AUTISM AND ALICE IN WONDERLAND
Late to the Tea Party: An autist’s personal journey with Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland
1500-2500 words
Larissa Guerrini-Maraldi
One of my favourite activities, when I’m not wrapped up in anxiety and work and the cyclic whirr of my own head, is to ask and learn what each of my friend’s favourite pieces of media are. I know you can’t and shouldn’t judge a person solely by their taste in media, but I still think you can learn quite a bit about them from it, potentially something you never would have known otherwise. Whatever makes something a favourite can be a variety of answers, of stories within stories.
Together, my friends and I will go through movies, shows, podcasts, theatre, and inevitably, literature. They’ll end up giving me any recommendations, and eventually I’ll pull my Goodreads and Storygraph to give my extensive list, section by section, depending on what genre, mood, or author they’re most interested in.
Often my favourite question though is to ask what books spoke to them when they couldn’t really talk, when the world was still in their eyes theirs, when one of their parents would read to them as they were snug in their bed. When all they had to be was a kid.
Learning about every person’s book or series of books that defined their childhood, that shaped them into who they are, putting words to their experiences and understanding of the world, has always been an enriching reward for me. In many ways, stories provide maps for envisioning where one would want their own story to go or would do differently. It can be a safe space for exploring and discovering what would be our worst fears come to life. Perhaps we will learn something about ourselves that at first, we don’t wish to accept, but we must in order to grow or affect the world around us. Sometimes the lesson is that even if it’s not your fault, life is unfair. In my mind, the worst thing that any book can do, aside from being a boring or a dull snooze fest, is lie. Not in a fiction way of fabricating a story to say something, but just lie in general, about what humans are like or are capable of.
What is it that makes specific stories connect and resonate with us as children? Why do we find ourselves drawn to certain narratives even if we are not at the age or time where we can fully articulate or understand why? What made you so afraid? Angry? Sad? The answer to this is naturally, plural. Authors don’t always intend for the stories they write to be read a certain way, and I’m sure many would love to have their work be one where multiple readings and interpretations can coexist and be true simultaneously. Usually it’s all a matter of argument. Even if it’s not explicit that a story is about something, and we can’t officially determine whether the author is talking about or drawing on their own experiences, we are able to find it there in the margins.
In my case, there are many books that I can say played a key role in my childhood. While there are many I consider influential and beloved, the one that I will focus on and the one that I find harder to think of playing a bigger part in my life than any other is Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. Published in 1864, it is the fantastical, surreal story of a young girl tumbling into a world ruled by nonsense and talking animals, all of which are revealed to be her dream world run wild. The narrative appealed to my deepest escapist tendencies, as a girl who tended to daydream in almost every situation, from long classes at school to even longer family dinners.
The world of Wonderland and its protagonist existed beyond the pages, taking up space in my mind and flowing into the world around me. Every time I came across a locked door, I thought that I could shrink and go beneath if I imagined it hard enough. My birthday cake for my 7th birthday was modelled off an illustration of the Disney Alice film from the first 1000-piece puzzle I ever completed as a child. The design was so breathtakingly beautiful that I didn’t want to ruin it, even if it was screaming “Eat Me”, a funny un-Alice like behaviour in retrospect. I have to thank Alice indirectly for inspiring my love and determination to finish 1000-piece puzzles, which were a valuable respite during the 2020 lockdown. I still do three to four in the summer or winter holiday when I can.
Meanwhile, my nine-year-old self’s favourite attraction during my family’s special visit to Disneyland in Paris was Alice’s Curious Labyrinth, a sprawling maze toward the back of the park in the Fantasy Land area. Being someone who was too afraid of any ride that involved going at a fast speed in the air, this was heaven. Accompanied by a backing soundtrack of card soldiers whistling a tune, you would head down a dark sloping passageway to resemble the rabbit hole, try to fit and squeeze through little doors, quite a few of them being locked, walk under the whirling gaze of the giant Cheshire Cat face shaped bush, pass by the Mad Tea Party, and get jump scared by the Queen of Hearts jumping out of the hedge in a furious rage. My mum was very pleased with the photos she took that day. The experience no doubt inspired my love and passion for escape rooms.
