Tuesday, November 18, 2014

The Sundance Kid is autistic (and no, I’m not qualified to diagnose, but I do know a thing or two about autism)

Two nights ago, while my seven-year-old daughter struggled with a pencil and paper to work out the answers to her math homework, my six-year-old boy listened to the problems and called out the answers.

It’s kind of neat (or annoying, if you happen to be a seven-year-old) that he can figure out the answers to second grade math problems in his head. What’s more remarkable (and even more annoying) is his technique. He runs at a high backed chair, throws himself at it headfirst, and calls out the answer to the problem as he lands in kind of a headstand. 

Dashiell reminds me of Robert Redford

You ever see Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid? it’s one of the greatest movies ever written (by William Goldman, who also wrote The Princess Bride, by the way). 

See it again. And take a close look at Sundance. The character. 

He’s introduced at a card game where he keeps winning. Dashiell’s like that. He figures out the way things work and then uses that knowledge to make them work better. At six, he can already beat me at checkers sometimes and no, that’s not saying a lot, but bear with me here because I’m going to make a point and it’s going to be a good one.

The man Sundance is playing against is convinced he’s cheating and it looks as if there’s going to be a shootout. Sundance doesn’t like to be called a cheater. The movie leaves it pretty ambiguous as to whether he actually cheats, but I’m convinced he doesn't because Dashiell wouldn’t. He knows the rules and he abides by them. He hates losing, but he hates cheating even more.

Look at this picture upside down and the resemblance is uncanny.
Butch Cassidy (Paul Newman) walks in and offers the man a way out. All he has to do is invite Sundance to stick around. He doesn’t have to mean it and Butch even promises that they won’t. He just has to make the gesture. My son is the same way, except for the shooting someone part. He has a powerful sense of right and wrong. Calling someone a cheater when he’s not is wrong but everything can be made okay if you simply acknowledge that you messed up.

As the Sundance Kid walks out, the card player calls after him. "Hey, Kid." But Sundance doesn’t respond. That’s my kid in spades. His mind is busy –– so busy that it’s sometimes impossible to get his attention. 

But the things that seals it? When Sundance needs to prove he can shoot in order to get a job as a payroll guard in Bolivia. Percy Garris, the mine owner, tosses a piece of clay or wood or something into the street and tells him to shoot it. Maybe it’s a plug of tobacco.

Sundance misses. 

“Can I move?” Sundance asks. When he moves, he can’t miss. Put my kid in a chair and make him sit still and he can’t even begin to do the math he’s supposed to be learning in first grade. But let him loose…

I don’t know if William Goldman intended it, but I’m going to say he’s written The Sundance Kid to be autistic. I know what you’re thinking. Redford makes eye contact. He holds a conversation. He’s funny. Even charming. He’s also principled, dedicated, and extraordinarily physical.

The sign needed straightening.
All these things are like my son. My son who can climb anything, has a hard time responding when people try to get his attention, believes intensely in fairness, and can solve second-grade math problems in his head, but only when he’s running full tilt at a chair. 

Autism isn't limited to the stuff we used to think it was. I know this because Dashiell was diagnosed as autistic about six months ago. 

I always knew my boy was a little quirky. Now we have a word for what makes him different, a word that doesn’t change him at all, but hopefully can get us some understanding and extra support at school where they seem to think sitting in a chair is the only way to solve a problem.

If not, maybe my son will grow up to be a notorious outlaw.

Tuesday, November 4, 2014

The Ratio of Elsa To Anna And What It Means

Anna? Where are you?
This Halloween, my seven-year-old daughter went trick-or-treating as Elsa. You know, Elsa? From Frozen?

If you haven’t seen Frozen, you’re either living under a rock or don’t have a seven-year-old daughter and my guess is you’re not living under a rock.

Frozen is an animated film about two sisters –– princesses –– the older one of whom has difficultly controlling her power to make stuff freeze. When she –– Elsa –– ascends to the throne, she inadvertently unleashes her power on the assembled and runs away in fear, leaving the kingdom in an icy grip. The younger sister –– Anna –– goes after her and it’s only through Anna's love that she can save Elsa and the kingdom.

Anna is the protagonist. She’s also the more interesting of the two. But like I said, my daughter decided to dress up as Elsa. As did her best friend. And, based on my very unscientific research, 97.23% of girls between five and nine who expressed a preference.

In fact, a dear friend of mine –– Tamara Thompson, founder of the brand strategy consultancy SenseTruth –– happened to be at Disneyland on Halloween and mentioned that of the thousands of princesses she saw, just about the only ones she saw dressed as Anna were pretty obviously the younger sisters of girls dressed as Elsa and too young to have chosen their costumes themselves. In fact, when two sisters were older than around four,  it was apparent that both insisted on being Elsa.

This squares with what I noticed at a Frozen sing-along I took my kids to at a local park this summer.

The question is, what does this tell us? Why do girls want to dress not as the hero of the movie –– the one who’s brave and funny and resourceful and kind –– but as the character who inadvertently hurts others, runs away from the problems she creates, and needs someone else to rescue her?

In my daughter’s case it can be explained by the fact that Elsa wears a turquoise dress. Turquoise is my daughter’s favorite color and has been since… um, well, since she first saw Frozen.