Understanding Autism: Parents, Doctors, and the History of a Disorder

Understanding Autism

Parents, Doctors, and the History of a Disorder

Chloe Silverman

PRINCETON UNIVERSITY PRESS

Princeton and Oxford

Copyright © 2012 by Princeton University Press

Published by Princeton University Press, 41 William Street, Princeton, New Jersey 08540

In the United Kingdom: Princeton University Press, 6 Oxford Street, Woodstock, Oxfordshire OX20 1TW

press.princeton.edu

Jacket Art: Jim Dine, Blue Clamp, 1981; painting; acrylic on canvas with English C-clamp, 84 1/4 in. x 96 1/2 in. x 5 in. (214 cm x 245.11 cm x 12.7 cm); Collection SFMOMA, Gif of Harry W. and Mary Margaret Anderson; © Jim Dine / Artists rights society (ARS), New York

All Rights Reserved

Second printing, and first paperback printing, 2013

Paperback ISBN 978-0-691-15968-3

The Library of Congress has cataloged the cloth edition of this book as follows

Silverman, Chloe.

Understanding autism : parents, doctors, and the history of a disorder / Chloe Silverman.

       p.     cm.

Includes bibliographical references and index.

1. Autism in children.    2. Parents of autistic children.    3. Autistic children—Family relationships.    4. Autism in children—Treatment.    I. Title.

RC553.A88S55 2012

618.92’85882—dc23 2011013942

British Library cataloging-in-Publication Data is available

This book has been composed in Minion Pro

Printed in the United States of America

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

This book is dedicated to my parents,

Peter and Noele Silverman.

CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

INTRODUCTION

Love as an Analytic Tool

Part One

1 Research Programs, Autistic Disturbances, and Human Difference

2 Love Is Not Enough: Bruno Bettelheim, Infantile Autism, and Psychoanalytic childhoods

3 Expert Amateurs: Raising and Treating children with Autism

    INTERLUDE

Parents speak: The Art of Love and the Ethics of care

Part Two

4 Brains, Pedigrees, and Promises: Lessons from the Politics of Autism Genetics

5 Desperate and Rational: Parents and Professionals in Autism Research

6 Pandora's Box: Immunizations, Parental Obligations, and Toxic Facts

CONCLUSION

What the World Needs Now: Learning About and Acting on Autism Research

NOTES

BIBLIOGRAPHY

INDEX

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This project began with a chance meeting at an MIT workshop and an exhilarating introduction to the worlds of autism research, treatment, and advocacy. Without Martha Herbert's help and encouragement, I would never have been able to conduct this research or write this book. I hope that I have done justice to the generosity she showed in welcoming me into her life and work.

Susan Lindee, my mentor and chair of my dissertation committee, is an inspiration. She continues to teach me about what it means to be both a scholar and a good person, and her own work on emotional knowledge and biomedicine has informed every part of this project. The other members of my dissertation committee, Robert Kohler and Joe Dumit, provided invaluable input at key moments. A Jacob K. Javits Fellowship from the Department of Education supported my graduate work, and the first two years of work on this book were funded by a Mellon Foundation postdoctoral fellowship at Cornell University's science & technology studies Department.

Writing this book depended on the passion, intellectual openness, and kindness of researchers, advocates, and parents who willingly shared their work. I am grateful in particular to everyone associated with ARI/Defeat Autism Now! conferences and to Jacquelyn Sanders. Researchers made time in their schedules to explain the technical details of their studies. Owners of laboratories walked me through their facilities. Physicians allowed me into their offices and homes. Librarians at the University of Chicago special collections and Yale University Manuscripts and Archives collection offered guidance in navigating their collections. As this book makes clear, I am in awe of many of the parents that I met. Their devotion to their children and their intellectual creativity and resourcefulness animate this book.