When the Tim Burton live action remake released in 2010 (a film I admittedly have a soft spot for in spite of it not really being a dark reimagining of Alice in Wonderland, like the amazing American McGee’s Alice, and more a chosen one fantasy war story with Alice stapled into it) I got my youngest brother to film me re-enacting my own version at our grandmother’s house during the summer. I made it look like I had fallen down in the air by jumping as high as I could, and telling my brother to start filming the moment I was in the mid-air on the count of three. IMovie was like a magic wand.
I can remember witnessing the incredible 2011 Alice in Wonderland ballet at the Royal Opera House. As someone whose mind tends to wander while watching dance, even if I don’t mean to, I can never recall an experience where I was as transfixed throughout. I was seeing a story I knew transformed and performed in the most energetic, funny, thoughtful, gorgeous way. A mug depicting the dancers remains in my kitchen cupboard. Every now and then I will revisit clips of the official show recording on YouTube, appreciating all the little technical choices made, and still somewhat crushing on Steven McRae’s Mad Hatter.
As one of the final fancy dress up celebrations from my middle school years, one of my close friends had her 12th birthday party as Alice in Wonderland themed in her house garden. I remember on the day getting lost, walking up and down the same street trying to figure out the address when there wasn’t a specific house number visible anywhere. I was panicking. I was going to be late. Hearing the laughter and music above, floating over the hedge bushes, terrified that I was going to miss out and let everyone down, just because I couldn’t look after myself, I rapped my fist against the towering black door. Thankfully for me, it opened, and I was welcomed. To everyone else, my panic was not noticeable.
For the party, I had gone as the blue caterpillar, which consisted of a neon blue tracksuit bottoms and hoodie, and two swirly antennae drawn in marker on my forehead. I still have the picture tucked away, my arms around my friend, dressed as the Queen of Hearts, the image quality slightly brown and lightly faded from over ten years.
In the midst of all of these activities though, I never considered that it wasn’t just the escapist elements, the aesthetic of wonder and nonsense, that made this story of a young girl encountering a strange world mean so much to me. Not even when I received my autism diagnosis at 9 years old. Even then, the term never really entered my lexicon as something I recognized as an explanation for my behaviours and habits. It was not until my teens when the anxiety and the weight of neurotypical expectations were unbearable, and the fear of how the stigma behind that label could affect my career and ambitions dominated.
While autism spectrum disorder or ASD is typically defined by places like the National Institute of Mental Health and the NHS as a developmental and neurological disorder that affects how individuals interact or communicate with, learn, and behave around others (NIMH p.1, NHS p.1), the way I describe it, autism isn’t a disability, it’s a different ability. Your brain simply works in a different way from other individuals. As autism is a spectrum, it means each person’s experience is different, even if there are some shared traits. It does not prevent you from having a good life, having friends, relationships, or a job you desire. A loving support network is invaluable, as it is for any form of neurodivergence and disability. I have always been born this way, and I would never want a cure (you can take that Autism Speaks disgraced doctor Andrew Wakefield, my personal nemesis who doesn’t even know I exist). Why would I want to be not myself when autism, even if it is only one part of who I am, is so intertwined with my perspective on the world, enhancing my experience of the most overwhelming and the sincere expressions of humanity.
Now as I look back on how I coped as a child, to me there is perhaps no clearer example in classic literature of a narrative that speaks so closely to the autistic experience than Alice in Wonderland, as it is a story about identity and difference. To say I identified with Alice as a protagonist would be an understatement, and if you’re willing to continue on, it is my pleasure to show how from an autistic lens, she effectively represents the struggles that autistic people, autistic women particularly, face in a neurotypical world.
Autism and the Author: Lewis Carrol
Alice is one of the first stories I knew instinctively was written by someone like me.
Of course, as a child, I certainly wasn’t thinking about author Lewis Carroll in poorly lit Victorian Oxford, during a time where industrialization was rapidly shaping the city and country. And yet within Carroll’s writings, it is possible see, as Harold Bloom puts it, ‘What is repressed in them is his discomfort with culture’ (Waltz p.19). In this manner, Carroll potentially composed the Alice novels to process his own feelings of exclusion, of being unable to conform. As suggested by author Julie Brown, The Alice books can act as a record of Charles Dodgson’s childhood, the shocks enacted on him by parents and teachers, during a time when bad manners was met with violence, and Charles would likely have stored up hostility from the unjust treatment (Brown p.135).
