Defeated by Shakespeare

This evening, Martha and I were invited to a picnic and a night of Shakespeare, courtesy of WFCR, our local public radio station. I presume they did this because we are supporters of public radio, but I’m not sure. Martha had a printed invitation.

We arrived on time, a few minutes after six, at the Hartsbrook School in Hadley, on whose grounds the event was being held.

We walked to the door, where we were greeted by Mike, from Fund Raising. He was flanked by Steve, representing Major Donors, and Jim, from Development. They gave us name tags on which they’d written “John,” and “Martha,” and motioned us to the food line. “Where’s Gerry?” I asked, wondering if anyone I knew would be there. “He’s not here,” Steve said.

Oh.

I don’t do very well standing in lines. Never have. Most autistic kids I meet don't do lines either. We fidget, bounce, and become noisy. Even at my age. I just know enough to step out of the line so it's not evident.

After a few minutes, having abandoned the line and examining the surrounding vegetation and paving stones, I walked forward to see where it led. Well, it led to a pile of sliced chicken. I don’t eat chicken. I quietly abandoned the line. Martha remained to the end in order to obtain fruit and pasta salads. She doesn’t eat chicken either.

While she stood in the line, I walked around the room. Passing at least a hundred people, and seeing no one familiar, I went outside, where signs directed me to an outdoor stage, in front of which several hundred folding chairs had been set up. The show was not scheduled to start for almost another hour. What were we supposed to do? On the chairs I observed another fifty or sixty people, all of whom were also unfamiliar.

I walked out front, where Steve from Major Donors said brightly, “Looking for some fresh air?” “Yes,” I said, thinking he might offer me some from his private stock, hidden beneath the tablecloth. But he didn’t. Nothing happened. After a minute, I turned and went back in, continuing to consume the same air as everyone else.

I became more and more uncomfortable. I went in and stood with Martha, and my discomfort did not moderate. She said, “You can talk to me.” And that’s true, I could. But I was not comfortable doing so, with all those unfamiliar people around. So I didn’t. After a few more minutes, I said, “OK, let’s go.” And with a few more words, we left.

What went wrong?

Well, I don’t ever go into places where I don’t know anybody, and there is no context for my being there. I do not have the social skills to make my way among a crowd where I know no one, and no one knows me. Consequently, I avoid situations like that.

I realized I do OK in other social settings because I only place myself in situations where I am surrounded by context. People see me as John Robison, a Land Rover expert, or a business owner, or writer, or something. The “something” gives people a way to begin talking to me. Since I can’t walk up to them, cold, that’s essential for social success. I place myself in places where people can talk to me.

If the people do not talk to me, at least some, I become even more uncomfortable. I see them talking to one another, and it’s clear that some kind of social interchange is taking place, and it does not involve me. Since I am not on the inside, I must be an outsider, and consequently, I may find myself singled out as the others band together and turn on me as some kind of intruder. They could even attack.

What should I do? Experience from my youth says: leave before anything goes wrong.

Additionally, I don’t go places where I might incur some perceived obligation to someone I don’t know, because I don’t understand the subtleties of social obligations like that. The people I knew from public radio, were not there. The people who were there, I did not know. Who knows what they might have wanted from me? Best not to find out.

Realizing that I did not know a single person there, I suddenly did not want to place myself in unquantifiable debt to strangers, eating their food or attending their event. What might they expect in return?

I was glad I had not picked up a plate, a possible symbol of social obligation. I had a Shakespeare program that someone had given me, but I discreetly set it down on a table and backed away. No one noticed.

I don’t really know how to sit in the audience at plays, concerts, and performances. I can photograph them, or do sound, or run lights, or even work in production. The role of being in the audience, though, is unfamiliar and scary. The audience is where the crowds are. And crowds, as I saw in Savannah in 1979, can swarm and even riot. When I was in the music business, I was almost killed on several occasions by crazed, rioting crowds. Thirty years later, I guess I haven’t forgotten. I always keep the exit in sight.

I am not at all comfortable sitting in the midst of a crowd, at any time, for any reason.

Thinking about tonight, I feel a little sad. I’ve come a long way, learning to be a social and friendly-looking Aspergian. But at times, I am still reminded how big a gulf exists between me and those cheerleaders and football captains – the folks who could make friends with everyone – back in high school.

I might look like I have social skills, and for a misfit, I do. But I’m still a long way from normal. Still, I’m the best I know how to be, and I guess that’ll have to do.

And now, it’s dusk. Shakespeare is there. And I am here.

I’ll send public radio a donation.