The Reason I Jump: The Inner Voice of a Thirteen-Year-Old Boy with Autism

Nonfiction | Autobiography / Memoir | Adult | Published in 2007

A modern alternative to SparkNotes and CliffsNotes, SuperSummary offers high-quality Study Guides with detailed chapter summaries and analysis of major themes, characters, and more.

Download PDF

Summary

Background

Chapter Summaries & Analyses

Preface-Question 11

Questions 12-23

Questions 24-35

“Never-Ending Summer”-Question 47

“The Great Statue of Buddha”-Question 58

Foreword-Afterword

Key Figures

Themes

Index of Terms

Important Quotes

Essay Topics

Tools

Beta

Discussion Questions

Themes

The Importance of First-Person Accounts of Autism

Higashida says in the Preface to The Reason I Jump that “many children with autism don’t have the means to express themselves, and often even their own parents don’t have a clue what they might be thinking” (16). One challenge of autism is that the inner life, or “inner self” (17), of a person with autism is opaque to others. There can be a disconnection between what a person with autism is feeling and the manifestation of this in facial expressions or behavior. For example, subtle shades of happiness or frustration in certain situations may be largely imperceptible to neurotypical individuals merely looking at changes in a person with autism’s body. The remedy for this opacity through speech is limited for some people with autism. A person with autism may find it difficult to talk about what they are feeling, and these difficulties can be exacerbated when the individual’s feelings are connected to behaviors and thoughts considered peculiar or even aberrant by others.

As such, Higashida’s first-person account of autism provides a crucial bridge. By describing why he behaves in certain ways, and the experiences and emotions underpinning this, he allows the reader to see beyond mere external appearances. He allows insight into “what’s going on in the minds of people with autism” (16), and thus into the condition, in a way that third-person scientific or behavioral analyses cannot, which has two core benefits. First, it allows for unique insights into autism and how it operates. For example, by explaining why he struggles to hold conversations because “there’s a gap between what [he’s] thinking and what [he’s] saying” (33), Higashida offers a crucial perspective on communication problems for some people with autism. Namely, some people with autism struggle with communication not because they do not want to speak, nor do they have difficulties because they lack the necessary words or concepts. Rather, some people with autism struggle because they are unable to attune themselves to a situation and must rely on a separate reflective act to “think about” what to say.

Such an insight also provides an understanding of the autistic body. From Higashida’s accounts of his experiences, we learn that some people with autism experience a similar alienation from their own bodies, which causes problems with communication. This issue can be stacked up alongside related experiences. These include the different ways people with autism experience time, memory, and perception. Specifically, in the latter case, we learn that some people with autism, in contrast to people without autism, see the details of a scene first, and only later the whole, rather than vice versa.

Second, the first-person account allows for greater empathy from readers. Higashida says, “One of the biggest misunderstandings you have about us is your belief that our feelings aren’t as subtle and complex as yours” (149). By giving an insight into the inner world of people with autism, and why they behave in certain ways, people without autism can learn that people with autism have just as rich inner lives as everyone else. Improved understanding of individuals with autism allows for neurotypical individuals to empathize with people with autism. As Higashida explains, “once you know a person’s inner self, both of you can be that much closer” (17). The Reason I Jump has helped to achieve that.

Challenging Conceptions of “Normality” and “Abnormality”

Higashida says at the text’s start that he found out about his autism “by other people telling [him] that [he] was different from everyone else, and that this was a problem” (15). The diagnosis of autism is, at the very start, bound up with questions of “normality.” Higashida’s autism is revealed to him in terms of his difference from others. At the same time, such “non-normality” is automatically seen as a problem. Higashida says, “[I]t’s like I have to speak in an unknown foreign language, every minute of every day” (26). People with autism can face continual problems making themselves understood and interacting with others, causing isolation. Some people with autism can be assailed by feelings of despair, which may be assuaged by debilitating routines, potentially leading to panic attacks. Some people with autism also struggle with sleep, time, and a general sense of alienation from their own bodies and the world.

Independently of any of these factors, family members and loved ones are often concerned for children with autism and their ability to fit in and find acceptance with their peers. Higashida says, if there was a way of making people with autism “normal,” “[O]ur parents and teachers—would be ecstatic with joy and say, ‘Hallelujah’ we’ll change them back to normal right now!” (72). Despite loving them, and perhaps never saying anything about it, parents and caregivers inadvertently transfer to children with autism society’s valuation that they are somehow deficient for being different. There is an unspoken sense, emanating also from school, peers, and media, that being truly happy and valued requires fitting in with everyone else. It is little wonder, then, that many people with autism try to conceal their autistic traits and consciously mimic perceived “normal” behavior. Known as “masking,” this practice is highlighted by Higashida’s remark that he is “constantly learning about how ordinary people are supposed to feel in given situations” (114). This comment also shows the nature and cost of such actions. Rather than focusing on how he feels, and responding to that, he is constantly living up to an idea of how a hypothetical “normal person” would feel and striving to present the corresponding behavior.