It is a general belief that Lewis Carroll, or Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, was autistic, though he never was formally diagnosed, the official diagnosis originating past his demise. Julie Brown in her book Writers on the Spectrum highlights that Carroll possessed many autistic qualities a child: he preferred daydreaming over spending time with other children his age, demonstrated preservative thinking, where he would focus on riddles, train schedules, and time, and struggled with speech, often stuttering (Brown p.117). Nonetheless, he was incredibly skilled in language and numbers, and greatly adored animals, viewing garden creatures as his companions. Many autistic individuals share a love for animals, with many of the characters in Wonderland being anthropomorphic creatures, who are frequently sceptical and frightened of human characters like Alice and the Queen of Hearts. This can be read as Carroll expressing his antivivisectionist viewpoint, positioning humans as the antagonist for the harm they can do to animals. Alice moreover shows an affection for cats, indicated in the way that she consistently mentions her pet cat Dinah, thinking that she will ‘miss [her] very much tonight’ (Carroll p.3). Carroll’s opposition to experimentation on animals, whom he viewed as being capable of their own emotions, has been read by some as compensation for his inability to create emotional relationships or convey emotions (Calabrese and Luziatelli p.232), though I disagree with that assessment.
Similar to many authors on the spectrum, he was a prodigious reader as a child. Scholars Stefano Calabrese and Maria Luziatelli note that from the age of ten until his demise, Carroll recorded in a journal everything he considered worthy of being put into writing, reflecting the propensity of autistic individuals to concentrate on details (Calabrese and Luziatelli p.232). Thanks to his appreciation of mathematics, figures that are more dependable than words, Carroll adored the language of photography, which he practiced regularly between 1856 to 1881 (Calabrese and Luziatelli p.232). His preoccupation with the practice was likely because it was the only semiotic method able to acquire the origins of reality and even truth.
In addition, Carroll was hyper-focused on his rituals and routines, and experienced sensory overload. He was quite inflexible in his organising and reasoning, often leading to him writing past meals and bedtime (Beale-Ellis p.1). Autistic individuals frequently have trouble with coping with changing expectations and patterns in everyday, trying to maintain a sense of order through routine (Waltz p.21). Carroll was also fixated on his interests, which included mathematics and writing. He possessed an enthusiasm for habit and puzzles, contriving syzygies before falling asleep (Calabrese and Luziatelli p.232), and even occasionally composing letters to individuals with the words arranged backwards, from finish to start (Brown p.124). It is his enthusiasm for language puzzles and verbal games that injects the Alice novels with a witty sense of amusement and nonsense (Brown p.132). I think Carroll likely employed humour as a mask to make it easier to deal with individuals who might have been harder to comprehend, or when it was difficult for them to comprehend him. Space and time confusion is a near consistent state of existence for autistic individuals, sometimes leading to disorganization. In this same manner, Carroll led a hyper organized life, depending on calendars, schedules, programs, catalogues, and lists in order to not risk losing or forgetting anything (Brown p.124). Similar to Julie Brown, I find that the confusion in Alice might embody a fundamental anxiety of being overcome by disorder.
Carroll was first in his class in mathematics at Oxford University in 1854 and was one of five students to acquire a First-Class degree (Waltz p.14). He would eventually become a lauded mathematician at the institution, teaching formal logic, and working and living on the campus. The foreseeable nature of his routine while working at university, together with attention to imaginative and cerebral activities, enabled him to lead a life that complemented him (Brown p.118). Having acquired a snug set of rooms at Oxford in 1868 he would stay there for the remainder of his life (Waltz p.21). I had the chance to visit Christ Church in Oxford University during the month of July when I was participating in a week-long program. An Alice in Wonderland shop was right outside. For the sake of keeping a memento, I picked up an embroidered bag depicting all the characters amidst ferns and flowers. I questioned what Carroll would think if he knew that the place he stayed at since graduation, and his most renowned work, were now immortalised, if commodified, together into a single entity.
