Yves here. Many readers undoubtedly possess a deeper understanding of autism than I do, but I resonate with Richard Murphy’s frustration. The two individuals I know quite well who are on the autism spectrum would not typically be recognized as such in everyday situations. Both are socially skilled, articulate, and humorous, yet they have shared the significant effort it took to learn how to navigate social interactions.
Addressing Murphy’s headline question, society is rife with biases. Discrimination exists not only against those with physical and cognitive disabilities but also affects individuals based on factors like race, socioeconomic status, height, appearance, and age—the list is virtually endless.
By Richard Murphy, Emeritus Professor of Accounting Practice at Sheffield University Management School and a director of Tax Research LLP. Originally published at Funding the Future
The Background
This week, The Times published an interview with Dame Uta Frith, a prominent autism researcher in the UK. During the interview, she made a surprising claim regarding Chris Packham, who has openly discussed his autism for many years. Frith questioned his diagnosis, suggesting that his communication skills disprove his autism. She went so far as to label the notion of his autism as absurd, implying that his exceptional communication abilities contradict the idea of being autistic.
Frith builds on arguments she has previously articulated on the University College London website. While I find her assertions staggering, I believe there are two distinct issues to consider. In one aspect, she may have a valid point, but in the other, I think she is deeply mistaken.
Types of Autism
First, let me address the point where she might be correct. I strongly suspect I am on the autism spectrum. It is evident to myself and others that I meet the three social communication criteria outlined in the DSM-5, which establishes the diagnostic parameters for autism—designated A1, A2, and A3. Additionally, I believe most would agree that I am an effective communicator, whether in person or through various media channels. There is no contradiction between these statements.
However, I acknowledge that equating what is currently termed level 1 autism with level 3 autism can be somewhat misleading and confusing. There are shared characteristics, which led to the development of a single diagnostic category, yet the differences in lived experiences, communication styles, independence levels, and support necessities can be vast. It seems reasonable to question if classifying these two levels under one spectrum may obscure more than it clarifies.
Medicine already accommodates such distinctions; for instance, type 1 and type 2 diabetes are both classified under the umbrella of diabetes due to their shared issue of blood glucose regulation, yet no knowledgeable practitioner would claim they are identical. Their causes and treatments can differ significantly. I wonder if autism might benefit from a similar conceptual differentiation. Perhaps level 1 and level 3 autism deserve unique identifiers, even while acknowledging their commonalities.
If this is Frith’s underlying argument—though she does not explicitly state it—then I see merit in her thinking. A diagnostic spectrum can become so broad that it ceases to aid scientific understanding and those being diagnosed. However, I do not think this justifies her opinion about Chris Packham.
Who Decided That Neurotypical Communication is the Standard?
Frith seems to argue that Packham’s effective communication serves as evidence against his autistic identity. Yet this raises a crucial question: what does “communicating well” really entail?
The common assumption is that autistic individuals possess deficits in communication, as they may not conform to neurotypical expectations. However, why is neurotypical communication deemed the benchmark against which all others are measured? Why must autistic individuals learn neurotypical communication when there’s little expectation for neurotypical people to understand the language of those with autism? Most importantly, why is the resulting breakdown in communication categorized as a deficit strictly on the part of the autistic individual?
This assumption of superiority is deeply troubling. It suggests that neurotypical individuals communicate ‘normally,’ while autistic individuals communicate ‘abnormally.’ Consequently, any miscommunication is automatically attributed to the autistic person. This perspective is unjustifiable; communication is inherently an interactive process. If two individuals fail to understand one another, it does not follow that one has a communication deficit.
I want to emphasize what Frith appears to overlook: autistic individuals often operate in a bilingual context. They frequently engage in the communication style of neurotypical individuals, a reality that many neurotypical people may never comprehend, along with the effort it demands from the autistic individual.
The Double Empathy Issue
Embedded in this observation is the significance of the double empathy problem. This concept highlights that autistic individuals may struggle to grasp the assumptions, social cues, and expectations of neurotypical people, just as neurotypical individuals may find it challenging to understand those with autism. The communication barrier can exist in both directions.
This insight is crucial, as there is evidence showing that autistic individuals often communicate effectively with one another. Conversely, interactions between autistic and neurotypical individuals can be noticeably more challenging. If this holds true, the issue cannot solely lie within the communication abilities of autistic individuals; it may instead stem from diverse experiences and worldviews that do not naturally align.
However, society’s reaction to this imbalance is skewed. Autistic individuals face constant expectations to adapt to neurotypical communication styles. They have little choice but to comprehend when eye contact is required, when to speak, when to pause, what topics are permissible for extended discussion, how much information is desired by the other party, and the various instances when a question that seeks information implies something entirely different. They learn that implications often hold greater weight than directness. In summary, they adapt their behaviors, expressions, and social interactions to conform to neurotypical expectations.
