{"product_id":"look-me-in-the-eye-isbn-9780307396181","title":"Look Me in the Eye","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eNEW YORK TIMES\u003c\/i\u003e BESTSELLER \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“As sweet and funny and sad and true and heartfelt a memoir as one could find.” —from the foreword by Augusten Burroughs \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEver since he was young, John Robison longed to connect with other people, but by the time he was a teenager, his odd habits—an inclination to blurt out non sequiturs, avoid eye contact, dismantle radios, and dig five-foot holes (and stick his younger brother, Augusten Burroughs, in them)—had earned him the label “social deviant.” It was not until he was forty that he was diagnosed with a form of autism called Asperger’s syndrome. That understanding transformed the way he saw himself—and the world. A born storyteller, Robison has written a moving, darkly funny memoir about a life that has taken him from developing exploding guitars for KISS to building a family of his own. It’s a strange, sly, indelible account—sometimes alien yet always deeply human.\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eNEW YORK TIMES\u003c\/i\u003e BESTSELLER\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“An entertaining, provocative and highly-readable story by a great storyteller...you will rethink your own definition of normal, and it may spark a new appreciation of the untapped potential behind every quirky, awkward person who doesn’t quite fit in.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Deeply felt and often darkly funny, \u003ci\u003eLook Me in the Eye\u003c\/i\u003e is a delight.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePeople \u003c\/i\u003emagazine (Critics Choice, 4 Stars)\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It's a fantastic life story (highlights include building guitars for KISS) told with grace, humor, and a bracing lack of sentimentality.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eEntertainment Weekly\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A highly entertaining, crazy ride...heartbreaking, inspiring and funny.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePsychology Today\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Lean, powerful in its descriptive accuracy and engaging in its understated humor...Emotionally gripping.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eChicago Tribune\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Robison’s lack of finesse with language is not only forgivable, but an asset to his story . . . His rigid sentences are arguably more telling of his condition than if he had created the most graceful prose this side of Proust.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eChicago Sun-Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Not only does Robison share with his famous brother, Augusten Burroughs (\u003ci\u003eRunning With Scissors\u003c\/i\u003e), a talent for writing; he also has that same deadpan, biting humor that's so irresistible.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eELLE\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Dramatic and revealing . . . \u003ci\u003eLook Me in the Eye\u003c\/i\u003e is often drolly funny and seldom angry or self-pitying. Even when describing his fear that he'd grow up to be a sociopathic killer, Robison brings a light touch to what could be construed as dark subject matter…Robison is also a natural storyteller and engaging conversationalist.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe Boston Globe\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“This is no misery memoir . . . [Robison] is a gifted storyteller with a deadpan sense of humour and the book is a rollicking read.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eTimes \u003c\/i\u003e(UK)\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Robison's memoir is must reading for its unblinking (as only an Aspergian can) glimpse into the life of a person who had to wait decades for the medical community to catch up with him.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eBooklist\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“In the end, Robison succeeds in his goal of “helping those who are struggling to grow up or live with Asperger’s” to see how it “is not a disease” but “a way of being” that needs no cure except understanding and encouragement from others.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The view from inside this little-understood disorder offers both cold comfort and real hope, which makes it an exceptionally useful contribution to the literature.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“A fascinating glimpse into the mind of an engineer which should be on the reading list of anyone who is interested in the human mind.”\u003cb\u003e—Temple Grandin, author of \u003ci\u003eThinking in Pictures \u003c\/i\u003eand\u003ci\u003e Animals in Translation\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“John Robison's book is an immensely affecting account of a life lived according to his gifts rather than his limitations. His story provides ample evidence for my belief that individuals on the autistic spectrum are just as capable of rich and productive lives as anyone else.”\u003cb\u003e—Daniel Tammet, author of \u003ci\u003eBorn on a Blue Day: Inside the Extraordinary Mind of an Autistic Savant\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eJOHN ELDER ROBISON\u003c\/b\u003e is the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eLook Me in the Eye\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eBe Different\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eRaising Cubby\u003c\/i\u003e. He lectures widely on autism and neurological differences, and is a member of the Interagency Autism Coordinating Committee of the US Dept. of Health and Human Services. John also serves on committees and review boards for the CDC and the National Institutes of Health. A machinery enthusiast and avid photographer, John lives in Amherst, Massachusetts with his family, animals, and machines.