Carroll’s autistic traits can be further seen in his struggles with social engagement. His lack of social skills often made him feel the odd one out among his peers. He believed that others could change to his way of thinking if only his arguments were sound enough (Beale-Ellis p.1, Waltz p.20). Dr Sandra Beale Ellis and writer Kirsty Kendall suggest Carroll’s antisocial tendencies in the way that he grappled with small talk, and preferred individuals to larger groups, disliking having to deal with more than one individual simultaneously. In this manner he connected more with children than his adult peers (Kendall p.12, Beale-Ellis p.1). As to his strong friendship with Alice Liddell, the real girl who inspired the fictional Alice, similar to writer Ilana Jael, I think that this friendship makes more sense when considered through the framework of autistic fixation, which can establish a potent fascination with another individual that is not necessarily sexual in nature. Their relationship, and Carroll’s partiality to passing time with children as a whole may moreover have been a consequence of his difficulty creating meaningful connections with those his own age (Jael p.1-2).
In relation to his communication challenges, Carroll tended to voice the truth, even if he communicated it in manners which were not always clear to others (Waltz p.23). I can personally attest that autistic individuals tend to be exceptionally honest, even in scenarios where perhaps it is better to withhold the truth until later, like when telling mum and dad what really happened to the carpet and all the Cadbury chocolate fingers. Similar to the autistic trait of literal interpretation of dialogue, Carroll apparently despised exaggeration, with particular distaste for the phrase ‘I nearly died of laughing’ (Waltz p.33). Which to be honest, I would be scared too if someone I loved said that because then I would think of all the ways to make sure that scenario never ever happened. And then you’d think I’m being quieter than usual and dull, but no, I’m working out what phrases on a scale of chuckle to death would make you absolutely lose it.
Furthermore, I disagree with the notion that an autistic mind is incapable of understanding complex emotion. If we find expression or comprehension difficult, it is not because we don’t feel anything, it is because we feel EVERYTHING. I will always disapprove of any research that claims an autistic individual to be lacking in empathy or compassion. I don’t know how writing is possible without those two qualities. When reading Alice’s adventures, we see how they concern consistent dangers, emotional problems, and an underlying feeling of apprehension. However, these uneasy feelings are balanced by a tone of amusement and playfulness, with Alice learning to cope with each new encounter. The book arguably suggests to the child reader that anxieties and fears can be managed. Like critic Carole Rother, I find that Carroll’s brilliance is conveyed through his empathetic understanding of the anxieties of childhood and in the creativity of the coping mechanisms he gives for the child to employ (Rother p.89). Some autistic individuals convey feelings differently and may misconceive their own or other’s feelings. Even if Carroll did not articulate his feelings in a neurotypical way, it does not mean he did not convey his own feelings in different manners or create lasting emotional relationships (Alex p.3).
Something that I was aware of even as a child was just the level of creativity on display in Carroll’s writing in constructing the Alice text. I could sense that there was a scrapbook nature to the book, only making it all the more appealing to me. I would later learn that when Carroll composed the Alice novels, he utilized a writing process that depended on integrating written work by other authors, essentially making his novel a scrapbook of his favourite pieces of literature (Brown p.118). The collage, mosaic-like attributes of Carroll’s writing process is similar to that of multiple autistic authors, James Joyce as another example when writing Finnegan’s Wake and Ulysses. I can personally attest how for my own writing; I love to be surrounded by the works of literature I most want to draw from for inspiration. And because Carroll had read so much, and thanks to his impressive recall ability, it is as if the memories of texts he had perused overflowed onto the page (Brown p.120). As for why Carroll wanted to employ stored up phrases and words, I find it possible that he relished the mental challenge, as a lover of wordplay like riddles, acrostics, and conundrums, as well as puzzles and brain teasers.
Another notable feature of course is the way that Carroll makes sudden, unforeseen transitions from chapter to chapter, with Alice being unable to pause and process what she has just encountered, or to mentally prepare herself for whatever is next (Brown p.123). The narrative plan that Carroll uses as a whole when writing Alice does not follow a conventional plot structure, instead playing out as a series of relatively detached adventures rather than fusing into an organised piece. Alice lacks any particular quest, and essentially travels without going anywhere, unable to affect the people she meets. You would be able to shuffle the chapters like a pack of cards, and the novel would stay the same. Events do not develop so much as there is a drifting from area to area. There arguably isn’t a climax, merely an ending. Feelings of unfinishedness and arbitrariness succeed, as the narrative contains multiple loose threads that are never resolved Autistic people can find it difficult to delineate an overarching narrative that gives a meaningful structure behind otherwise random occurrences. (Brown p.122-4). In this way, an autistic author’s story can be viewed as a demonstration of how autistic individuals experience life as a disorganized sequence of unrelated events.
