The Girl In the Spider’s Web by David Lagercrantz

girlinthespidersweb The Girl in the Spider’s Web: A Lisbeth Salander novel

by David Lagercrantz

At the heart of the story is an eight-year old autistic boy, the son of a genius scientist who specializes in artificial intelligence, who is the only witness to the brutal murder of his father.  The bad guys who killed Frans Balder, the boy’s father, realize too late that although young August is non-verbal and appears to be severely intellectually disabled, he is actually a savant who is perfectly capable of identifying his father’s murderer.  And so the rest of the story centers around the bad guys’ efforts to do away with the boy, and Lisbeth Salander’s efforts to protect him.

On a side note, I have to comment on August Balder – or rather, the utilizing of a disabled character in fiction writing.  It’s become so commonplace that it almost feels cheap to me.  Here we have a disabled boy (who of course is actually brilliant, because a truly intellectually disabled character wouldn’t do – what possible value could such a character bring to a story except to elicit pity?), who, although he resides squarely at the center of the story, is nonetheless one-dimensional and stereotypical.  We never actually get to know August, nor are we given an opportunity to care about him beyond the fact that men are trying to kill him.  His character – and his disability – are merely convenient vehicles for a particular plotline.  I just wish that authors could do better.  Sadly, this is merely a reflection of society’s persistent views of people with disabilities: the disabled remain on the fringes.  Even when they occupy positions central to a novel, they are rarely fleshed-out, whole people in their own right.

Read the rest of my review here.

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The Rosie Effect by Graeme Simsion

{62082799-D96C-4CE1-9E8E-72DB51CB811E}Img400The Rosie Effect: A Novel

by Graeme Simsion

The Rosie Effect is the sequel to last year’s bestseller, The Rosie Project, which I reviewed here.  In this installment, Don Tillman and Rosie are newlyweds.  As the novel opens, Rosie announces that she is pregnant.  Which totally throws Don for a loop because it wasn’t part of The Plan, at least not yet.  Apparently Rosie decided to throw caution to the wind and get pregnant without telling Don her intentions.  Probably not a great thing to do to someone who thrives on rigid structure – plus, Rosie is in the middle of writing her thesis, and frankly, the timing of a pregnancy just in the midst of that seems  … er, ill-conceived.  It was hard to even understand why Rosie would decide to get pregnant at that particular time; even though she’s disorganized and somewhat fly-by-the-seat-of-her-pants, she’s utterly committed to her studies and her goal to become a doctor, and refuses to even consider deferring her studies.  But I guess a surprise pregnancy was the necessary vehicle to keep the Don and Rosie story going.

As he attempts to come to terms with Rosie’s pregnancy and impending fatherhood, to which he is convinced that he is more and more unsuited, Don’s life becomes borderline slapstick.  Meanwhile, Rosie is a cranky meany-pants, and their new marriage is crumbling, and fast.  Can Don turn things around?  Well, you can probably guess.

I had very mixed feelings about this book.  Don is likeable, though Rosie, not so much.  The comedy was a little much – it made the story hard to buy into.  And the discomfort I felt with The Rosie Project with regard to how autism and Asperger’s are handled, and how that reflects on society’s views on disability, was felt even more keenly.  In this story, there is a definite defensiveness about any suggestion of Don being autistic, and that felt very ableist.

It’s a readable story, and if you’re dying to know what happened after the wedding, go ahead and read this.  I found it to be rather disappointing.

The Pleasure of My Company by Steve Martin

413NZHCSZKL The Pleasure of My Company

by Steve Martin

I first read this novel several years ago.  I remember enjoying it immensely, and I remember it being about a guy with Autism – perhaps Asperger’s, although at the time I didn’t yet have a child with a disability and wasn’t yet very informed at all about disability or autism (I can’t say that I am now knowledgeable about autism, but perhaps more so than I was back then, if only by virtue of association with parents of autistic kids and one or two autistic adults).

In any case, as it turns out, upon re-reading The Pleasure of My Company a couple of weeks ago, I discovered that it’s not about a guy with autism, but rather, it’s about a guy with OCD.

