A Touch of the ‘Tism
Autism Spectrum Disorder is a neurodevelopmental disorder present from birth, characterized by restrictive behaviors and social deficits. While there is no known cause of autism, twin studies have revealed that autism likely comes from a combination of genetic and in-utero environmental factors. It is typically diagnosable at the age of three, though some people receive a diagnosis before their second birthday, and others receive a diagnosis in their late adult years.
I received my autism diagnosis at the age of fourteen, halfway through my first year of high school. It was four years in the making, and I was ecstatic to finally have access to the accommodation and help I needed. And yet, when I told my friends about it, they said that I “didn’t look autistic.” I wasn’t disabled; I was “differently abled.” I was told to call myself “a person with autism” rather than “an autistic person.” It was as though being autistic was dirty, a disability was shameful, and autism was ugly.
The past few years have brought about a wave of not only autism awareness but also autism acceptance. I rarely—if ever—hear those phrases anymore. Yet recently, a curious new phrase has worked itself into autism spaces: a touch of the ‘tism.
The first time I saw the phrase was in the caption of a TikTok edit of beloved Haikyuu!! character Kageyama Tobio. It read, “i believe he has a touch of the ‘tism.” I exhaled through my nose, then threw the TikTok editor a bone and liked the video. Suddenly, a new world opened across my For You page, and within a week, the phrase had spread throughout social media and into the real world.
And it didn’t seem that funny anymore. Sure, when I messed up in a social situation I could think Oops, that’s the ‘tism! and all felt well. But then people started to use it in reference to me. I would interrupt someone by accident or talk too fast and trip over myself, and suddenly someone in the group would say, “Oh! There’s your touch of the ‘tism.” It was condescending and made me feel just so so small.
It was demeaning. People were trying to understand, sympathize, connect with me—finally, finally!—by choosing phrases and sayings that isolated me from everyone else. I am just like you! Just like you, if you offer me patience and kindness and grace. I am not a child. I am not an “other.” Frustratingly, people feel comfortable talking to me like that not because we have that kind of rapport but because TikTok and other social media platforms have dripped out from our phones and into the real world. Online discourse and phrases are now leaking into our everyday vocabulary, perhaps without the critical thinking to understand if a phrase is appropriate outside of the Internet or to even understand what the implications of their slang might be. People feel entitled to be a part of the conversation on autism because they’ve seen a few TikToks or watched Love on the Spectrum or headcanon Sheldon Cooper as autistic without actually doing the research or taking the time to understand what autism means in the real world.
My issue with the phrase exists past its demeaning nature and into the core meaning beguiling the phrase: there is no such thing as having a “touch of autism.” Autism exists on a spectrum, but that spectrum is not “no autism” to “a lot of autism.” The phrases “everyone is on the spectrum” and “we’re all a little autistic” are untrue and harmful to actual autistic people by downplaying the impact the disability has on day-to-day functioning. The spectrum is more like a spectrum of severity in certain symptoms, leading to the level of support the individual might need. I have lower support needs than a lot of other autistic people and more support needs than others. That doesn’t make me less autistic than some and more than others—we are all the same amount of autistic. No one on the spectrum has just a touch of autism.
Anyone can have autistic traits, but that doesn’t make everyone a little autistic. Having autism is like being pregnant. Sure, you may have headaches, back aches, body tension, low bladder control, and bloating—but either you are pregnant or you are not. A sore back doesn’t make you a little bit pregnant the same way sensory needs don’t make you a little autistic. Autism is a neurological condition, a brain disorder, a physical difference in gray matter and frontal-temporal development. Can someone have just a touch of abnormal brain development?
The phrase “a touch of the ‘tism” is a symptom of the much more worrying quirk-ification of autism. Autism is no longer disabling; it is special interests! Comedy genius! A cool, niche sense of style! It is armchair diagnosable, and, if you didn't know, your favorite celebrity has it! Just listen to how Taylor Swift knows so many dog breeds; clearly, she cares so much and is so quirky and interesting because she's autistic. Surely, allistic people do not have hobbies or interests they care about.
This quirky perspective re-shifts the autism narrative away from the people who really need our support. I do not have any comorbid intellectual disabilities or learning impairments, but this is incredibly rare. I am often shocked at my success as a "face of autism" in the academic community because I am not representative of the average autistic person.
The average autistic person needs substantial support, typically from their family and aide team. The average autistic person does not speak until after their third birthday. Forty percent of autistic people are nonverbal. Thirty percent of autistic people have profound autism. They will likely never be fully independent, and are lucky to live without 24/7 care.
I am so lucky to live on my own. I am so lucky to have a full-time job. I am so lucky to have graduated college. Things that are just expected of other people are blessings for me, for my siblings, for every autistic person I know. And they are unobtainable for so many other people on the spectrum.
In everyone’s attempts to normalize and accept autism, it seems as though we have watered it down from the disability it is to some sort of fun personality quirk that is almost desirable to have.
Sure, autism has made me quirky, interesting, and different in the eyes of other people—but it has also made me question whether I am worthy of love, whether I am worthy to even exist.
Being alive and being human is our relationships and connections to other people. When you have a disability that inherently impairs this—that prevents and stops human interactions—suddenly, you’re not even alive at all. I am not a human; I am a robot. I cannot exist; how could I?
Autism, for me, is not a touch of quirkiness. It is not something ugly repackaged as something beautiful for easy consumption. It is constantly oscillating, changing, challenging, rewarding. It is something I needed to accept to continue living and something I now love because I chose to. But loving autism is not ignoring the difficulties it brings: it is embracing and facing them head-on.