This kind of experience is all too familiar to me, especially during my days at school where changes in space and time are unsettling and nerve-wracking. You don’t always get foreshadowing in real life. And so Carroll’s portrayal of this agitation was a recognition rather than a dismissal of what I was going through.
Carroll’s creative mind was the channel through which the genre of children’s literature expanded into something more playful and magical. Beforehand children were not really meant to enjoy reading, only to learn from it. (Brown p.130). You can see this childish struggle in the opening where Alice wonders what the point of her sister reading a book is when it is ‘without pictures or conversations’ (Carroll p.1). I hope that by showing the imaginative capacity of Carroll as an author that the myth of the autistic individual as so rigidly and mathematically oriented can be dispelled. Similar to scholars Stefano Calabrese and Maria Luziatelli, I find Carroll to be incredibly methodical (Calabrese and Luziatelli p.232), yet as much as he seemed to love fixedness, he loved to play around with the boundaries that separate reality from unreality. According to a study by the universities of East Anglia and Stirling, which focused on the relation between creativity and autistic traits, people with higher levels of autistic traits made fewer suggestions than those with lower levels of autistic traits. However, the suggestions from those with higher levels of traits displayed greater originality (Remington p.3). Evidence like this shows to me how we tend to have extreme tunnel vision when understanding autistic behaviour.
With the understanding of Carroll’s struggles in social settings, writing the Alice narrative appears all the more as a release. It was a game that he could always win. Like his protagonist, he can get to show off his knowledge. Carroll, as suggested by autistic writer Robert Waltz, seems to have so closely related with his heroine that his issues of identity, of instituting coherent selfhood against the brutal changes inherent in human life and the chaos at the centre of order, appear paralleled in hers (Waltz p.21). Reading the Alice novels with the context of its author, it is possible to find the disorientation and frustration that must have pervaded his life. But reading these texts also implies that there was humour and amusement. In writing these texts, he provided himself the chance to show off his cleverness and love of language (Brown p.136). I find it admirable Carroll designed a narrative that in some manner resists meaning itself, with its absence of a unified story. So often we try to impose meaning on our lives, unable to just simply be. Maybe we won’t have the answers we want or need until later. And if we don’t, that can be okay too. I do wish that Carroll could have seen how his children’s books helped those like myself to put words to their experiences. Where creatives like playwright Leah McDonald reimagine and utilize his text to create an empathetic understanding of autism. And where I feel all the more driven to include autistic representation in young girls in my own fictional stories.
The Characters of Wonderland
An autistic reading of the Alice novel becomes all the more engaging when we recognise how the world of Wonderland is, as critic Nina Auerbach puts it, ‘comprise of [Alice’s] own personality [dissolved] into [its] constituent parts’ (Auerbach p.34). Through her subconscious fabrication, the sleeping mind of Alice provides the reader an understanding into her own inner world, and therefore in turn into the mind of an autistic child (Elmer p.1). The characters of Wonderland can then each be seen as representative of different attributes of autism. The White Rabbit for example embodies the obsessive-compulsive tendencies, whereas the Mad hatter and March Hare epitomize ritualistic behaviours practiced for the sake of security and calm. The Cheshire Cat illustrates an offbeat sense of humour, and the Queen of Hearts personifies the over emotional side that autistic individuals can occasionally convey (Alex p.2). In this segment of my argument, I will outline the ways the characters of Wonderland resonated with me in terms of autistic tendencies, and how they reflect the anxieties of the protagonist.