Daniel Pecan Cambridge, in his early to mid-thirties, lives in an apartment in scenic Santa Monica.  He’s pretty disabled by his obsessive compulsive disorder (and for anyone who casually throws around the term “OCD” to describe any structured or high-strung behavior, you should know that OCD is an actual disorder, and it’s offensive to use the term flippantly or derogatorily, and you probably should stop doing it).  He can’t step off of curbs; he can only cross streets at driveways that are directly across from another driveway.  All of the burning lightbulbs in his apartment must add up to exactly 1125 watts at all times.  He becomes incapacitated by anxiety if faced with anything that deviates from the structured rituals he has created for himself.  Because of the severity of his compulsions and anxiety, he doesn’t drive and can’t work, so is on disability, and is visited once a week by a student shrink.

Despite his quirks, Daniel is charming and funny.  He’s also sensitive and lonely, and his vulnerability makes him very endearing.  He fancies himself in love with a middle-aged realtor who hawks apartments across the street; they’ve never actually met, but he is pretty sure that she won’t be able to help but fall for him once they meet face to face.  An actress who lives in his complex is a regular at his apartment and Daniel manages to act as her surrogate therapist; her boyfriend, the big galumph, turns out to be a very good friend to Daniel, indeed (sniff sniff).  And then his relationship with the student shrink takes an unexpected turn … well, I won’t spoil it.

Though neither autism or Asperger’s is ever mentioned in the book, nor in any descriptions of the book that I could find online, it does seem like Daniel does have some autistic traits – but what do I know?  I wonder what the author’s intent was in that regard.

In any case, Steve Martin (yes, THE Steve Martin – actor, comedian, banjo player extraordinaire) is a gifted writer.  I’ve read all of his novels and enjoyed them all.  In this novel, he creates a believable, likeable character with a disability that, in the end, doesn’t disable him, and enriches the lives of those around him.

A real treat.

The Rosie Project by Graeme Simsion

[Originally posted on June 16, 2014 here]

9781476729091_p0_v10_s260x420 The Rosie Project: A Novel
by Graeme Simsion

Don Tillman is a genetics professor at an esteemed university in Melbourne, Australia. He’s rigid and deadpan, lacks social finesse, and his life is ruled by a whiteboard hung in his orderly apartment. At thirty-nine years old, Don has decided that it makes sense to acquire a matrimonial partner, and perhaps reproduce. And so he embarks on The Wife Project, a process involving a detailed, multi-page questionnaire presented to potential mates which will screen out all unsuitable applicants: smokers, vegans, jewelry wearers, mathematical illiterates, and the list goes on. And on.

Enter Rosie: twenty-nine, disorganized, impulsive, sometime smoker, and bartender. Rosie shows up in Don’s office one day, and believing her to be a Wife Project applicant, he rules her out immediately as completely and totally unsuitable. However, her quest to find out who her biological father is intrigues Don, and together Don and Rosie embark on The Father Project. Don’s ordered life is turned upside down by Rosie, and, well . . . it’s not hard to see where this is going. Eventually, a new project emerges: The Rosie Project, as Don realizes that he’s in love with Rosie and tries to win her over by attempting to break out of the rigid mold he’s encased himself in.

The story includes a lively supporting cast, including Gene and Claudia, husband and wife psychologists who have an open marriage, who are Don’s only two friends. Gene is on his own quest: to have sex with a woman from as many countries in the world as possible. It is Gene who sends Rosie to Don’s office that fateful day, as a “wild card” for Don’s search for a suitable mate.

It’s obvious from the get-go that Don has Asperger’s syndrome (and he doesn’t realize it), and I have to confess that I had mixed feelings about it throughout the book. Because the story is meant to be a comedy, I couldn’t be sure that on some level Asperger’s wasn’t being exploited or poked fun of, and that made me uncomfortable. Don is an immensely likeable guy despite his social ineptitude and many quirks, and he’s definitely cast as the hero of the story. Still, I’m not sure if there is some sort of statement buried in the story illustrating our societal desire to fix anyone who doesn’t fit neatly within social constructs, or if it’s more of a statement about all of our foibles as human beings, Asperger’s or not.

I chose this book on recommendations from a couple of friends when I was trying to decide which book to choose for my book club this month. Although it’s apparently a bestseller, I had not heard of it before the recommendations. It’s probably not a book I would have otherwise chosen, as my tastes lean more towards drama and adversity. That said, I enjoyed it very much. It’s a quick-paced, light and entertaining read, and there were parts that literally had me laughing out loud. There’s a little bit of intrigue and suspense as Don goes to wild lengths to figure out Rosie’s paternity (the guess I made early on was right on, so it’s probably not difficult for the reader to figure out). It’s a pretty formulaic romantic comedy (can we please stop saying “rom-com”? Seriously.), and in fact was originally written as a screenplay. It has been optioned by Sony for the big screen.

