When dealing with people of any race, gender, religion, or disability, labeling is a touchy subject. In order to identify people we sometimes need to classify them. And how can government assistance be given to individuals without grouping them in some way? Yet nobody wants to be labeled.
There are disadvantages to labeling a child as “Asperger’s Syndrome,” or “Pervasive Developmental Disorder,” or “Learning Disabled.” With those classifications, expectations are set-up. The person hearing the label now assumes that the child will behave a certain way. A teacher, for example, might treat a child differently, either babying her, or allowing her to get away with inappropriate behaviors. People don’t expect greatness in labeled kids. Failure is assumed.
I remember going through a period of time where I knew something was different about my son Kyle. I became obsessed with finding a diagnosis. I needed a label. I wanted to know what “IT” was: the unknown mysterious condition he had. I remember talking to a doctor once who said, “With or without a name, you already know what it is. You’re living with it every day.” I suppose I felt that a diagnosis would be the beginning of treatment. In many ways it was, and yet it’s also true that the “name” never mattered.
An unfortunate neccesity?
It’s a mixed thing. If my son weren’t classified as “autistic,” he could not receive the special education and assistance that he currently does. Heck, he couldn’t get in the shorter lines at Disneyland without it. And I’ll admit that sometimes having that word—“autism” at my disposal has been handy to explain his curious behaviors. For example, Kyle once caused a bit of a disturbance in an auto body shop. Kyle, who is typically meticulous about doing things just-so, came out of the bathroom and caused a scene. I was shocked, and so were the onlookers. “I apologize,” I said aloud. “My son is autistic.” Almost immediately, compassionate looks and kind smiles fell upon all the faces in the room.
Still, it bothers me to call Kyle “autistic.” First of all, although he technically has enough symptoms to fit the diagnosis, many of his behaviors are not typical of autism. For example, he is affectionate and gives hugs to the people he cares about. This is absolutely contrary to a classic definition of the disorder. Kyle is, in every way, a unique individual. He is artistic. He’s a geography-wiz. He’s fanatical about his Nintendo games. He loves eating apples. Kyle is so much more than “autistic.” He’s my quiet, smiling companion, a simple person who expects little and loves much.
No one can label my child.
But how do I explain that to the guy who gives us a special ticket at the amusement park? I can’t. I can’t possibly convey Kyle’s strengths, weaknesses, uniqueness, and character in three minutes. So I use the label. “He’s autistic,” I say, and the guy nods. I show some papers to verify Kyle’s condition. I’m glad the word can lend some understanding, yet ultimately it explains nothing.
The guy says, “Yeah, I have a second cousin with autism, so I know.”
I smile faintly.
“Oh do you?” I think to myself, certain that he couldn’t know much. You just can’t label my son with a single word. “Well, thank you,” I say, taking the ticket. And Kyle and I start down Main Street.
Kristyn Crow is the author of this blog. Visit her website by clicking here.