Tales of an autistic actor

When I was a kid, I was resigned to a life where math was my strength and socializing was my weakness, having to accept that the world saw me differently and would treat me as such. But everything changed when my sister pursued acting. Her enthusiasm for showbiz infected the entire family, and I wound up bit by the performance bug. It was fun to pretend to be someone else. 

At first, every single role I took was a non-autistic character, so I had to learn how to act neurotypical. Neurotypical people have certain ways they like to communicate. Look people in the eye when speaking to them. Use a certain tonal inflection to indicate you care. Offer a hug, but only at the right moment. I call these “social lubricants,” as they make the process of communicating much easier for people (both neurotypical and neurodivergent) to navigate.

With years of practice, I got extremely good at putting on the mask of a neurotypical, and truly living like one under the imaginary circumstances. Now this is how I normally communicate. It has become second nature. I no longer need to think about looking someone in the eyes or making the right tonal inflection. 

Is it wrong to “fake it until you make it” when communicating with others? Absolutely not. We don’t live in an “autistic” world. We live in a “neurotypical” world, and to thrive we must play by their rules. Life is easier when I communicate with others the way others like to be communicated with. 

Being an actor, I always wanted to play a role that reflected my own experience, especially since there are so many examples of misrepresentation and perpetuation of stereotypes. But there just aren’t too many characters like that in film and television. Taking inspiration from Sylvestor Stallone, I wrote my own kind of Rocky. It’s called Wally Jackson and the Probability of Love and Car Accidents, and it’s about a heartbroken young man (yes, he’s on the spectrum) who decides he’s going to try and use math to improve himself and find love again. 

I tried selling my script, but studios told me they wouldn’t cast me as the lead if they bought it. The issue with Hollywood is that there aren’t enough autistic creators making creative decisions, and the refusal to cast me, an award-winning actor with autism, sent a clear message: our stories are welcome, as long as someone else tells them. 

I knew if I sold the script and wasn’t a part of the movie-making process, it could be played by someone without autism, and things could be changed that would be inauthentic to the neurodivergent experience. What was I to do? 

I decided to scrape together my life savings and fund the film myself. I thought the story was just that special, and apparently others did too: I found a director who helped produce the movie and a crew that donated their own equipment to help get this movie made. After sinking my last dollar into this important piece of art, I’ve been incredibly moved by how many people have stepped up to help bring it across the finish line. Projects like this don’t happen without a community rallying behind stories that matter.

After all, the only way we are going to get more authentic autistic stories in film and television is to support neurodiverse artists right now. (And if you’re a parent, enrolling your kid in an acting class isn’t a bad way to start either. It could be a fun way for them to explore their imagination and maybe learn a thing or two about how neurotypicals like to communicate.)

The truth is, I never stopped being that math-loving kid who felt different—I just found a new way to tell stories that include people like me. If the world doesn’t offer you the roles you need, maybe it’s time to write your own.

Austin James Wolff is an autistic self-advocate and filmmaker. To learn more about him and his film, visit wallyjackson.com.