Know the Night by Maria Mutch

[Originally posted on June 9, 2014 here]

6a017ee3e1169b970d019b01ad2318970d-300wi Know the Night: A Memoir of Survival in the Small Hours
by Maria Mutch

This debut memoir is Mutch’s account of a two-year period during which her oldest son Gabriel, from age eleven to thirteen, didn’t sleep much, and as a result, neither did she.

This book stands apart from other parental memoirs of disability on many fronts. Far from being a hand-wringing rant, or even a tale of coming to terms, Know the Night is deeply contemplative, and reading it felt a little like being allowed into a quiet, private chamber. During the chronic night wakings, as she staggered through days of mind-numbing sleep deprivation, Mutch became intimately acquainted not only with her son, but with the night itself, in all it’s vastness and mystery.

“I tend to think that if he spoke, the night, too, would be different. The spell broken. Night would seem cold and clean and beautiful again. I have stood on the lawn in November wearing five layers of clothes to watch the Leonid meteor showers, or bathe my face in moonlight, or simply to see how immense the sky is and experience that twinge of becoming tiny in its indifferent embrace as it twirls unstoppably. I’ve witnessed aurora borealis, too, when I was twenty-one and floating at night on an Ontario lake in a small rowboat. I slipped over the side to swim in black water, drifted on my back, the dark rim of pines seeming very close. Above me drifted the smudged galaxy, and Leo, Hercules, and Cassiopeia. I floated there, felt myself being erased in the lake’s black ink. And there it was, a brilliant green rolling over the Earth’s magnetic arc, one stream after another. And along with it, a physical presence, a silence, enveloping and dark and honed.”

Born with Down syndrome and later diagnosed with autism, Gabriel began developing a vocabulary as a toddler, but had lost all of his speech by the age of six. During those sleepless nights, Mutch pondered Gabriel’s absence of speech and discovered that there are many languages that are not verbally spoken, that communication comes in surprising forms, including silence, which she observes not only in her son, but in the story of Thelonious Monk being detained by police in the 1950s, and in the frozen desolation of Antarctica.

Jazz and the Antarctic both play major roles in Mutch’s memoir. Jazz is a refuge for Gabriel, and a language he understands and loses himself in. Mutch, clearly a knowledgeable fan herself, plays jazz for Gabriel at home, and they are such regulars at local jazz clubs that several of Gabe’s birthday parties are held in one or another.

Interspersed with Mutch’s recollections of their sleepless nights and her contemplation of jazz is also the story of Admiral Richard Byrd‘s expedition to Antarctica in the 1930s. Mutch read Byrd’s account of his expedition, which included five months of utter solitude living in a hut and barely escaping with his life, during the period of Gabriel’s sleeplessness. Byrd’s isolation and harrowing polar survival struck a chord with Mutch as she navigated nights of isolation and harrowing survival of a different kind; it’s an interesting parallel and juxtaposition.

In the end, this memoir lacks the usual heart wrenching, tear-jerking, and even soapbox-stomping which makes it stand apart. Although there is a patina of melancholy, her telling of “survival in the small hours” during Gabriel’s prolonged period of wakefulness reads like a meditative odyssey in search of a deeper understanding of her son.

Her prose is gorgeous and begs to be savored. As I read, I folded down the corners of many pages because there were so many passages I wanted to reread just to let the words roll over me.

The Anti-Romantic Child by Priscilla Gilman

[Originally posted on March 18, 2014 here]

9780061690273 The Anti-Romantic Child: A Story of Unexpected Joy
by Priscilla Gilman

Where to start?

I honestly can’t decide if I loved this book or disliked it. I suppose both.

In this memoir, Gilman tells of her idyllic childhood and the pain that was wrought by her parents’ split when she was ten. Always a pleaser, she spent much of the next couple of decades trying to fulfill the wishes and expectations placed on her by her family and teachers, pursuing a life of academia. Through it all, she pines for the romanticized version of her early childhood and longs to replicate it with children of her own.

