If only neurotypicals would say what they mean

By Dayna Morris

As a neurodivergent person, my understanding of the world is that everyone else is playing a game for which only they know the rules. 

I always seem to be at a loss when dealing with the social subtleties and codes that people are supposed to know. I never intend to hurt anyone, and yet I often end up saying words that hurt people. 

One area I have trouble with is questions. 

Some are necessary.  When my doctor asks, "Do you need a refill of your prescription?" the response I provide gives her the facts that she needs to proceed. When my professor inquires what length of assignment extension I need, my answer is a necessary part of the negotiation. 

But some questions are not looking for information at all. They are simply requests for action, disguised as questions. 

When I was younger, my mom would ask me what my bag was doing in the front hall, so I would answer, “Just sitting.” However, what she meant was: “Please move it.” 

I now understand why my dad said I was being sassy when my reply to "Do you want to set the table?" was, "Not really." 

At first glance these questions appear to seek information or offer a choice, but secretly you are being told to do something.

My mom has provided the keys to help me unlock my family's social code. But then there are hidden meanings of strangers’ questions.

One kind I call social lubrication questions. These are often used by salespeople. They are meant to initiate conversation, even though a conversation is not really required. 

For example, I was standing in line at a Starbucks with my earbuds in. I was waiting to get to the front of the line to order my peppermint hot chocolate with lactose-free milk and no whipped cream at a child’s temperature. I was expecting to be asked, “What can I get for you today?” 

Instead, when I got to the front of the line, the barista, with her green apron and that little nametag that reminds me of a tiny chalkboard on her shirt, asked: "How are you doing?" 

I was floored. 

Does the barista at Starbucks care if I'm having a good day? I didn't know how to respond. 

I had a midterm in a few days, and it was online, so I was a bit nervous about that. I was still a little sad about my grandmother dying that summer. Also, my left shoe was rubbing my big toe. 

What would the barista do if I gave her all that information? Would I get a complementary therapy session with my drink? Would she offer me a Band-Aid for my toe? 

Instead of answering, I gave her my order. One part of my brain knew that wasn’t what she wanted, but the part that had been preparing for this interaction took over.

I've since come to understand, after several faux pas, that these questions are meant to build rapport. They aren’t meant literally. The other person just expects to hear: “I’m fine, thanks.” Did an email about that go out, and I missed it? 

Sometimes I struggle in social situations where I don’t have all the information up front.

This happened once when my family went to California, and we were visiting my great uncle. He had this big bandage on his face with bruising under it. No one told me that he had had some kind of skin cancer lesion removed, so I asked if he had been punched in the face. 

It was an honest question based on my concern for him. Everyone, including my uncle, found my query hilarious. But I was confused. 

I knew it wasn't likely that my 85-year-old uncle had been in a street brawl, but I also never thought a family member would have cancer and no one would tell me. Maybe I had been told, but more likely I was PWOL—an acronym my family uses to describe a state in which I frequently find myself, "present without listening." 

Some people might say that I don't have a filter between my brain and my mouth. But I don’t know how to be anything but 100 percent honest.

Thankfully, not everyone finds my opinions abrasive. My mom says that she likes going clothes shopping with me because she can always count on me to give her my honest opinion. I can’t decide if this is true or if Mom is just being nice to me. 

What typically happens is that she’ll go into the change room, then ask me if a shirt or whatever piece of clothing she is trying on is okay on her. I’ll tell her, “This colour in this shade doesn’t look good on you,” or “Maybe in a different size,” and she’ll listen to me. That's great when the shopping is low stakes. 

However, it was a different story when my mom went to get a dress for her mother's funeral. I was confused as to why she didn’t seem to be able to make up her mind. As she came out of the change room in each successive black dress, I didn't know what she meant when she said, "Does this look okay?" Did she mean, "Is this appropriate for my mother's funeral?" Or did she mean, "Does it fit right?" or even "Does it look good on me?" 

I knew that she was overwhelmed with sorting out the logistics of death and burial, so she valued my opinion. I remember standing in the middle of the mall and feeling confused as to why she couldn’t settle on anything. I wanted to ask her why she couldn’t make up her mind because all the dresses she tried on seemed to meet all the requirements for a funeral. I couldn’t find the right words to match what I was thinking. 

I wanted to tell her, “These are all equally good,” and be done for the day. But I felt like I was putting my need to be finished over her need to find a dress.

I ended up picking one at random and saying, "This is the best." Then I waited for my mom to pay and helped carry her dress to the car. Thank goodness she didn't need to find shoes, too. I don't think my brain could have handled that. 

But back to other weird questions. Sometimes people ask a question when the answer is obvious.

For example, everyone went back to my house after my grandmother’s burial, and people kept asking me how I was feeling. I knew they meant well, but I got annoyed because I didn’t know how to politely tell them, “I saw my grandmother slowly lose every part of herself to dementia, and then some kind of cancer. How do you think I’m feeling?” 

They could clearly see my red eyes and runny nose. What were they hoping to get from me? 

When I asked my mom how I should answer, she told me, "Just say shitty." I was shocked that for the first time in my life I was being given the green light to say what I was thinking. Is being a mourner like a get-out-of-jail free card when playing the game of life? 

I understand that people are curious by nature. But sometimes I don’t feel like sharing.

One time my family flew to California for my cousin’s wedding. I was listening to a podcast with my earbuds in, and the person in the seat next to me asked about the lanyard I was wearing. 

I was sporting a Sunflower Lanyard. A U.K.-based organization created this to help people with invisible disabilities receive the support they need when travelling. It gets me through security without the usual hassles and allows me to board early. 

My seatmate's question caught me off guard because it came from a stranger and I’ve never been asked about the lanyard before.

I wear this bright green strap of fabric with sunflowers on it to get support moving through the airport, which can be overwhelming for me. Not because I want to tell a stranger about my disabilities.

I wish my invisible disability didn't need to be announced with a card for me to get the support I need.

The challenge in all these situations is what to say if I'm not allowed to answer honestly. I don’t know how to come up with an answer that follows the social rules and remains honest to me. 

For instance, when asked to provide feedback for other people in my college class, I’m aware of the fact that I need to find something positive to say about their work. Conversely, I don’t want to feel as if I’m showering them with false praise. For some pieces of work, this is a lot harder than I’d like to admit.

There are times when I simply can’t find anything authentically good about the student’s work. I’m painfully aware of the fact that I struggle to find a way to rephrase my feedback so that it gets my point across kindly without sounding mean. I promise that there’s no malicious intent behind my words. 

These are situations where information needs to be transmitted, but the little bit of sugar that might help the medicine go down is just not in my pantry.

I’ve often wished life came with an app on my phone. 

It would have a pop-up menu with the right response to a question, so I could navigate the world more easily on my own.

It would be like when you’re talking to the non-playable characters in a video game, and that little pop-up menu of responses appears. 

It would work by listening in on my conversations and explaining the intent behind someone's words. I could choose between an appropriate response and an explanation of the other person’s motivation.

The app would stop the confusion I have with questions that don’t have straightforward answers.

Dayna Morris is a student in Sheridan College’s Creative Writing and Publishing Program in Mississauga, Ont. Her mother Maureen is co-chair of Holland Bloorview's Family Advisory Council.