The White Rabbit
As a first example, the autistic demand for a controlled and organized life arrangement is perhaps no better embodied than in the character of the White Rabbit. Scientist Ami Klin in a cognitive research study on the autistic mind indicated that the autistic individual is able to acquire a level of independence through creating a highly organised life consisting of regimented routines that evade novelty and the inherent uncertainty of everyday social life. This means, as they state, autistic individuals ‘may be able to constrain the inevitable complexity of social life by setting themselves a routine of rigid rules and habits’ (Klin et al p.345). In his first appearance, the White Rabbit is portrayed with ‘pink eyes’ (Carroll p.1), exclaiming to himself ‘“Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be too late!’ (Carroll p.1), a phrase I would reiterate agitatedly to myself whenever I was in fear of being marked as tardy for school. The tone of alarm in his cry is representative of the necessity for organization, working to a fixed schedule that is important to the functioning of the autistic mind. His ‘pink eyes’, alluding to bloodshed eyes typical of heightened distress and anxiety, directly imply to the reader that something is wrong. This is likely to a disturbance of his familiar patterns. In addition, the White Rabbit’s reliance on ritualistic behaviour is embodied through his role in trial court room scene, where he blows exactly ‘three blasts on the trumpet’ (Carroll p.74). His exclamation to the King when the latter tries to sentence the accused before the evidence is given – ‘not yet, not yet […] there’s a great deal to come before that!’ (Carroll p.75) – carries an intense sense of alarm in relation to the notion of laws or order being disregarded. The detail that his position is that of the enforcer of laws in the court can thus be emblematic of the sleeping Alice’s demand for a controlled, orderly life.
The Mad Hatter and the March Hare
Meanwhile, the need for repetitive behaviours or familiar environments can be seen in the characters of the Mad Hatter and the March Hare. At the mad tea party, for them it is ‘always six o’clock’ (Carroll p.48), and they iterate a pattern of behaviour in constantly moving from seat to seat around the table, with ‘no time to wash things between whiles’ (Carroll p.48). To the autistic mind, the mad tea party can then be read as an ideal representation of the need for order and fixedness. It is always tea time, and as a result there is a recognized, established arrangement and schedule. When Alice enquires ‘what happens when you come to the beginning again?’ (Carroll p.48), implying that the party will eventually end and the pattern disrupted, the March Hare swiftly goes to change the subject. Later when he has to leave his familiar environment, the Mad Hatter will appear in the court room ‘with a teacup in one hand and a piece of bread and butter in the other’ (Carroll p.75). He has brought with him his comfort objects from his routine to support him in this uncertain space. Similar to the White Rabbit, the Mad Hatter and the March Hare are unable to acknowledge the apprehension that has assembled within them in relation to experiencing life without structured support.
The Cheshire Cat
Understandably many people’s favourite character was The Cheshire Cat. As a child, his character both confused me in the way that his expression did not always appear to match what he was saying or even feeling, but also overjoyed me because I too would stick to smiling all the time at people so that they would know I was interested in them, even if I wasn’t. Throughout the narrative, the Cheshire Cat speaks very little, often in brief, straightforward and assertive sentences, only answering questions and speaking when spoken to. His response to Alice’s enquiry on directions is ‘That depends a good deal on where you want to get to’ (Carroll p.93) and when she says she does not care where she ends up, he wittily responds ‘Then it doesn’t much matter which way you go’ (Carroll p.93). He carries the qualities of a literal thinker, an autistic trait, as he would prefer to watch as opposed to chatter, literally fading in and out of the narrative. Yet Alice appears to enjoy his company, perhaps reminded of her animal companion at home, Dinah, despite his communication style.
The Cheshire Cat arguably acts a rebellious adviser to Alice, demonstrated by the way he adheres to nobody’s rules but his own, appearing and disappearing when he desires. He is stable in his emotions, dramatically juxtaposing many of the other anxious or aggressive characters of Wonderland (Rother p.93). In particular, the Cheshire Cat possesses an insightful understanding of “madness” which he outlines to Alice:
“‘We’re all mad here. I’m mad, you’re mad.”
“And how do you know that you’re mad?” said Alice […]
The Cat went on, “you see a dog growls when it’s angry, and wags its tail when it’s pleased. Now I growl when I’m pleased, and wag my tail when I’m angry. Therefore I’m mad’” (Carroll p.41-2).