When her first child is born, he is different from what she had expected from the beginning: he is “floppy” and not the cuddly child she had envisioned. In fact, he resists most forms of physical contact and in many ways appears an island. As Benj progresses into toddlerhood, he remains distant, he is clumsy and slow to meet gross motor milestones, and is plagued by inexplicable anxieties and tics. At the same time, he begins reading fluently by age two and shows a remarkable capacity for memorization, and an obsession with letters, numbers, and lining up and ordering things.

“Part of what made my dawning realizations about Benj so disconcerting and devastating was that I had thought I knew him so well. After the initial sense of alienation and despite my continued sense of a fundamental difference or distance between us, Benj, with all his quirks, had become utterly familiar to me. There had been no one more familiar to me than my son. I had considered myself totally tuned in to his needs and had accepted him on his own terms. In fact, I had embraced him for what he was, because I still wanted to be the devoted mother of the romantic child I’d imagined; even if (or especially because) the child didn’t match the ideal, my love for him would. But now I wondered: was this acceptance instead based on a ‘fond illusion of my heart’ (Wordsworth, ‘Peele Castle’)? Was it a kind of denial, a refusal to help or even accurately perceive him? To question your grasp of your child is to suffer a great loss.”

Every aspect of Gilman’s life is informed by the poetry of William Wordsworth, of which she is both a student and a professor, and her book is liberally peppered with Wordsworth poetry that acted as both knife and balm to her mother’s heart.

Around the age of two and a half, Benj’s issues become troubling enough that Gilman decides to begin the process of having him evaluated. Certain aspects of her story resonated so strongly with me with regard to my own child who has Down syndrome:

“Now, with the outside world’s judgments and prescriptions infecting our family, with the knowledge that we would have to have him formally evaluated in clinical settings, our peaceful happy private life, a life in which we – not teachers or doctors or therapists – defined his value and his identity, was gone. Benj was still his same sweet self, but my entire sense of him, of our family, of his and our future had changed.”

I could very much relate to that feeling of loss relating to allowing the sterile, clinical world intrude on our family to assess our child and break him down into scores and numbers and deficiencies.

Benj is diagnosed with hyperlexia (which is like the opposite of dyslexia) and a myriad of delays, sensory issues, and obsessive-compulsivity, and so begins his entrance into special schooling and intensive therapies. Indeed, nearly their entire lives seem to be taken up with various therapies for young Benj. Meanwhile, Gilman leaves academia behind and her fairy-tale marriage breaks up, due in large part to a polarization in her and her husband’s feelings about their son’s issues.

Gilman’s prose is beautiful and from the heart; she is a gifted writer and tells her story vividly. I think what I found frustrating – as a parent of a child with special needs myself – was what I perceive as a juxtaposition, or maybe just waffling, between Gilman’s determination to accept her son and value him exactly as he is, rejecting notions of achievement-based valuing of human beings, and a strong sense of ableism and very much wanting to normalize Benj as much as possible, by relentlessly plunging him into therapy after therapy aimed at changing him. Perhaps, however, her summing up of her feelings explains it best:

“Wordsworth has strengthened my commitment to simultaneously helping Benj integrate into society and honoring his differences. Our therapeutic efforts have been, of course, designed to help Benj be more ‘romantic’: more spontaneous, imaginative, intrepid, playful, connected to others. But even while striving so hard to help Benj become more romantic, I always wanted to remember that Benj’s antiromantic traits are valuable and wonderful and an essential part of who he is. They are strengths and gifts. I never want them denigrated or dismissed as ‘splinter skills.’ Both my reading of Wordsworth and my experience with Benj have taught me the danger of the very idea of ‘normalcy.’ I will always resist mightily any orientation or approach that sees Benj as a problem or somehow ‘broken’ rather than as simply and profoundly himself.”

