Earlier this month, I got an email from an arts initiative asking for me to mentor a young Autistic creative for six months.
Naturally, I had to decline. While I stated to them that “my previous time commitments and workload mean it will be impossible for me at the moment”, my reasons were actually a bit more complex than that:
- I have many things more important on my plate.
- It was a voluntary gig, and unless the gig was something I’d do in my heart of hearts (see: curating for the UAL and being paid in lunch), FUPM.
- The initiative has about 200 fewer Instagram followers than me, which is a feat – up until recently, I’ve been shit on the platform!
- The main reason: it was a pairing envisioned from a neurotypical perspective. Having been paired with an Autistic mentor myself in the past solely because we were both of that neurotype, I felt this was a recipe for disaster. While I was originally stoked about being paired with them because they had a wonderful reputation, we did not get on well at all; they felt too critical.
What The Neurotypicals™ can’t seem to grasp is that if you’ve met one Autistic person, you’ve met one Autistic person. Granted, about 60% of us have Steven Universe and The Owl House as two of our top three TV shows. Yet, even in that demographic, there’s still a lot of diversity, not just about what the third show in the top three is, but about their favourite aspects of the shows, or if they consider them special interests or not. Simply put: we’re not monolithic.
For me, this well-meaning allism hasn’t just happened in the workforce. I’ve been set up on fairly predatory dates with Autistic men twice in my life. The first time, I was 16 and he was 21 and balding. Despite going to ComicCon with him, talking to him was like talking to a brick wall. He did look like a boy Bella Thorne, but if I wanted to date Bella Thorne I’d date Bella Thorne!
Almost five years ago now, I was set up on a date by an acquaintance that I trusted. My mystery blind date was a friend of theirs, also Autistic, went to Wimbledon College of Art, seemed like he’d rock my socks off.
That was not the case at all. He looked like Shrek (in ogre form obvs), only went to Wimbledon for his foundation before going to art schools no-one has ever heard of, was a decade older than me at 31 and was perving over an 18-year-old’s toenails! Decent painter though. He was one of those Autistic guys who, if he had a dating profile, there’d only be one full stop in his bio, if any.
LYLANI DIGRESSES
I’m about to go back on the dating apps One Last Time before I accept my fate as the crankiest crazy cat [demi]lady in East London. Even though I well and truly know it’d make sense that I should date a fellow neurodiverger, I have observed most Autistic men on the apps having bios that run on more than Oprah’s attempt at a pop career. I can therefore gather from that that they’re the type of autist to either be boring to hang around with to the point of wasting time, or to violate my boundaries and be pushy if I stand my ground.
Meanwhile, the Autistic women and nbys I’ve seen on the apps have all been decent at best. Another L for men in general?
The person who set me up ended up appearing in one of the BBC’s controversial oneness idents. Fitting, because it felt like I’d been on the oneness of dates – great on paper (MARTIN PARR!) but dull to abhorrent in practice.
Essentially, if you want to cultivate a relationship, whether in love, career or another avenue entirely, make sure that the parties involve aren’t just compatible on paper, but have shared interests and goals beyond the superficial. Just because we’re on the same spectrum doesn’t mean we’re at exactly the same point on it, and even if we are, we might just cancel ourselves out by getting angry at our extremely similar routines and rituals.