I shared portions of this book at a number of institutions, workshops and conferences: the Lively Politics conference at UC Irvine in November 2004, the Hastings center, the BIOS centre at the London School of Economics, a Society for Critical Exchange conference on Autism and Representation in October 2005, the Mellon Seminar and Science Studies Reading Group at Cornell, and the SUNY Center for Medical Humanities, Compassionate Care, and Bioethics. As a result of these workshops, an earlier version of one chapter was published as Brains, Pedigrees and Promises: Lessons from the Politics of Autism Genetics, in Biosocialities, Genetics and the Social Sciences: Making Biologies and Identities, edited by Sahra Gibbon and Carlos Novas (Routledge, 2008), and another was published as Desperate and Rational: Parents and Professionals in Autism Research, in Lively Capital: Biotechnologies, Ethics and Governance in Global Markets, edited by Kaushik Sunder Rajan (Duke University Press, 2012). I am grateful to Fred Appel, Benjamin Holmes, Serena Leigh Krombach, and Sarah David at Princeton University Press for their care and hard work in making this book.

A number of colleagues, friends, and students have taught me about the history and social studies of medicine and the life sciences, autism, and disability studies. These include Jesse Ballenger, Michael Bérubé, Sarah Birge, Paul Burnett, Alexandra Choby, Adele Clarke, Biella Coleman, Rich Doyle, Greg Eghigian, Noah Feinstein, Mike Fischer, Brendan Hart, stephen Hilgartner, Sheila Jasanoff, Andrew Lakoff, Martine Lappe, Janet Lyon, Jonathan Marks, Aryn Martin, Pamela Moss, Esra Ozkan, Kris Peterson, Trevor Pinch, Rachel Prentice, Nikolas Rose, Erich Schienke, Jeanette Simmonds, Ilina Singh, Jennifer Singh, Olga Solomon, Susan Squier, Kaushik Sunder Rajan, and Audra Wolfe. Erik Olin Wright was a generous and encouraging reader at a critical moment. Other friends sustained me and kept my priorities straight: Ruth Ainsworth, Becky charnas Grant, Jen Hsiung, Eric Jenson, stephen Motika, Jeffrey Stutz, Bowie snodgrass, John Thompson, and Kate Winchell.

My grandparents, Dot and Eliot Silverman, provided a home away from home. My Granddad did not get to see this book published, but his omnivorous intellectual curiosity and belief in getting the story right are a constant inspiration.

Bob Vitalis, my most important reader, favorite working companion, and partner in all things, edited every page of this book. In the process, he taught me a lot about writing. More important, he makes every day sweeter and brighter.

This book focuses on the unique kinds of knowledge that parents possess, and the responsibilities—and pleasures—of parental love. I am not a parent yet, and I have had to rely on the accounts of others to understand parental love and labor. I do know a great deal about what it means to be a well-loved child, and I am forever grateful for that. This book is for my parents, Peter and Noele Silverman. Thank you.

INTRODUCTION

Love as an Analytic Tool

Women's work is of a particular kind—whether menial or requiring

the sophisticated skills involved in child care, it always involves

personal service. Perhaps to make the nature of this caring,

intimate, emotionally demanding labor clear, we should use the

ideologically loaded term love. For without love, without close

interpersonal relationships, human beings, and it would seem

especially small human beings, cannot survive.¹

Of course, love is never innocent, often disturbing, given to

betrayal, occasionally aggressive, and regularly not reciprocated

in the ways the lovers desire. Also love is relentlessly particular,

specific, contingent, historically various, and resistant to anyone

having the last word.²

If You Think My Hands Are Full…You Should See My Heart!³

This is a book about love. It is a history of autism, one that pays particular attention to the importance of affect in biomedical research during the second half of the twentieth century and the first few years of the twenty-first. I explore the role of love as a social experience and technical discipline. I do this for several reasons. Passions are a key part of the production of knowledge and the identities of contemporary scientists and medical practitioners. Theories of affect, and love in particular, shape the discourses of developmental psychology, psychiatry, and, more recently, biology. Affect and its synonyms, including despair, anger, caring, and love, work as good enough analytic tools for interpreting contemporary biomedicine. Like the parents described as good enough by the child psychologist and autism researcher Bruno Bettelheim in one of his warmer portrayals, our analytical categories need only be up to the task of illuminating key themes and conflicts in the material. Love works pretty well. It also helps me think through the role of the social scientist and historian negotiating the thorny issues of trust, complicity, and participant observation.