It was perplexing to me that her son never received a formal diagnosis; so much of what she describes seems like autism, but that may admittedly be my own misconceptions and assumptions. I wondered if it was a form of denial on her part, or a manifestation of the ableism I perceived in her. And yet, she explains very eloquently,

“Despite numerous evaluations over the past seven years by developmental pediatricians, psychologists, speech and language therapists, occupational therapists, and psychiatrists, Benj has never received an official label or diagnosis. He clearly has shades of obsessive-compulsive disorder, and could be grouped under the headings of sensory-integration disorder and social-pragmatic language disorder; now, as he gets older, I often describe him as ‘borderline Asperger’s,’ usually as a kind of shorthand when I need to succinctly explain why he’s in a special school. I’ve always been ambivalent about the idea of labels. They’re undeniably useful for securing the much-needed therapies and special services, but I’ve often wondered how a label would be helpful in understanding Benj. Would a label make people more sympathetic to him? Or would it get in the way of appreciating the complex, intricate person Benj is? How much detail, nuance, subtlety do we lose when we slap labels on people, and especially on still-developing kids? Reducing Benj to a label would me the loss of mystery, romance, respect for the idea of identity as something that can never be precisely defined of fully known or mastered.”

But there are children like my own who are born with a recognizable, inescapable diagnosis or label; and so, while I fully appreciate Gilman’s hesitancy at using labels, I can’t help but also recoil a bit at her feeling that labels are reductive. In reality, sometimes they can’t be avoided, for all of their pitfalls.

This is a very different sort of memoir that I’ve read before, generally and pertaining to having a child with special needs, in large part because it is so heavily informed by the author’s passion for literature. Despite my misgivings, it has definitely given me pause to consider how other parents approach disability.

The Reason I Jump by Naoki Higashida

[Originally posted on November 11, 2013 here]

imagetemp13704 The Reason I Jump: The Inner Voice of a Thirteen-Year-Old Boy with Autism
by Naoki Higashida

I first heard of this book when Jon Stewart had David Mitchell, a successful author in his own right and the man who translated this book from Japanese to English with the help of his wife, KA Yoshida, on his show several weeks ago. I was intrigued by Jon’s enthusiasm about the book, and although I do not have a child with autism, I do have a child with Down syndrome (which is very different from autism, to be sure), and enough friends with children with autism that my curiosity was piqued. Just being a parent of a child with a developmental disability, I think, makes me curious about other developmental disabilities.

My guess is that when reading this book, whether or not the reader has a close personal relationship with someone with autism probably influences the reader’s reception of the book. A blog I follow that is written by a parent of a child with autism reviewed this book and felt that it was like having a conversation with her son that she has longed for. I felt like I gained some insight into an autistic mind reading this book, but it didn’t blow me away. There have been criticisms of the book elsewhere, and speculation that Mitchell might have taken too much artistic license with his translation and that it might not actually be an authentic reflection of the original author’s thoughts. I have no opinion one way or the other as far as that goes – not having a personal connection to autism, I’m really not in a place to say whether or not this book authentically reflects an autistic mind.

It’s a quick read – I read it in a day. Originally written when Naoki Higashida was 13 (he’s now 21), it’s eloquent, humorous, both precocious and adolescent, and insightful. I was bothered by his constant use of “us autistic kids” and “we” – as if he were speaking for all autistic people. While I’m sure there are commonalities among people with autism, like any other group of people, each are unique; it would therefore be a mistake, I think, to assume that this boy’s experience of autism is the universal experience of autism. What stood out to me most was actually something my husband is fond of saying, and that is, “Everyone is coming from somewhere.” In that way, reading this book gave me pause about my five-year old son who has Down syndrome: even when I don’t understand him, even when he does things that confound me, he’s coming from somewhere.

Definitely worth reading, but I think opinions and perceptions of the book will vary pretty widely.

Memoirs of an Imaginary Friend by Matthew Dicks

[Originally posted on May 21, 2013 here]

9781250031853_p0_v3_s260x420 Memoirs of an Imaginary Friend: A Novel
by Matthew Dicks

This story introduces us to a parallel world inhabited by imaginary friends whose existence depends upon their “imaginer friends” believing in them. Narrated by Budo, imaginary friend to Max, an eight-year old boy who “lives mostly on the inside.” Max is different from most of his peers, and because of this, he is often misunderstood and often bullied. Even his parents are largely mystified by him, and his differences cause much tension between his mom and dad; his mom wants to get him help, while his dad wants to pretend that Max is “normal.” Only Budo understands Max and accepts him just as he is.

Although the term “autism” is never used in the book, it’s understood that Max has autism. I have no idea how accurately it portrays a child “on the spectrum,” and I have no idea if the author has any personal connection to anyone with autism. I’m always wary of reading about Down syndrome, being the parent of a child with Down syndrome – wary of stereotypes and misconceptions, especially when reading things by anyone who doesn’t actually have a personal connection to Down syndrome. As I was reading this book, I kept wondering how I would perceive it if I were the parent of a child with autism.

