As a ‘late-diagnosed’ autistic, receiving clinical confirmation of my neurotype offered more catharsis and meaningful support than I’d anticipated. It was still a complex road, however, to learn to live and create in full embrace of my wiring. I found myself pushing up against pervasive, pejorative stereotypes of autism, oft-repeated narratives that bore little resemblance to my internal experience, or framed those experiences through a distorted lens. While I knew I didn’t want to be reduced to those stereotypes, neither did I want to rebuild my sense of self in opposition to them. That pressure, to me, was at the root of respectability politics: this desire to stay safe by depicting yourself as the palatable exception to a denigrated rule. I wanted the freedom, and the courage, to experience the full extent of my being, and, when I chose, to allow others to experience it as well.
Just as two-dimensional, pathologizing narratives of neurodivergence had fed my internalized ableism, nuanced and compassionate narratives of neurodivergence deepened my capacity to embrace the complexity in myself and others, in life and in writing. These narratives offered multi-faceted depictions of people who–whether by inherent wiring or acquired coping–operated differently than what was societally-centered as ‘normal.’ Encouraged by the example of such stories, I wrote my first novel, Somewhere Soft to Land, with a neurodivergent protagonist who has many dimensions. I felt emboldened to allow Dzifa to be sharp, and messy, and tender, and misguided–to release her from the expectation to be likable or relatable and to let her be fully herself. Though there have been plenty over the years, I’m glad I can share at least four of the stories whose nuanced depictions of neurodivergence have moved and fortified me. I will describe as little of the plot of each book as I can manage, as each one is worth experiencing with as few preconceptions as possible. Still, a heads up that I may offer some indications of character arcs.
Hello, Beautiful by Ann Napolitano
Hello, Beautiful is the intricately-woven story of William Waters, a talented and withdrawn young man whose upbringing was devoid of affection, and the four Padavano sisters, who’ve grown up in a lively and affectionate (although no less complex) home. Each of the characters in this book is drawn with captivating dimensions, and William’s arc is one of the most nuanced, tender depictions of depression, and the aftermath of childhood emotional neglect, that I’ve read. I was drawn in by Napolitano’s descriptions of how William’s malaise shows up through his body, and through the actions he withholds as much as the ones he takes. Toward the start of Hello, Beautiful, William meets the charismatic, forthright Julia Padavano at Northwestern University. William’s experience falling in love with Julia is described as a kind of awakening: “In the middle of the quad, attention from a specific girl reeled in laughter from the nooks and crannies within him…William’s body—tired and bored by his hesitant mind—had to set off fireworks in his nerves and muscles to alert him that something of import was taking place.” I valued Napolitano’s embodied description, both of William’s burgeoning feelings toward Julia, and how those feelings related to, and contrasted with, what had become his default felt state.
In Hello, Beautiful, William’s dynamics with Julia reveal so much about the ways a depression that is deeply felt can be nonetheless unseen, especially if the person experiencing it appears able to ‘function’ externally as they’re expected to. We also see, both through William’s experiences with other members of the Padavano family, and through the presence of a compassionate mental healthcare worker, a gripping portrayal of how having your interior experiences finally seen and understood can be a powerful medicine of its own kind.
How Beautiful We Were by Imbolo Mbue
Compassion can have a delicate connotation, but I’ve personally found the practice of it to be quite knotty and gritty. I view compassion as the engine that enables us to turn toward that which fear and judgment may compel us to turn away from, and in so doing, we may begin to see what we judge in the ‘other’ in ourselves. In the powerful, hauntingly resonant novel How Beautiful We Were, a fictional African village named Kosawa is reckoning with, and resisting, an American oil company’s relentless exploitation. The novel opens at a village meeting where representatives from the company, Pexton, are in attendance, as is Konga, who usually does not attend the meetings. Konga is described as “our village madman,” and while I understand that the word “madman” isn’t the gentlest in today’s parlance, it is faithful to the context in which the book is set; more important, I felt, was the inclusion of the word “our.” We learn in the first chapter how Konga came to be as he is and how the other villagers regard him. There is a wariness and avoidance (he is considered cursed); there is, simultaneously, an acceptance and care, as the mothers in the village make sure he is fed. Though perceived to be disengaged from the daily affairs of the other villagers, Konga plays a catalytic role in the village’s resistance to Pexton’s abuse.