Autism refers to a symptom, a disorder, and a syndrome.⁴ The concept derived from the idea of negative social affect: autistic isolation in patients with psychiatric disorders. According to the current Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders used by most psychiatrists and physicians in the United States, autism is a developmental disorder involving qualitative impairments in language, communication, and social relationships, alongside restricted, repetitive and stereotyped patterns of behavior, with onset before the age of three. Any additional claim is contentious, but the standardized diagnosis obscures the complexity of the behavioral and physiological syndrome in any given individual. Autism is also commonly seen as a lifelong disorder. To focus on children is to ignore entire lifetimes of membership in families and communities. Nevertheless, this book is about childhood because those are the years when families have to wrestle with the ambiguities of the diagnosis, invest in therapies and treatments, and prepare to live with the impact of their choices on their child's future.

Understanding Autism traces the evolution of the diagnostic category of autism as people have understood it in different places and times, paying particular attention to how people have thought about autism in different ways depending on the type of work they performed. These practices included diagnostic interviews with parents, psychoanalytic milieu therapy, genetics research, and biomedical interventions. The first three chapters deal mostly with the past, the final three with the present. Because the focus is on practice, even the sections of the book that draw on archival sources read in parts like ethnography, as I describe social practices as symbolic systems and seek to illuminate how participants understood the meanings of their actions. However, unlike ethnography, my analysis depends on public statements. I focus on how people describe informal practices of nurturance and care—private activities—in journal articles, memoirs, conferences, and courtrooms.⁵ I attend to the language they use to communicate insights about the affective content of practices to those outside their professional or social communities. When people work to explain those parts of biomedical care that are difficult to render in technical language, they talk about love.

Looking at autism in terms of the affective content of practices associated with it does three things. First, it illustrates the degree to which ways of representing autism depend on particular institutional and epistemological arrangements. Second, it shifts the focus from psychiatrists, epidemiologists, and geneticists to parents, counselors, diagnosticians, and lawyers, as they try to make sense of and apply systematic, authoritative knowledge in their daily lives and work. Third, and most important, in describing changes in autism over time and how expert knowledge works in practice, it highlights the centrality of love as a way of knowing about bodies, persons, and relationships in biomedicine.

I use love because it is the term used by the people and found in the texts that I have studied. Love is one of those terms in a conversation where expert discourses inform everyday language and where the quotidian in turn shapes biomedical knowledge. It might be more accurate at points to refer, ecumenically, to affective commitments or emotional connections. I prefer the everyday term, even if it is occasionally necessary to point out the technical alternatives employed by particular actors. Freud called psychoanalysis a cure through love, but contemporary social psychologists favor empathy.⁶ Needless to say, empathy also has a specific and localized technical meaning. Therapeutic practitioners might insist that their work involves caring and help while resisting love on the grounds that it does not involve a rational or intellectual component, a criticism that I will return to.

I focus less on love as an abstract concept than on the statements of participants in several domains of autism research when they talk about love as a form of labor. Love has been seen sometimes as a liability, a barrier to reliable knowledge, and sometimes as the source of specific, focused, and committed knowledge. It entered autism research as something that psychologists studied. Autism seemed to demonstrate what happened when people developed without giving or receiving affection. Love became for a while a behavior that might be encouraged or cultivated externally, before clinicians abandoned it for terms more in keeping with behavioral and cognitive models. Beyond the laboratories, however, love continues to function in normative claims about the practice of research. Parents and their allies say that emotional knowledge enables them to observe and attend to their children in the right way, guides them in medical decisions, and helps them make the right choices for the person whom they love. Those who are concerned about the actions and choices of parents say that it is love that blinds parents and incites acts of desperation. They also worry that the idea of love is used to rationalize and naturalize labor by making the hard work that parents do seem instinctive instead of intentional and sensible. There is truth in both sets of claims. These examples all show how the emotional work of science is made visible when parents and professionals interact.

