost my temper, he and his friends started giggling. I could tell you more stories, but I’m sure you get the point. My life is an endless litany of reminders that I am not wanted.
At this point, someone usually says, “You know, people wouldn’t pick on you so much if you just weren’t so weird.” Yeah…I’ve tried that too. Avoid speaking ninety percent of the thoughts that pass through my head, resist the urge to grip the hem of my shirt in public — which is called stimming, by the way.
These attempts by autistic people to blend in? There’s a name for that too. It’s called masking. Masking is what happens when we suppress our autistic tendencies in public so that people won’t think we’re weird. It requires an enormous amount of mental effort. It’s like running your brain at full power, using one hundred percent of your mental resources and being hyper-vigilant for hours on end. When it’s over, we are always exhausted and miserable. Why do you think so many of us hate social gatherings?
As I wander those pastel hallways, it dawns on me that Lip is right. It’s just a fact of life. I will never be “one of them.” And they will take every opportunity to remind me of that. They are going to throw ketchup and superglue my locker and occasionally beat the crap out of me no matter what I do.
So, I may as well do whatever I want.
And what I want more than anything else is to stop masking. So, what if I just…stopped? I mean, what are they gonna do? Superglue my locker twice as often? Increase the frequency of random attacks in the park? Steal my schoolbag again? Good luck with that one! The damn thing’s a boulder!
A lesson in power for you, dear reader. Never push someone to the point where they feel like they have nothing to lose. Because that’s the moment when they become dangerous.
I’m standing there in the hallway, my heart pounding. The world just changed, and no one noticed. Well, how could they? It’s not their world. But okay, Rich. You took the mask off. Now, what?
Well, what’s something that you really want to do, that you would never let yourself do? Not in a million years. At this particular moment, I’m filled with the urge to sing. The dumbest of all songs, actually: “Heroes,” by the Wallflowers, which earned a lot of radio play that spring because it was part of the Godzilla soundtrack.
I start humming as I walk through the hallway. After about ten seconds, I add words. Then I get a little louder. By the time I reach the next intersection, twenty-some-odd kids are looking at me.
One of them shouts something. All these years later, I can’t remember what, but I know it was intended as an insult. So, I stand at the end of that corridor, spread my arms wide and bow to the crowd. Then I look up and lock eyes with the heckler.
A bunch of them are laughing, but it doesn’t matter. Because for the first time in my life, I feel powerful.
