What I (Don't) Know About Autism

Jody O'Neill

• Publisher: Nick Hern Books
• Year: 2020
• Print ISBN: 9781848429499
• eBook ISBN: 9781788503228
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: British Drama
• Index: Literature

A sometimes comic, sometimes heartbreaking journey into the world of autism.

Sandra is looking for love. Gordon is seeking acceptance. Simon just wants these parents to stop talking for two minutes so he can get on with teaching their kids.

And Casper? Casper is not here.

Jody O'Neill's play What I (Don't) Know About Autism mixes narrative, song, dance and direct address to explore this contentious and often misunderstood subject matter.

Inspired by the writer's own experiences with autism, the play celebrates autistic identity whilst offering deeper insight and understanding to non-autistic audiences.

What I (Don't) Know About Autism was co-produced by Jody O'Neill and the Abbey Theatre, Dublin, in association with The Everyman, Cork, and Mermaid County Wicklow Arts Centre, Bray. It was first performed, with all relaxed performances and a cast of autistic and non-autistic actors, on the Abbey's Peacock Stage, in February 2020, before touring.

The play won the Best Theatre Script Award at the 2021 Writers Guild of Ireland's Zebbie Awards.

1. The Beginning

TWO (to ONE). This is a relaxed performance.

Relax.

You don’t look relaxed.

Look at me.

You’re not looking in my eye.

How are you ever going to get a job if you can’t look someone in the eye?

THREE. According to the National Autistic Society in the UK, only sixteen per cent of autistic adults are in full-time employment. Many employers agree lack of eye contact is a strong reason not to hire someone.

TWO. It’s a sign you’re not trustworthy.

THREE. It’s a sign you’re dishonest.

TWO. It’s a sign you’ve got something to hide.

ONE. I’ll tell you what I’m hiding. Looking at you hurts me. Looking at you confuses me. Looking at you is like coming face-to-face with a black hole. Whatever is in my head, the second I look in your eyes, and try to tell you, or try to listen. It’s sucked away. It’s gone in an instant.

FOUR. My name is Megan. I have a diagnosis of high-functioning autism, with an ounce of OCD and a lorry-load of dyspraxia. I am autistic. I am unemployed.

SIX. My name is Peter. I have a diagnosis of Asperger’s, with acute anxiety, and a peanut allergy. I am autistic. I am unemployed.

THREE (shaking hands with audience members). My name is Alison. My name is Alison. My name is Alison. My name is Alison. I have moderate to severe autism, depending on who you choose to believe. I also had an intellectual disability diagnosis, but dropped that after I published my first book. I am autistic.

TWO. My name is Mary. I have six ounces of anxiety, a scar on my left knee, a teensy bit of racial bias and a fear of walking alone at night. I am neurotypical.

INTERRUPTING VOICE. Neuro-what?

SIX. Neurotypical. It basically means non-autistic.

FOUR. It started out as a joke, but actually led to the whole neurodiversity movement. (Maybe a look from SIX – ‘time is ticking’.) We’ll come back to that later.

INTERRUPTING VOICE. Thanks.

SIX. No problem. (To the audience.) It’s okay to ask questions.

INTERRUPTING VOICE. Is it?

SIX. Sorry?

INTERRUPTING VOICE. Is it actually okay to ask questions? It’s just… it really bugs me when people say things like – (Mimicking.) ‘It’s okay to ask questions’, if it’s not really okay.

SIX. It is okay.

INTERRUPTING VOICE. When?

SIX. What?

INTERRUPTING VOICE. When is it okay? Can anybody ask a question at any time? Because that could get tricky.

FOUR. Okay, fine. We’ll have designated question times during the show. (To the control room.) Could I get a light here, please? Whenever this light comes on – (A light comes on.) we will all go to the designated question area and they can ask questions. (To the audience.) Okay?

INTERRUPTING VOICE. For how long? Because we still have fifty-five pages to get through. And we don’t want the show to become an indefinitely long Q&A session. So, how long?

ONE steps forward, proffering a tiny egg timer.

ONE. You can use this if you like.

FOUR. Thanks. Eh – it’s a bit small.

ONE takes back the small timer. Returns with giant timer.

Better. But it only times sixty seconds.

SIX is getting impatient.

Two turns of the timer. Okay?

INTERRUPTING VOICE. Okay. And if nobody asks a question?

SIX. We just carry on with the show.

ONE. My name is Michael. I like my bread with only the tiniest scraping of butter. I struggle with the concept of sauce. I don’t like the smell of other people’s breath in the morning, but I can’t stand to sleep alone. I am neurotypical.

FIVE. My name is James. I don’t like labels. One of my siblings has ‘high-functioning autism’, but on a bad day, she can hardly dress herself. My other sibling has ‘severe autism’. People write him off as soon as he enters the room, but they’d reconsider if they saw his artwork. Apparently, I’m neurotypical.

ALL. My name is Casper. I am not here.

2. Isolation

FOUR. I know these two things are true: One – We are all more alike than we are different. Two – If you’ve met one person with autism, you’ve met one person with autism.

FIVE. I don’t know what’s real and what’s not real.

TWO. I don’t know who my friends are.

SIX. I don’t know what to think.

ONE. I don’t know why I can’t feel happiness.

SIX. I don’t know why photos of other people’s kids grate on me so much.

FIVE. I don’t know why black holes are letting stuff out when they were supposed to keep it locked up inside.

THREE. I don’t know why I hurt myself, but I do.

An isolation room.

KID. The first time I found myself in here, I was five. They told me autistic people like to be in confined places. I didn’t know what ‘autistic’ was.

I just wanted to get out.

A parent–teacher meeting.

TEACHER. He hit me.

PARENT. Why?

TEACHER. What do you mean, why?

PARENT. Sam doesn’t hit for no reason. What did you do?

TEACHER. He was being uncooperative.

PARENT. In what way?

TEACHER. He wouldn’t look at me when I was talking to him. I asked him a question and he refused to respond. He wasn’t staying on the task. I offered stickers, but he refuses to be motivated by rewards.

PARENT. Was he interested in the task?

TEACHER. Sorry?

PARENT. Sam’s not a dog. Did it occur to you to give him a task he was actually interested in? Did it occur to you that he might be bored?

TEACHER. I have thirty students to attend to, I can’t be expected to pander to the whims of one.

PARENT. Corey has a nut allergy. Do you accommodate that?

TEACHER. Obviously. But that’s a life-and-death situation.

PARENT. So, you don’t consider well-being a priority?

TEACHER. That’s not what I’m saying.

PARENT. When children hurt themselves, you look after them, surely?

TEACHER. Obviously.

PARENT. So, why not attend to the needs of my child?

TEACHER. Because they don’t make any sense.

PARENT. To you.

TEACHER. To any sane person.

PARENT. And now you’re implying my child is insane?

TEACHER leaves. PARENT addresses audience.

When I ar...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title page
• Contents
• Original Production
• Acknowledgements
• Characters
• What I (Don’t) Know About Autism
• About the Author
• Copyright and Performing Rights Information