People do not just talk about love in the world of research on developmental disorders like autism—they actively practice it, often because they are also parents. Clara Claiborne Park, whose daughter was diagnosed with autism in the 1960s, said that she had followed the imperative that an eminent mathematician has given as a two-word definition of the scientific method: ‘Try everything.’⁷ The approach was as appropriate for the parents of affected children as it was for scientific and medical professionals. The work of professionals and of parents is not, in the end, as different as we have been led to believe. For example, the leading journal of autism research, then called the Journal of Autism and Childhood Schizophrenia, ran a remarkable column between 1974 and 1985, Parents Speak, edited by the first two presidents of the National Society for Autistic Children. Park reviewed books for the journal, arguing for the importance of reading parent memoirs not only as historical documents but as clinical evidence, raw data in the fullest sense.⁸

To be clear, love may not protect against harm. People who love routinely commit acts of violence. Consider three apparent murders of children with autism by their parents in 2006. The editor of a daily Internet autism clipping service and father of a child with autism agonized, I have been struggling with trying to find a response that does justice to these situations, and I don't think I've been doing such a good job of it because the subject hurts so, the heart can get too much in the way.⁹ These were not isolated instances. In one, grieving relatives of the parent called a murder-suicide an act of love.¹⁰ Different groups interpret such acts in line with their own beliefs. Some blame the lack of support services. Others curse promised cures that fail to deliver, [leaving] the parents of a half-million autistic children feeling like failures.¹¹ Some parents will admit that they have also considered violence in spite of, or perhaps alongside, their love for their children.¹² Such acts and the agony that precedes and follows them resist simple explanations.

In focusing on parental love, I am not suggesting that only parents can provide the particular kind of attentive care that I am interested in. Many parents do not love their children. They are completely absent from their children's lives. Some actively and intentionally harm their children. There are also many caregivers in residential facilities or employed by families who are more intimately involved in children's lives than are their parents. When I discuss the love that is part of effective care and treatments, I am less concerned with biological relatedness than with attitudes of investment in and devotion to another's well-being. Counselors, nurses, and teachers are often the ones providing this care.

clara Park listed the advantages that parents have in treating their own children, leaving one quality of parental care, a parent's love for his child, until the very end of her list. Park's hesitant attention to the necessity of attachment and caring, even in instances where doctors and parents are expected to impartially evaluate different treatment options, points to a tension that affects medical research and treatment in general. Love is not a panacea, and we must be aware of the ways to go wrong in loving, ways that help not the person we love but ourselves. Nevertheless, there are millions of parents—as well as teachers, and social workers, and doctors, and ministers, and psychiatrists, and ordinary men and women— who practice this love daily, knowing that love is a technique as well as an emotion.¹³

Understanding Autism pursues Park's insight about love as a technique in biomedical knowledge and practice. It is about why love is the last item on Park's list, and why it is the most important.

Thinking about Caring: Theories of Love in Biomedicine

Research programs in autism, as in many areas of the life sciences, have been defined largely by the passions and commitments that have informed them. These commitments inform not only the broad theoretical framing of investigations but also the day-to-day practices of research. My interest in love is a consequence of taking seriously the commitment to analyze science as a social system. It is indebted to work in science studies on reason, rationality, and objectivity. If science is a culture, it should be possible to analyze the rituals and modes of behavior that enable scientists to comprehend and trust each other, and to produce facts that the community recognizes as valid. Sociologists have analyzed the behavioral norms that have allowed scientists to see their work as insulated from the pressures of politics, social aspirations, and commercial enterprise.¹⁴ Even when those norms are not followed to the letter, they have provided models for how scientists believe they ought to behave.

In addition to observing rules of conduct, scientists have also used representational techniques to establish their distinctive identities. They have adopted styles of observation that emphasize impartiality and objectivity, extending to the way that they write up experimental results and illustrate their findings.¹⁵ As scientific work became more collaborative, the problem of knowing whether or not to trust an individual's observations or experimental results became a crucial one. Scientists solved this problem in many ways, but one important way was by making clear distinctions between appropriate and inappropriate attitudes and behavior.¹⁶ Because there is such a close connection between the identities of scientists and their ideas about what constitutes reliable knowledge, one way to learn about epistemology is to study scientists’ own statements about acceptable behavior and attitudes. I am interested in particular about claims regarding the emotional content of scientific and biomedical practices.