The villagers also regard his illness through a spiritual lens while still acknowledging its mundane impacts and expressions. I appreciated this layered way of regarding a person living with what’s described in the book as “phantoms following him”; the other inhabitants of Kosawa kept a distance from Konga, but they did not cast him out. There was something culturally affirming and compassionate to me in this depiction, in contrast with the more medicalized or carceral responses to which people with Konga’s symptoms are often subjected. I appreciated how Kosawa viewed Konga as one of their own, even as they very much noticed, and noted, his distinctions. The narrator does not sanitize or sidestep the grittiness of what Konga experiences or how he expresses himself. And still, if in an ‘us’ vs ‘them’ paradigm, people with Konga’s expressions may frequently be relegated to ‘them,’ in How Beautiful We Were, Konga was still perceived as part of the ‘us.’
Sure, I’ll Join Your Cult by Maria Bamford
I consider myself privileged when a good book unsettles me, but I’m not always in the mood for that level of intensity or recovery time. On other occasions, I appreciate stories that approach emotionally charged topics with a heavy dose of silliness, especially when they affirm that it’s okay, survivable, and potentially even enjoyable to be a little bit on the far side of quirky. Sure, I’ll Join Your Cult by comedian Maria Bamford blends humor with heart while writing about experiences which, in less comedic and compassionate hands, could be jarring to read. Through Bamford’s writing, I felt uplifted, held, and considerably more knowledgeable about the vast array of twelve-step programs.
In vivid, jovial detail, Sure, I’ll Join Your Cult illustrates Bamford’s experiences with mental illness, alongside her quest for belonging through the joining of any group–from multi-level marketing schemes and entertainment industry cults to the cult of family–that issued an invite. Similar to Bamford’s distinctive stand-up style, this book is upbeat, thought-provoking, bizarre in the best ways, and kind without being cloying. In a bespoke spin on content warnings, Bamford offers readers a series of icons to indicate when we might expect emotionally activating stories, recipes, or unsolicited financial information, among other factoids for which she wants us to be prepared. I came to the book anticipating Bamford’s humor and left it–yes, laughing till I cried–but also, feeling more grounded, less isolated, and thoroughly un-shamed about my own brain’s peculiarities. It’s fitting that a memoir which is largely about earnest yet ineffective attempts to feel welcome and included, itself offers a potentially healing solace to anyone who may feel a little adrift in the quest for meaningful connection.
Act Your Age, Eve Brown by Talia Hibbert
In the past decade or so, I’ve found the romance genre to be a fertile source of reparatively nuanced narratives featuring autistic protagonists, particularly autistic women of color. Given the traditional tendency to infantalize autistic adults (when autistic adulthood is even acknowledged), I value the representation of autistic characters with sexual agency, and with complex desires and romantic relationships. Talia Hibbert’s Act Your Age, Eve Brown, the third in the Brown Sisters series, is one of my favorites, because it offers two very different–yet, in the novel, steamily compatible–experiences of being ‘on the spectrum.’
Act Your Age, Eve Brown’s titular character is known in her family for a string of less-than successful attempts at forging a career and what they’d consider a steady way of life. After one such job fiasco, she finds herself at a countryside bed-and-breakfast run by the hyper-organized and frequently admonishing Jacob Wayne. I found it refreshing to get to know Eve, a black, neurodivergent woman whose warmth, compassion, and playfulness are well-illustrated in concert with the challenges she faces with forging a career path that feels right for her. Jacob may be the more stereotypically autistic character on the surface, but Hibbert brilliantly shows the care and thoughtful morality that lies beneath his seemingly rigid behavior. While I love an autistic superhero, it was also refreshing to read about autistic people with ordinary jobs, and ordinary talents, allowed to take up space on the page and in their lives without necessarily having some kind of world-saving capability. In addition to being a fun, sexy read, Act Your Age, Eve Brown is a beacon of autistic pleasure, and welcome affirmation that we can be so many things, besides and within our experiences of neurodivergence.
About the Author: kai alonté is a Ghanaian-American multidisciplinary artist based in Finland. Aside from her artistic work, she is lately studying somatics, facilitating creative workshops, and very very slowly learning Finnish. kai is a graduate of Trinity College Dublin’s creative writing M.Phil programme and previously studied linguistics and modern languages in the UK and the US.