A New Compassion
Daniel Bowman Jr.’s new memoir highlights the fact that his experience of being autistic is also his experience of being human.
Review by Kevin Kretzmann Farrar
Charles Taylor describes residents of the modern West living in an Age of Authenticity—a time where each person has their own particular way of being human. Individuals can either be true or untrue to that. Accordingly, it is good for someone to “be themselves.” Phrases such as “you do you” similarly speak to this conviction that there is a unique way for each person to most fully be human. This understanding stands in contrast to some imposed external model of what a human should be.
In On the Spectrum: Autism, Faith, and the Gifts of Neurodiversity, Daniel Bowman Jr. suggests there is a blind spot in this Age of Authenticity: neurotypical individuals are blessed with the freedom to define their own humanity but neurodivergent individuals are not. Neurodivergence is considered a pathology and an abnormality, not a legitimate way of being human. A neurotypical standard for humanity still exists. Bowman works to correct this misunderstanding. He explains that, with On the Spectrum, “You’re not just getting an account of one life or gaining specialized knowledge about a tiny subsection of the population. You’re learning about what it means to be human.” An account of Bowman’s life, specialized knowledge about the autistic subsection of society, and what it means to be human are concentric circles. In sharing his own story, Bowman also teaches about neurodiversity and shares what it means for him, as an autistic man, to be human.
The best way to understand autism, Bowman believes, comes from within the autistic community. However, disappointingly little attention has been paid to such voices. Most writing on autism takes the form of clinical books written by doctors and researchers or memoirs by parents of autistic kids. Though many of these books may be well-intentioned, Bowman considers accounts of autism from the neurotypical community analogous to what Edward Said refers to as “orientalist gaze.” If, for instance, people of color, queer people, and women are allowed to speak for themselves, why not autistic people? He explains:
The reductive practice of speaking over an entire people group is not tolerated in any other sphere of diversity. And yet the most woke among us accept, and embrace, and even celebrate reducing autistic people to a stereotype. Many of these stereotypes come from non-#OwnVoices depictions in books, film, television, and theatre.
There’s a simple, if not obvious, elegance to this argument. Not only does Bowman insist that “I and my fellow autistic writers can speak for ourselves” but he does so with eloquence and remarkable introspection. Bowman’s memoir offers a compelling portrait of an autistic man living a legitimate form of humanity.
While Bowman did not receive his autism diagnosis until adulthood, he focuses more on life as an autistic than his journey to his diagnosis, which is covered in the prelude. His marriage was crumbling, and he knew his seemingly uncontrollable emotional meltdowns were to blame. This personal crisis led him to explore “an explanation for who I was, or how I was who I was.” His search yielded an unexpected answer: autism.
Bowman has given me new eyes to see the hurt and shame felt by the neurodivergent members of the church at which I serve.
Learning of his autism diagnosis helped Bowman make sense of himself and his humanity. He explains:
With my autism diagnosis, I came to learn much more about what made me tick, what lay beneath the surface. I came to know my way of being in the world, which made me deeply ashamed throughout my childhood, was not my fault. I came to know my constellation of traits that I displayed had a name: autism—and that taking on the name autistic, while scary, could also be redemptive. In the end, it’s about being my true self.
Bowman’s memoir offers a portrait of his true self: an autistic man, a husband and father, a professor, a poet, a Christian, and a New York transplant living in small-town Indiana. He reflects on these many facets of himself in what he calls “a memoir in essays.”
Different essays feature different aspects of his identity. For instance, “Autism and Church” reflects on moments where participation in church proved difficult, and also where he finds refuge in church. “Peace in Terabithia,” however, reflects on connections he has made with his daughter through love of literature.
If On the Spectrum is a self-portrait, Bowman offers the reader a mosaic of himself. Each essay varies radically from the one before it. The chapters include letters to friends, memories of time spent with his daughter, interview transcripts, and a primer on neurodiversity, to provide a few examples. Bowman weaves these different components together into a coherent whole that reveals what it means for Daniel Bowman Jr. to be himself.
Though different essays may highlight particular facets of himself, these facets prove interconnected, if not inseparable, from one another. For instance, in the chapter “Living Maps,” Bowman reflects on settling into the Midwest as a northeasterner and, in doing so, elucidates the relationship between his love of literature and his unique needs. Reading aided Bowman’s assimilation into small-town Indiana, as it introduced him to mores that he, as an autistic man, struggles to intuit or learn through observation. Literature proves more than a passion for Bowman; it is a means of survival in a world designed by—and for—neurotypical people.
Such an essay reveals how Bowman’s neurodivergence is a difference, not an abnormality. Bowman has a way of placemaking after a cross-country move that works for him. His insightful introspection, raw honesty, and gift with words underscore that there is nothing “wrong” with Bowman. He deserves understanding and acceptance, not “fixing.” His literary self-portrait reveals the dignity and wonder that is an autistic human life.
In addition to demonstrating autistic human dignity through sharing from his story and interior world, Bowman also draws from the way in which queer inclusivity has been championed in order to justify inclusivity for autistic people. He describes publicly announcing his autism as “coming out” and recalls fearing the professional consequences of this coming out as a professor at an evangelical Christian college. Furthermore, his book is titled “On the Spectrum” and includes a rainbow pattern on the cover, a not-so-subtle nod to the queer community. Like gender and sexual diversity, autism is also on a spectrum. Those who do not present as “normal” on any spectrum all-too-often experience shame and struggle as a result. Bowman invites the reader to consider inclusion of the neurodiverse community as a similar frontier to that of queer inclusion.
While more can be said about how Bowman writes with eloquence, beauty, and grace, the highest—and most important—praise that I can give On the Spectrum is that it is one of the few books that has made me reconsider my pastoral ministry. Bowman has given me new eyes to see the hurt and shame felt by the neurodivergent members of the church at which I serve. He also inspires a response of compassion to this newfound awareness of human suffering. This is an important work for pastors, Christians, and anyone who wants to understand the human experience of our neurodivergent neighbors.
Kevin Kretzmann Farrar serves as a pastor at Atonement Lutheran Church in Muskego, Wisconsin. He lives in Milwaukee with his wife, Alissa, who is also a pastor, and their cats.
On the Spectrum: Autism, Faith, and the Gifts of Neurodiversity was published by Baker Publishing Group on August 10, 2021. Fare Forward appreciates their provision of a review copy, and you can purchase your own copy on their website here.