Love has mattered to feminist science studies scholars for some time. It has been a focus of their work on the role of passion and commitment in maintaining careers and research programs, on the importance of both caring and pleasure in scientific work, and on the way that expectations about gender have influenced scientific investigations.¹⁷ Love also reminds us of the gendered structures of labor in American society, including the institutions of domestic life and the division of domestic labor, as well as ideologies of motherhood and parental work. Caring labor most frequently falls to women, and because women are socialized to accept that obligation, they develop moral systems that are more attentive to matters of care and dependence.¹⁸ Beliefs about gender and its connections to affective behavior inspire speculations into the biology of sex and cognition, as well as psychological theories about cognitive normality and typical functioning in social interactions.¹⁹ These are especially salient in view of the brute demographic fact that boys are diagnosed with autism four times more frequently than girls. Ideas about gender color ideas about autism moms and dads who fix things.

Gender runs deeper than the division of labor, to what we could call gendered economies of care—types of labor can retain their gendered associations no matter who is performing the work. Parent memoirs of autism begin and end with love, while practitioners speak of parents’ diligence and devotion. In this view, commitment explains their ascent to near-professional levels of expertise. This praise is not disingenuous, but it still is worth questioning because it goes to the heart of how American society categorizes caring labor and daily commitments. The top professions for women have changed little in the past fifty years, with low-status pink collar jobs in elementary and secondary education, nursing, and administrative work still ranking highest.²⁰ In addition, women continue to provide much of the child care in the United States, although many fathers of children with autism work as hard as mothers on advocacy and treatment. However, caring labor continues to be devalued because of its associations with women, and the expertise associated with it is often considered suspect. To begin to understand the hidden forms of labor in science and medicine, we need to consider the erasure of the research, long hours of therapeutic work, and advocacy that the care of a child with autism entails. It is significant that the serious effort required to know a person well or care about them effectively is often described as a spontaneous expression of affection rather than conscious work.

The fact that caregiving is hard but also intellectually and emotionally demanding work is key to understanding the arguments that this book makes about the ethics of autism treatment. It is also important to understanding how the philosophy of disability can deepen our understanding of the affective components of biomedical practices.

Moral Personhood, Families, and Dependence

Through much of this book, I present the primary act of intervening on the bodies and behaviors of children with autism as relatively unproblematic. Specific practices draw criticism in retrospect as poorly justified, but from the 1950s through the 1980s, few questioned the idea of treating autistic children or of recovery as a goal, whether attainable or not. This has not been the case from the 1990s onward. A growing number of adults with autism have joined a self-advocacy movement modeled on gay rights and Deaf advocacy, arguing for the validity of autistic experience and autistic culture. For this reason, I want to address what treating autism can mean in terms of respecting and acknowledging the personhood and rights of people with disabilities. I return to this question in more practical terms in an interlude midway through the book.

The ethics of treating autism turns on a question of personhood: whether or not one sees it as a disabling condition, something that it would be better not to have or to be. As Evelyn Fox Keller has argued, the definition of autism as a pathology rather than a normal difference rests on the conviction that the ability to relate to other people is not only developmentally necessary but morally necessary as well. It is a component of personhood. Someone cannot be a whole person without it.²¹ Many disabilities scholars argue in the same vein. Michael Bérubé, in a memoir about his son who has Down syndrome, suggests that it is Jamie's ability to relate to others, his sensitivity to the needs of people, and his sense of humor that reveal his intelligence and his value as a person. Eva Kittay, writing about her daughter who has multiple physical and cognitive impairments, argues that it is her membership in a network of relationships of caring, kinship, and love that grants her personhood, the quality that makes it ethically necessary for society to protect people like her and provide for their care. One way that society can respect the personhood of people like her daughter is by providing for her caregivers, those who attend to her physical needs, but also those who care for her as a person.²²

Autism, though, poses a problem. There is no definitive model for how cognition functions—or fails to function—in autism. The dominant psychological and neurological models continue to emphasize the absence of empathy. If Leo Kanner first framed autism in terms of a lack of affective contact, contemporary scientists describe the disorder in terms of lacking the theory of mind that allows people to imagine others’ mental states. Neuroscientists point to malfunctioning mirror neuron systems, the part of the brain that helps us understand the behaviors of others by providing us with a mental model of their actions. In essence, we understand the behaviors of others in part by imagining ourselves doing the same things.