In other words, they learn to mask.
Masking can be understood as the process of concealing or compensating for autistic traits to align with non-autistic social norms, often resulting in individuals appearing socially fluent while requiring significant conscious effort.
It appears that Uta Frith dismisses the idea that autistic individuals can or do mask their traits. Her assertion seems to imply that an autistic person’s demeanor is a straightforward reflection of their condition. This perspective suggests to me that she lacks a comprehensive understanding of level 1 autism. Despite her esteemed status in this field, she seems out of touch with the complexities involved, and this level of misperception is perplexing from someone who claims expertise.
This brings me to the question of reciprocal education.
How many neurotypical individuals learn about autistic communication styles? It seems Uta Frith has not been exposed to this educational aspect. How many are taught that avoiding eye contact does not automatically indicate disinterest, that straightforwardness need not reflect hostility, or that an engaged discussion on a particular topic can, in fact, signify interest rather than social ineptitude?
How many contemplate that the autistic person they struggle to understand might find neurotypical behavior equally bewildering? The responsibility for translating communication overwhelmingly falls on the autistic individual. This is far from reciprocal; it more closely resembles an expectation of assimilation into neurotypical norms.
The Problem with Frith on Packham
This is why the concept of masking is crucial to Frith’s argument concerning Chris Packham. An autistic person may dedicate years to mastering neurotypical communication styles, with some becoming exceptionally adept. I believe I am among them.
Autistic individuals can engage in public speaking, teaching, broadcasting, conducting interviews, entertaining audiences, and reading the room. By conventional standards, they can be excellent communicators; however, the mechanisms they employ to achieve this may differ significantly from those adopted by neurotypical individuals. What is often overlooked is that this learning process can impose a significant toll on the autistic individual. In my experience, very few neurotypical people recognize this burden.
Moreover, having insisted that autistic individuals learn neurotypical communication, society can take an extraordinary stance. When these individuals do succeed, it becomes a basis for arguing they cannot possibly be autistic. If they struggle with neurotypical communication, that struggle serves as evidence of their autism, but if they succeed, their ability is interpreted as proof that they cannot be autistic. This creates a frustrating Catch-22.
This highlights the necessity of recognizing masking within the diagnostic framework. An outward appearance of competence does not inherently reveal how it was achieved, the effort required, or what may happen when an individual can no longer maintain that level of proficiency. Observing a skilled television presenter and concluding from their performance that they must not have autism overlooks a fundamental reality. I find this mindset perplexing, but similar assertions have been directed toward me.
The Inherent Exceptionalism
There’s also a more challenging question to address: why is neurotypical behavior viewed as superior? It is uncomfortable to consider that what is often labeled a neutral clinical standard could actually reflect a form of neurotypical exceptionalism. Communication styles of neurotypical individuals are treated as the norm, while the autistic approach is assessed based on how far it diverges from that norm. The expectation is for the autistic person to adapt, while neurotypical individuals face no such obligation. When communication fails, the deficit is assigned to the autistic individual. It is reasonable to question if this viewpoint can be scientifically justified or if it is merely rooted in prejudice stemming from an assumption of neurotypical superiority.
Of course, autism can manifest real disabilities, with many individuals requiring substantial support. Acknowledging this does not necessitate assuming that every difference between autistic and neurotypical communication signifies a shortcoming on the part of the autistic person.
To Conclude
Returning to Frith’s statements, if her claim is that the autism category has grown too broad, then I believe an important dialogue is warranted.
I remain unconvinced that level 1 and level 3 autism should indefinitely be referred to as varying degrees of the same condition. They could eventually be recognized as related but distinct conditions, similar to how type 1 and type 2 diabetes share common characteristics without being identical. If this is Frith’s underlying concern, she may indeed be pointing toward something significant.
However, if her assertion is that Chris Packham cannot be autistic simply because he communicates effectively with neurotypical audiences, then her arguments not only falter but also become offensive, revealing a troubling blend of ignorance and prejudice.
Moreover, her perspective may embody the double empathy problem, overlooking the reality of masking. An autistic person may excel so completely in learning neurotypical communication that a noteworthy autism researcher concludes this very success negates their autistic identity—while few question why the neurotypical world has made so little effort to understand the communication style of autistic individuals.
Thus, the inquiry extends beyond whether autistic individuals can effectively communicate with neurotypical people. We must also question why society structures itself in a way that places the onus of learning on autistic individuals and whether the assumption that one method of communication is the standard while another is inherently deficient can truly be called science.
If understanding is always expected to flow in one direction, that is not double empathy; it is neurotypical exceptionalism, which I see no justification for accepting.