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cb\u003e1\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eA Little Misfit\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was inconceivable to me that there could be more than one way to play in the dirt, but there it was. Doug couldn't get it right. And that's why I whacked him. Bang! On both ears, just like I saw on The Three Stooges. Being three years old was no excuse for disorderly play habits.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor example, I would use my mother's kitchen spoon to scoop out a ditch. Then, I would carefully lay out a line of blue blocks. I never mixed my food, and I never mixed my blocks. Blue blocks went with blue blocks, and red blocks with red ones. But Doug would lean over and put a red block on top of the blue ones.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCouldn't he see how wrong that was?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter I had whacked him, I sat back down and played. Correctly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSometimes, when I got frustrated with Doug, my mother would walk over and yell at me. I don't think she ever saw the terrible things he did. She just saw me whack him. I could usually ignore her, but if my father was there, too, he would get really mad and shake me, and then I would cry.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMost of the time, I liked Doug. He was my first friend. But some of the things he did were just too much for me to handle. I would park my truck by a log, and he would kick dirt on it. Our moms would give us blocks, and he would heap his in a sloppy pile and then giggle about it. It drove me wild.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOur playdates came to an abrupt end the following spring. Doug's father graduated from medical school and they moved far, far away to an Indian reservation in Billings, Montana. I didn't really understand that he could leave despite my wishes to the contrary. Even if he didn't know how to play correctly, he was my only regular playmate. I was sad.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI asked my mother about him each time we went to the park, where I now played alone. \"I'm sure he'll send you a postcard,\" my mother said, but she had a funny look on her face, and I didn't know what to make of it. It was troubling.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI did hear the mothers whispering, but I never knew what they meant.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\". . . drowned in an irrigation ditch . . .\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\". . . the water was only six inches deep . . .\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\". . . must have fallen on his face . . .\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\". . . his mother couldn't see him, so she went outside and found him there . . .\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat is an irrigation ditch? I wondered. All I could figure out was, they weren't talking about me. I had no idea Doug was dead until years later.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLooking back, maybe my friendship with Doug wasn't the best omen. But at least I stopped whacking other kids. Somehow I figured out that whacking does not foster lasting friendship.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat fall, my mother enrolled me at Philadelphia's Mulberry Tree Nursery School. It was a small building with kids' drawings on the walls and a dusty playground enclosed with a chain-link fence. It was the first place where I was thrown together with children I didn't know. It didn't go well.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt first, I was excited. As soon as I saw the other kids, I wanted to meet them. I wanted them to like me. But they didn't. I could not figure out why. What was wrong with me? I particularly wanted to make friends with a little girl named Chuckie. She seemed to like trucks and trains, just like me. I knew we must have a lot in common.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt recess, I walked over to Chuckie and patted her on the head. My mother had shown me how to pet my poodle on the head to make friends with him. And my mother petted me sometimes, too, especially when I couldn't sleep. So as far as I could tell, petting worked. All the dogs my mother told me to pet had wagged their tails. They liked it. I figured Chuckie would like it, too.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSmack! She hit me!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStartled, I ran away. That didn't work, I said to myself. Maybe I have to pet her a little longer to make friends. I can pet her with a stick so she can't smack me. But the teacher intervened.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"John, leave Chuckie alone. We don't hit people with sticks.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I wasn't hitting her. I was trying to pet her.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"People aren't dogs. You don't pet them. And you don't use sticks.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eChuckie eyed me warily. She stayed away for the rest of the day. But I didn't give up. Maybe she likes me and doesn't know it, I thought. My mother often told me I would like things I thought I wouldn't, and sometimes she was right.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe next day, I saw Chuckie playing in the big sandbox with a wooden truck. I knew a lot about trucks. And I knew she wasn't playing with her truck correctly. I would show her the right way. She will admire me and we will be friends, I thought. I walked over to her and took the truck away and sat down.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Miss Laird! John took my truck!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat was fast!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I did not! I was showing her how to play with it! She was doing it wrong!\" But Miss Laird believed Chuckie, not me. She led me away and gave me a truck of my own. Chuckie didn't follow. But tomorrow was another day. Tomorrow, I would succeed in making friends.