Although the terms may be more sophisticated, the argument remains the same: people with autism fail at empathy. Adults with autism disagree, but they do so within the terms already set. They say they experience empathy but arrive at it and express it in ways that are difficult for neurotypicals to recognize.²³ This dissent is significant, and the scientific claims about autism and empathy have obvious limitations. It remains true, however, that autism can mean, in practical terms, that an individual is less tightly bound into the network of relationships that sustain most of us.

This is not the place to enter into a complex discussion of the human rights of people with disabilities and why people with autism deserve support and respect as full, rights-bearing humans and citizens.²⁴ It is clear that many parents have little trouble committing themselves to the well-being of their child and seeing their child as a complete person, even if their child does not reciprocate their caring in familiar ways. The question that is relevant to this book is whether researching cures for autism or choosing an intervention with the expectation that it can treat or cure autism—and by doing so, help people with autism participate more fully in the give and take of human relationships—can be an ethical choice. I demonstrate that people who provide services for or do research on or spend their time caring for children and adults with autism make ethical decisions about treatment. This is not a claim about the efficacy of particular treatments or the rightness of specific choices. What I mean is that they weigh their decisions in terms that are familiar to students of ethical philosophy. Some of those decisions are life-changing in the sense that they entail therapies that can alter or eliminate the symptoms of autism. I will argue that these actions, whenever observers do describe them as effective and beneficial, begin and end with close, attentive relationships.²⁵

These types of ethical thinking are important beyond the specific question of autism treatments. Alasdair MacIntyre has argued that disability and dependence characterize our lives; and, to the same extent that our ability to reason depends on our intelligence, our humanity is characterized by inevitable periods of profound dependence on the care of others.²⁶ Nevertheless, many philosophers have begun their descriptions of social relations by assuming that humans are autonomous, independent agents. We need to think harder about our obligations to those with disabilities, including those who are entirely dependent or unable to speak for themselves. The reality of dependence without the prospect of eventual autonomy has an additional implication. Inevitably some members of society will be charged with making good decisions about the care of dependent people.

This book argues that parents think about these decisions in ethical terms, and that their love for their children is something that they cite as central to their ability to choose wisely. The two, love and ethics, may be related. To care well, Kittay argues, caregivers must not only go through the motions of care, but they must also care about the person who depends on them, because without it the open responsiveness to another that is so essential to understanding what another requires is not possible. In order to do a good job with the rational, arduous, daily labor of caring, an affective bond is necessary.²⁷

Think of the decision to choose residential care for a child for the long-term benefit of both child and family. In the short term, the decision is utterly wrenching for both. Or the decision that a parent makes to begin a regimen of behavioral therapy, against a child's immediate wishes, because the child may flourish as a result of the temporarily unpleasant drills and repetitions. Children with cognitive disabilities are especially vulnerable to wrong decisions about their care and depend on the caring of others. The problem is that people rarely talk about these decisions in public. Such parents have few guidelines. In the United States, where pregnancy and motherhood represent a private dimension of public life, in Rayna Rapp's phrase, parents must act as moral pioneers in their decisions about the justifiable limits of parental obligations.²⁸ Put bluntly, parents are utterly on their own.

