“Autism spectrum disorder is characterized by persistent deficits (…) in social reciprocity, nonverbal communicative behaviors used for social interaction, and skills in developing, maintaining, and understanding relationships” (DSM-5, 2013, p.31). The clinician who diagnosed my daughter with ASD read the excerpt aloud. Becky was nine. I immediately wanted to know what this means for us long term. Will she ever get married and have a family of her own? Will she and I ever be close? I looked forward to the former as I envisioned my golden years, but the latter–closeness–seemed less distant though more abstract. To me, closeness is the ultimate prize of all the hard work that goes into cultivating a relationship; it is the flower that finally blooms, the berry that finally ripens. I yearned to experience it with Becky since I first learned I am pregnant with her.
My father is a kitchen philosopher and psychologist. I say kitchen because our small kitchen in a typical Russian high-rise flat is where we have our best talks. He is a thinker, like me. As a child, I would spot him blowing his papirosa smoke into the open window or out on the balcony if the weather was warm, and sneak up closer. He would turn his back toward me, warning: “I do not want to breathe on you,” and I would always say “It’s OK, I don’t mind.” Then we would keep silent for a moment or two. Somehow, a discourse would start and continue beyond his third or fourth cigarette.
When I was younger, he told me about his childhood in the post-war Far-Eastern USSR, his siblings, his parents, and his nearly fatal burst appendicitis… I easily pictured him as a kid, especially after he took me to his home village and showed me around. I loved that these stories made him so effortlessly vulnerable, sensitive, human.
As I became older, we frequently engaged in debates. Strangely, I do not remember exactly what we debated–there were so many topics! Let’s see… once, we discussed whether “white lies” are moral; another time, I remember defining “maternal devotion.” On occasion, these debates became very heated, and I liked it so because they gave my pubescent mood swings and frustrations a healthy outlet. There were also exercises in logic which both of us apparently held in high regard. When I was in high school, we added God and afterlife to our discursive repertoire. It was huge for us, former Soviets…
I craved these moments with my father. They were special because no one else engaged in such deep, frank conversations with me during my first twenty years on Earth, not even Mom. Ever. They were authentic, spontaneous, unstructured. They made me feel close to my dad, although I cannot say how he felt about them. The memories of our talks are the fabric of my many important schemata such as “father,” “Russian man,” “childhood,” “cognitive development,” “relationship,” and others. They kept me grounded and carried me through our many conflicts. They modeled the expectations of my own relationship with my children. The big question is, is it possible to be this close with Becky?