In any case, Memoirs of An Imaginary Friend is a novel, and it doesn’t set out to explain or advocate for autism; it sets out to tell a story about a boy and his imaginary friend, and about love and loyalty and sacrifice: ” . . . the hard thing and the right thing are usually the same thing,” Budo realizes when Max is abducted by a disturbed paraprofessional and Budo figures out that the only way he may be able to save Max is to sacrifice his own existence.

Easy read; really enjoyed it.

Far From the Tree by Andrew Solomon

[Originally posted on January 25, 2013 here]

far-from-the-tree-cover-223x339 Far From the Tree: Parents, Children and the Search for Identity
by Andrew Solomon

Where to start?

I was eager to devour this tome (702 pages, not including Acknowledgments, Notes, Bibliography, and Index) when it started generating buzz in the Down syndrome parenting community a couple of months ago. At its core, it’s a study of the relationships between parents and “alien” children – that is, children born with differences so fundamental as to make them seem alien to their parents. The chapters include such titles as “Autism,” “Schizophrenia,” “Down Syndrome,” “Rape,” and “Transgender” to name a few, bookended by the first and last chapters titled “Son,” and “Father,” recounting the author’s own “alien” identity as a homosexual and how that played out in his role as a son, and then as a father.

How do these families forge bonds? How do they cope with the challenges inherent in the differences that divide them? How do these children find their own identities when those identities can’t necessarily be passed down to them by their parents – and how do such parents nurture or squelch those identities? These are the questions examined at the heart of this book.

I was, of course, especially interested in the chapter on Down syndrome, and I wrote about it here: On Down Syndrome and Falling Far From the Tree. I won’t rehash what I had to say about except to say that it stirred up very mixed feelings for me. Here are a couple of other reviews by parents of children with Down syndrome, if you’re interested: Far From the Tree – I Finally Finished It by Alison Piepmeier; and “Far From the Tree” Review: Families On the Edge by George Estreich. The consensus seems to be that, while Solomon covers important ground on Down syndrome, he missed the boat on quite a bit.

And I wonder if the same can be said about any of his other subjects in the book. Overall, the book is sad and bleak. I read the chapter on Autism, for instance, with great interest, as I have a number of friends who have children who have been diagnosed with autism. To be perfectly frank, Solomon’s portrayal of autism is pretty horrifying, despite the fact that he wants to get the message across that these parents experience a love for their children that is at least, if not more, profound than parents of neurotypical children. I was left wondering, “Is this really how life looks behind closed doors for these people I know who have kids with autism?” Even more so, I wondered – and am still wondering – what those people I know would have to say about Solomon’s treatment of autism – would they dispute the picture he paints as we parents of kids with Ds have disputed his picture of Down syndrome?

In Cristina Nehring’s article, Loving a Child On the Fringe, in which she takes on Solomon’s book, and specifically his take on Down syndrome as the parent of a child with Ds herself, she lashes out at him for, in the end, seeking an “A-1” baby for himself, and for wrongly seeing himself as an “adversity survivor” when his child is born and needs a CAT-scan to investigate some apparent physical anomalies. I read Nehring’s article before I read Solomon’s book. Having now read the book, I think Nehring exaggerated; although Solomon and his husband do go through the usual process of sifting through donor profiles once they’ve decided to have a child via egg donor and surrogate; in the end, they abandon that and conceive a child with a close friend, and they forego amniocentesis that would detect birth defects. When their newborn requires a CAT scan, Solomon describes the terror any new parent would feel at being told that their brand new baby may have something seriously wrong with it. In that brief span of time between being told that, watching his newborn son undergo the scan, and finally being told that all was well, Solomon discovered in himself what most of we parents who have children with unexpected conditions discover: that our love for those children prevails over terror.

All that said, however, I’m still at sort of a loss about this book. I wonder what the real point of it is: if the point is to engender tolerance and compassion for diversity, I think Solomon paints too bleak a picture of most of his subjects to accomplish that. And who, exactly, is this book’s intended audience? If it’s for the general public, I think in large part it will only serve to reinforce the societal feeling that difference is scary and unpleasant. If it’s meant for the families of children with “horizontal identities,” I think, unfortunately, Solomon falls short of the mark despite his extensive research.