What ensures a coincidence of interests between the child and his or her caregiver? Our ability to reflect on our actions, values, and beliefs is necessarily tempered and guided by our ability to love. The philosopher Harry Frankfurt calls love an act of volitional necessity. It is something we experience if not involuntarily than at least unavoidably. It is also a choice, a relation that is entered into willingly, not instinctively or unconsciously. Humans may have a unique and near-compulsive capacity to reflect on their actions, values, and beliefs, but constant reflection would be paralyzing without an equal capacity to love. Reflexive thought and reason matter crucially to functioning in the world, but if we are to survive and get it right, that is, live a meaningful life, we need to care deeply about particular things in order to make choices about our goals and actions.²⁹Reason has no practical application without love, and reason has no fit with lived experience without the winnowing power and narrowed focus that love confers.

Because of the close connection between reason and love, the ultimate source of practical normative authority lies not in reason but in the will, meaning our choices about what or whom we will care about most deeply.³⁰ The psychologist Erich Fromm made the same point fifty years ago when he described the art of loving as a practice that involves technical demands of discipline, concentration, and patience. For Fromm, love required rational faith, that is, a future-oriented focus on the object of love, not only as it is, but as it might become given the opportunity to flourish. This nurturing attitude could describe the focus and passion required for fostering scientific research as well as child development.³¹ An orientation toward the future is central to the care of children with disabilities. It is why parents may accept the calculated risk of choosing a treatment plan that places more demands on their child but offers the prospect that he or she will have access to more experiences as they grow older.

Frankfurt's description of a necessary alliance between reason and love may not apply to everyone, but it fits many parents of children with disabilities. Consider those engaged in the type of everyday moral philosophy that Rayna Rapp suggests is fostered by their unique position. Although Rapp discusses prenatal testing in particular, parents typically continue to wrestle with difficult questions of dignity, respect, and rights long after making the decision to carry a pregnancy to term. Parents decide what is most important in their child's life. Where a child does not ask for a greater range of experiences but seems content with a sharply circumscribed set of activities, what ethical imperative allows parents to demand more of the child? Eva Kittay and others suggest that imagining independence as the exclusive goal can be both damaging and unattainable for many. However, parents are obliged to increase their children's capacities to experience joy, which can best be done by broadening their range of possible experiences—for instance, by pushing a child who does not process visual information well to learn to watch and enjoy movies, because learning how will eventually broaden that capacity.³² It is hard to disagree.

I draw on these philosophical concepts in order to more accurately represent the people that I care about, the families and children who are the central concern of this book. Many children with autism have language delays. Others are nonverbal. Even those considered high-functioning or mildly affected may have difficulty serving as advocates for their own cause. They have more effective representatives among the hundreds of thousands of parents, practitioners, and researchers devoted to autism.³³Of necessity, much of my story centers on actors, technologies, and knowledge systems that affect these children. The children themselves play a limited role in the debates that swirl around them.

Adults with autism are a different story. These often highly effective self-advocates matter to arguments about the appropriate and ethical treatment of children with autism, and I agree that they are better equipped than others are, myself included, to represent their experience. Self-advocates have enjoyed greater visibility and a bigger voice within parent organizations in recent years. Organizations such as Autism Network International, the Global and Regional Asperger Syndrome Partnership, and the Autistic Self-Advocacy Network, founded both by and for autistic people, are an important presence within the world of autism advocacy. Children, adults in institutions, parents who feel that the state and the medical industry disregard their complaints, and researchers excluded from mainstream biomedical research are all silenced in one form or another.³⁴ The burden for all of us who do have an audience is to act as adequate witnesses for those who are not speaking and to avoid the temptation to assume that their silence is equivalent to agreement or assent.

As should be clear, I am centrally concerned with how parents understand their children in biomedical and affective terms, and what they do with that understanding. I am interested in how the different identities of parents and professionals work in the scientific field, especially when it comes to making claims about effective treatments. Much of the time, the social mechanisms through which scientists maintain their cultural authority—desire for credit from their peers, willingness to share and dispassionately critique each other's results, and a collective belief in the project of increasing knowledge about the natural world—help produce reliable information. However, struggles for authority in autism research have not enabled practitioners to progress steadily toward increasing independence from external interests.³⁵ The central role of parents in the history of autism research helps illustrate how investments and commitments from outside have shaped the sphere of scientific research.