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen tomorrow came, I had a new plan. I would talk to Chuckie. I would tell her about dinosaurs. I knew a lot about dinosaurs, because my father took me to the museum and showed me. Sometimes I had scary dreams about them, but overall, dinosaurs were the most interesting thing I knew of.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI walked over to Chuckie and sat down.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I like dinosaurs. My favorite is the brontosaurus. He's really big.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eChuckie did not respond.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"He's really big but he just eats plants. He eats grass and trees.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"He has a long neck and a long tail.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSilence.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"He's as big as a bus.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"But an allosaurus can eat him.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eChuckie still didn't say anything. She looked intently at the ground, where she was drawing in the sand.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I went to see the dinosaurs at the museum with my dad.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"There were little dinosaurs, too.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I really like dinosaurs. They're neat!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eChuckie got up and went inside. She had completely ignored me!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI looked down at the ground where she had been staring. What was she looking at that was so interesting? There was nothing there.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAll my attempts to make friends had failed. I was a failure. I began to cry. Alone in the corner of the playground, I sobbed and smashed the toy truck into the ground again and again and again, until my hands hurt too much to do it anymore.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt the end of recess, I was still there, sitting by myself. Staring into the dirt. Too humiliated to face the other kids. Why don't they like me? What's wrong with me? That was where Miss Laird found me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"It's time to go back inside.\" She grabbed my little paw and towed me in. I wanted to roll up in a ball and disappear.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRecently, one of my friends read the passage above and said, \"Shit, John, you're still that way now.\" He's right. I am. The only real difference is that I have learned what people expect in common social situations. So I can act more normal and there's less chance I'll offend anyone. But the difference is still there, and it always will be.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePeople with Asperger's or autism often lack the feelings of empathy that naturally guide most people in their interactions with others. That's why it never occurred to me that Chuckie might not respond to petting in the same way a dog would. The difference between a small person and a medium-sized dog was not really clear to me. And it never occurred to me that there might be more than one way to play with a toy truck, so I could not understand why she objected to my showing her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe worst of it was, my teachers and most other people saw my behavior as bad when I was actually trying to be kind. My good intentions made the rejection by Chuckie all the more painful. I'd watched my parents talk to other grown-ups and I figured I could talk to Chuckie. But I had overlooked one key thing: Successful conversations require a give and take between both people. Being Aspergian, I missed that. Totally.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI never interacted with Chuckie again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI stopped trying with any of the kids. The more I was rejected, the more I hurt inside and the more I retreated.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI had better luck dealing with grown-ups. My disjointed replies didn't bring the conversation to an abrupt halt. And I tended to listen to them more than I listened to kids, because I assumed they knew more. Grown-ups did grown-up things. They didn't play with toys, so I didn't have to show them how to play. If I tried to pet a grown-up with a stick, he'd take it away. He wouldn't humiliate me by yelling and running to the teacher. Grown-ups explained things to me, so I learned from them. Kids weren't so good at that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMost of the time, I played by myself, with my toys. I liked the more complex toys, especially blocks and Lincoln Logs. I still remember the taste of Lincoln Logs. When I wasn't chewing them, I made forts and houses and fences. When I got a little bigger, I got an Erector Set. I was very proud of that. I built my first machines with the Erector Set.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMachines were never mean to me. They challenged me when I tried to figure them out. They never tricked me, and they never hurt my feelings. I was in charge of the machines. I liked that. I felt safe around them. I also felt safe around animals, most of the time. I petted other people's dogs when we went to the park. When I got my poodle, I made friends with him, too.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Look what your grandpa Jack sent you, John Elder!\" (My parents named me John Elder Robison to honor my great-grandpa John Glenn Elder, who died before I was born.) My dad had brought home a wooly, ill-tempered, and probably genetically defective dog, most likely a reject from some dog pound. But I didn't know that. I was fascinated. He growled at me and wet the floor when my father put him down.","brand":"Crown","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304488227045,"sku":"NP9780307396181","price":17.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780307396181.jpg?v=1767731724","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/look-me-in-the-eye-isbn-9780307396181","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}