My child’s not a genius, he’s much more than that
MY SON’S NOT RAINMAN by John Williams (Michael O’Mara £7.99)
For any parent of an autistic child, the most aggravating question is: ‘Does he/she have any special abilities?’ In other words, has your child got Hollywood autism — the ability to compose symphonies while playing blindfold chess, or recite pi to a trillion decimal places? Can he memorise multiple packs of cards in Las Vegas casinos, like Dustin Hoffman in the oscar-winning 1988 film rain Man?
When that film was released, my boss on a Welsh evening newspaper loathed it. He said everybody now assumed his autistic son must have mathematical superpowers.
A decade later, when my own younger son was diagnosed with autism, I was frustrated by the rain Man fallacy, too.
And nearly 20 years on, it is plaguing stand-up comedian John Williams, whose only child is autistic.
on behalf of us all, I’d like to say: ‘Stuff you, Dustin.’
My Son’s Not rainman is a celebration of all the autistic traits that are not miraculous, but which still bring swirling rushes of emotion into the lives of struggling families — sometimes great jolts of grief, sometimes manic fun and hilarity. And it is a letter of profound thanks for the way Williams’s child has forced him to experience the world in unimaginable ways.
Williams’s book, based on his hugely successful online blog, never reveals his son’s name. He is always just The Boy.
But it is brutally frank about everything else, including the collapse of the writer’s marriage and his mental breakdown, which led him to be sectioned before spending two years in and out of hospital. It’s easy to assume that the stress of caring for a toddler with undiagnosed autism triggered both the depression and the divorce.
Life is never a matter of simplistic causeand-effect, however. In fact, Williams (quick to blame himself, throughout the book) frets that his mental illness might have affected his son: statistics say autism is more common among the children of people with bipolar disorder.
Despite the traumas in the story, this is an entertaining and often very funny read. Williams has a naturally comic touch, and avoids the temptation to turn a book about his son into a monologue about himself.
one lovely chapter describes a chaotic disco at a school for children with special needs.
For parents, these occasions can be terrifying: there’s the constant dread that your child will be the only one unable to cope, the one who ruins it for everyone.
Williams describes the other youngsters at the party — the boy methodically licking every sausage roll, the blind girl lost in music in the centre of the floor. And then he sees his own son, blissfully wigging out to the disco beat, consumed by the pleasure of the moment. It is a joyful scene.
There are abundant laughs that will strike a chord with anyone with a disabled child or sibling. My favourite was a throwaway anecdote about a trip to an
aquarium, which cost £20 — and lasted 20 seconds: The Boy hurtled past the fishtanks screaming, ‘NEEE‑MMOOO!!’ and dashed out of the exit.
As someone who has sprinted through SeaQuarium in Weston‑ super‑Mare in pursuit of a child intent on diving into the terrapin tank, I did understand.
In other ways, The Boy and my boy are very different. Unlike mine, his is an able talker, though he finds it agonisingly hard to communicate his needs and feelings. When he was frustrated in his early school years, Williams Junior would resort to biting. It was an often effective method of getting what he wanted, but one that instantly alienated every other child and their parents, as well as all but the most insightful teachers.
This antisocial behaviour is described without apology. In fact, there’s a hint of pride, which I can understand — it’s rather fun to watch your small child demolish an officious adult’s air of smugness. That’s not admirable, I know, but in truth it is pleasurable . . . and this is a truthful book.
It is also a retort to all the psychologists and social workers who treat his son as a catalogue of pejorative jargon: ‘poor gross motor skills’, ‘lack of empathy’, ‘challenging behaviours’, ‘sensory difficulties’ and so on.
One of the hardest things for a parent is to concede to these damning descriptions — which you must if you are to get the help your child desperately needs — and then to go home and forget all of them.
Williams revels in fatherhood. He loves the horseplay, the silly pleasures, the chance to cock two fingers at the adult world. And because autism means The Boy is growing up so slowly, with emotions and pleasures much less mature than most lads of 13, his dad gets to enjoy his childhood for much longer.
What seems like a tragedy can turn into a blessing, if you enjoy it the right way. This book is one man’s account of how he learned to do just that.