Autism in History

Like other disorders, autism has become a site for evocations of the stresses, tensions, and catastrophes of modernity. Professionals have described autism as a symptom of postindustrial and suburban modernity, and a range of techniques and specializations have developed to define and serve the population. The literature on autism brims over with metaphorical as well as technical uses of the idea of autistic isolation, and autism has become, in popular culture, a generic synonym for emotional isolation and conceptual solipsism.³⁶

Autism has proven almost infinitely mutable. For a mother struggling to implement a behavioral therapy program in the 1960s without the support of her skeptical, sometimes hostile husband, and plagued by fears that she caused her son's illness through unconscious rejection, the disorder is a behavioral anomaly that can be cured through hard work. If the head of an autism genetics project were to read that mother's memoir, however, he or she might pay more attention to the husband's aloof personality and difficulty articulating his emotional states. This reader might also pick up on the mother's chain smoking and lupus as indicators of compulsive behavior and tendencies toward autoimmunity, possible familial risk factors.³⁷ For others, autism has been a metaphor. Bruno Bettelheim's famous account of Joey: A ‘Mechanical Boy’ detailed how a patient's fantasy of himself as a machine was so effective that not only did he himself believe that he was a machine, but more remarkably, he created this impression in others. Joey's case was a parable of emotional development in a mechanized society, ripe for psychoanalytic dissection.³⁸ It looks different to a contemporary reader. Joey's obsessions and adherence to ritual, his idiosyncratic use of language, and his alarm at human contact characterize almost perfectly a person with Asperger syndrome, another disorder on the autism spectrum.

Some contemporary autism researchers speak of secular trends in autism, noting that the emphasis on early intervention has changed the natural history of the disorder itself.³⁹ Like children with Down syndrome, many of whom have blossomed under the combined influence of improved medical management and heightened expectations of their intellectual capacities, children with autism today don't look like the children that these researchers remember from the early years of their work. Anecdotally, they are less like Leo Kanner's original descriptions of isolated children consumed by repetitive behaviors. They struggle more with communication impairments, social reciprocity, and according to some doctors, systemic illnesses.

The shifts in the symptoms that constitute autism tell us much about how different professional and social communities understood psychology, neurodevelopment, and disability during the second half of the twentieth century. They tell us even more about the practical aspects of medical treatment and the ways that physical acts and interpersonal relationships have contributed to knowledge of bodies, development, and relationships. Parents’ and caregivers’ accounts can provide valuable insights into informal aspects of care in the history of intellectual and developmental disabilities. That history has often been written from the perspective of professionals and institutions, with a focus on the way that diagnostic labels have been used to control populations, rather than on how disabilities have been experienced by individuals and families.⁴⁰

The history of the autism diagnosis is also an inseparable part of a larger story about biomedicine. Autism may have begun as a category in child psychology, but it is an increasingly biomedical diagnosis. Biomedicine itself is more than a static system of knowledge. It is also a powerful way of perceiving and altering the world. When I use the term I mean the particular complex of social and technical practices that emerged after World War II at the intersection of molecular biology, genetics, immunology, and clinical applications derived from this laboratory-based knowledge.⁴¹ This research in universities and corporations fostered the development of new medical technologies, including pharmaceutical research in particular. It also provided the context for doctors’ increasing focus on diagnostic standardization as the first step toward characterizing a disease in terms of its underlying biological causes. Standard diagnoses became, in turn, a key way that managed-care organizations determined insurance coverage and reimbursement schedules. These trends in research, health coverage, and product development encouraged clinical and laboratory researchers to develop a mania for specificity, the idea of a perfect correspondence between pathological mechanisms, diagnostic categories, and disease-specific treatments.⁴²

Research on autism spectrum disorders took shape within a late-twentieth-century scientific culture shaped by the cold war, dreams of precise control over life processes, and the dominance of biological models in psychiatry.⁴³ All of these intellectual trends shaped the scientific culture of which autism research is a part, lending models from computing, cybernetics, defense systems, and behavioral research to investigators’ theoretical frameworks. The successes of the American pharmaceutical industry have encouraged popular acceptance of an idea of neurochemical imbalances as the main cause of mental illnesses. Brain imaging