Masking can be exhausting and requires constant effort and, worse, continually effaces one’s real emotions and how one would like to behave. Thus, masking can deepen feelings of isolation and alienation from oneself, as well fostering a harmful sense of being an imposter. In addition, it is rarely wholly successful. The very fact that it is a conscious performance, requiring guesswork about “right” emotions and actions, means that it is unlikely to exactly resemble the behaviors of people for whom it is habitual and instinctive. At any rate, the limitations and problems with masking contribute to a growing realization on Higashida’s part. Namely, he comes to question, as he says, “how much it matters whether we’re normal or autistic” (73). “Normality,” he comes to see, is an oppressive and chimerical concept, the main function of which is enforcing conformity. It does not even bring happiness for those who have supposedly attained it. Far better, as Higashida says, is “to learn to love ourselves” (73). While social norms can never be entirely abrogated, and there will always be costs to nonconformity, it is better to understand and embrace one’s differences rather than trying to suppress and escape them.

Writing and Allegory as Means for Exploring Autism

For people without autism, speech is often a more effective method of communication than writing. As Higashida observes, for those without autism, “between thinking something in your head and saying it takes you just a split second” (37). Thus, while writing may allow for greater complexity, it is a slower method of communicating than with speech. It is also, as Socrates argues in Phaedrus (370 BC), less prone to ambiguity and misunderstanding. Someone’s writing can always potentially be misinterpreted if the writer is absent. In contrast, conversation with a present interlocutor allows for misunderstandings or ambiguities to be immediately corrected. The meaning of verbal expressions can also be clarified by context and the use of tone and body language in a way that is not possible with writing.

However, few of these advantages of speech are present for some individuals with autism. As Higashida puts it, to respond in a conversation requires that “[people with autism] fish out the right ‘memory picture’ in [their] heads” (25). Some people with autism must appeal to past responses and reflection to speak, and this can make conversation both slow and unreliable. Higashida says that “the reply [people with autism] wanted to make has often upped and vanished from [their] heads” by the time they come to speak (35). Alternatively, by relying on past patterns, “[they] can end up saying the opposite of what [they] wanted to say” (26). Moreover, many of the contextual aspects of a present conversation that help clarify meaning for people without autism can make it more confusing for their peers with autism. For example, the facial expressions and social context that suggest a comment is intended as a joke may be wholly or partly lost on a person with autism.

Consequently, writing is in fact a more effective method of communicating for some people with autism than present conversation and speech. Much of the stress and difficulty of speaking with a present interlocutor is eliminated, and both speed and possible error become less important. At the same time, ambiguity can be lessened. As the words on a page do not require bodily or facial expression or changing contexts to be written or understood, they are “much easier for [people with autism] to grasp than spoken words” (78). Higashida also adds, “[W]e can be with them whenever we want” (78). Their presence and meaning are stable and accessible, unlike the unavoidably ephemeral character of speech.

Given all of this, Higashida relies heavily on allegory and storytelling in The Reason I Jump. While most of the text is made up of Higashida’s answers to questions mirroring a present conversation, and written in straightforward, conversational prose, there are also short stories punctuating the work at key moments. These include “Slip Sliding Away,” a sequel to one of Aesop’s fables; “Earthling and Autisman,” about a planet with “a gravitational pull perfect for people with autism” (75); and “A Story I Heard Somewhere,” about a young woman who dances for seven days straight. The text also ends with the longer short story “I’m Right Here.” The latter is an allegory for how autism can alienate people from those they love and demand great sacrifices from them. Such stories, unlike Higashida’s prose answers, create ambiguity and uncertainty rather than dispelling it. They are about fictional events and characters and invite multiple and open-ended interpretations. Yet it is for that reason that they are also useful for Higashida. They allow for the expression of complex and ambiguous feelings through allegory that would otherwise be difficult to explore or express openly. They also allow for, as seen in “I’m Right Here,” the expression of dark and conflicted emotions. These emotions include feelings of shame or guilt and even the desire not to exist, which affect Higashida. In this sense, allegory allows for clarity and depth of expression and reception that are possible neither in conversation nor in ordinary prose.