Annoying People Are People, Too
by True Oberlin Autist
More than postmodern theory and whatever, my time at Oberlin has taught me that there’s a limited set of socially acceptable ways to be weird. My autism, which had previously made my social life miserable, endeared me to my first-ever big friend group freshman year. It was cool that I knew a lot about music and books. It was cute that I was socially awkward and bad at reading sarcasm. I was not only embraced, but accommodated. My friends just told me when they were messing with me so I didn’t have to guess. They were reassuring when I made any kind of social misstep.
But when an autistic person who struggled more socially tried to befriend someone in my group, my friends exercised very little patience. Another friend in our group was telling me the person was so annoying and weird, and our friend should just tell them to fuck off. I said—tentatively, as one does in freshman year—it felt weird and bad to talk like this about someone clearly on the spectrum.
My friend replied, “Well, you’re autistic, and you’re not annoying.”
The autism that most of my woke peers “accept” is a cluster of inoffensive symptoms cherry-picked from what used to be called Asperger Syndrome, now “Level I autism” (my diagnosis) or “autism with low support needs.” It’s okay to stim, fidget toys are cute and fun! It’s interesting and quirky to have an absurd depth of knowledge about some niche interest—except when it’s something lame and stereotypical (and common, empirically speaking) like trains or computers. Being a little weird in general is (supposedly) celebrated at Oberlin. There’s a sense of abstract empathy for the hardships autistics face institutionally and interpersonally: alienation, discrimination, abuse.
I believe my friend who said I wasn’t annoying in that conversation years ago didn’t know any better. After all, the most visible autism-related content is limited to A) cutesy TikToks and Instagram posts by autistic people about their social struggles, stimming, and special interests with the aim of preaching autism acceptance, and B) anti-vax parents whose children have high support needs scaremongering about autism as a fate worse than death. It’s this virtually shapeless autism acceptance applied only to endearing and/or sympathetic traits (which is what interests my peers) versus the treatment of higher support needs autism as a cancer on society, whether it manifests as parents’ blatant hatred of their autistic children or—on the decidedly more sympathetic side—as parents grappling with what their children’s lives will look like after they’re no longer around to take care of them. I think my peers would be inclined to treat autistic people with especially high support needs compassionately, too.
The autistic people somewhere in between appear to fall through the cracks. When I went on about rock subgenres or repeated the same joke for days, it was fine, but when the aforementioned person’s lacking social instincts manifested as bugging my friend unawares, suddenly no one cared to meet an autistic person on their level. This doesn’t only apply to an autistic person doing something that reads as wilfully ignoring someone’s boundaries or, at worst, outright aggression. I’ve been in several classes where there’s That One Person who talks too much, too loud, with too much enthusiasm. They dominate class discussions and interrupt lectures to chime in with memorized obscure details on whatever subject. This behavior is irritating. But bonding with classroom acquaintances over complaining about and mocking them is punching down.
Autistic people aren’t exempt from the general population’s moral standards. Interrupting classmates and professors is disrespectful. It’s unacceptable to keep communicating with someone who is unwilling to reciprocate to a degree that makes them uncomfortable. But we’re operating at a disadvantage, some of us more than others. Our physical brains have functional differences that make social skills inherently harder to master. Even as someone considered “high-functioning,” I’ve practiced for years to be as able as I am to make and keep friends, interpret tone of voice and body language. I’m still painfully aware that I come across as weird, and even in recent months, I’ve dealt with people in school and at work who have treated me poorly for it. It will never not be a challenge.
Still, I’ve had a far easier time than many of my autistic peers. Being capable of attending college doesn’t necessarily translate to strong social skills. That One Person may be a geoscience prodigy, but they probably struggle with or straight-up don’t know the social rules you think everyone does. If you’ve designated That One Person as your friend group’s unwitting verbal punching bag, you’re not as woke as you think you are—you’re a bully. On a smaller scale, refusing to communicate conscientiously but firmly with an autistic person who’s bothering you (in a relatively harmless manner, obviously) and instead badmouthing them to all your buddies isn’t just mean, but also ineffective.
Allistics don’t owe autistic people their friendship. It isn’t allistic young adults’ responsibility to coddle their autistic peers in every social situation. What you do owe your autistic peers, though, as everyone owes each other, is being mindful of their positionality, especially their social disadvantages, when you interact with them. As for dealing with autistic people in the classroom, it’s not your place to inform your classmate, however politely, that they’re annoying. You don’t have to like them, either—just don’t be a dick.
Oberlin professors have also been deeply disappointing in this regard, especially the ones who feed into, even unintentionally, their students’ unsubtle attitudes toward That One Person. Professors must bear in mind that they’re leaders for all of their students, including the most obnoxious ones. Instead of leaving a figurative KICK ME! sign on a socially unaware student’s back, a professor should, after class or in office hours, say something like, “I know you’re enthusiastic about [subject], but you can’t interrupt me and your classmates,” then encourage them to come to office hours if they’re really dying to talk about whatever subject.
I came to Oberlin for the acceptance it advertises. Oberlin students and faculty pride themselves on championing the rights of the marginalized. When you—as a student, as a professor, as a fucking adult—can’t deal with someone who’s weird, annoying, and probably autistic, it reflects badly on you and on our institution. More than anything, it just hurts.