The Cheshire Cat’s words ‘we’re all mad here’ (Carroll p.41) can be read as a comforting assurance to readers, especially autistic readers, that they are not alone in their struggle to understand others or the world around them. Here madness can also be read as the inability to conform, and we, like Alice, are terrified of becoming condemned or ridiculed for our difference. Madness however is not the antagonist; rather intolerance of difference is the issue (AROW p.23). From an autistic lens, the Cheshire Cat could be attempting to make Alice comprehend that Wonderland is her community, and her people are waiting for her at the mad tea party. The Mad Hatter is similar to Alice in the way that he is preoccupied with puzzles, riddles, and the concept of time. The March hare similarly misconstrues the intention of a conversation, elucidating to Alice the difference between meaning what you say and saying what you mean (Carroll p.45). I think Alice sensed this similarity as well, that these characters were her community. She decides though to distance herself from the tea party with an external display of aversion that a neurotypical individual might do. However, as she travels away, she looks back for a brief moment, perhaps out of regret: ‘she looked back once or twice, half hoping that they would call after her’ (Carroll p.50).
A small, strange girl in a stranger world
When I was a quiet girl tucked away in the corner of a screaming playground, surrounded by riotous laughter that I had no context for, I saw myself in a girl in a white apron, looks for logic in a world that refuses to make sense or accommodate her. I would try to follow a script in these situations like I do through reading books, watching films, being a part of a theatre performance. It didn’t matter. And I too wished like Alice that something could make sense for a change.
Throughout her journey in Wonderland, Alice is emotionally alienated and continually disoriented in an absurd social environment where the norms and laws appear incomprehensible. In my research, I resonated with author Roni Natov’s interpretation that Alice’s upsetting, important expedition, resembling the teenage concern with identity, is particularly relevant to many autistic people consistently striving to carve their place in a world constructed for neurotypical individuals (Viceligar p.1). Autistic author Kirsty Kendall similarly and accurately asserts that an autistic individual ‘falls down the rabbit hole the day they are born into the neurotypical world’ (Kendall p.1-2).
Alice’s Communication Difficulties and Literal Interpretation of Language
Alice struggles to comprehend the characters around her, whose actions to her appear incalculable and random. She is unable to be join in on discussions with other characters, as if she is speaking from a script where her lines are the only ones blurred out. She frequently protests how alone she feels. Despite participating in a tea party, a croquet game, and a trial, she is unable to decipher the social laws that would help her conform. In her words, it is “dreadfully confusing”. Throughout the book, Alice grapples with the directives that control social triumph; that which involves keeping up with manners and conversations, which might as well be games (Brown p.129).
Indeed, Wonderland’s fantastical world amasses the qualities of a nightmare where everyone talks but nobody understands, where language or words are subject to misunderstanding and struggle (Calabrese and Luziatelli p.228). For an autistic individual like myself, this kind of experience would not be a nightmare, which I could at least wake up from eventually, but an inescapable hell. Much of Wonderland’s humour derives from the nonsense wordplay. Alice in particular demonstrates a certain social awkwardness and incompetence that enables the possibility for conversational collapse through ambiguous language (AROW p.4). This conversational difficulty is all too familiar to me and many autistic individuals. What is comedy then for a neurotypical reader is a painful reminder for me and many other neurodivergent individuals.
In Wonderland, Alice inevitably ends up saying something considered wrong that unsettles the characters. Her communication issues are perhaps best embodied in her exchange with the Caterpillar:
‘“Explain yourself!
“I can’t explain myself, I’m afraid, sir”’ said Alice, ‘because I’m not myself you see”.
“I don’t see” said the Caterpillar’” (Carroll p.27-8).
Here, we see how an autistic individual and neurotypical individual can have different communication styles and viewpoints, which can lead to struggles. I resonate with the inability to provide a stable, irrefutable answer when a seemingly simple question is asked. For me, any social occasion was a mad tea party, where questions about how I was doing or how I felt were puzzles I needed to unravel when I had no right, definite answer. Like Alice, people’s remarks appear to me ‘to have no sort of meaning in it, and yet it was certainly English’ (Carroll p.46). Yet neurotypical society will expect us to alter our communication style to suit the established norms. However, communication works inherently through both sides trying at understanding.
Whenever there is a slight vagueness in the communication, Alice misconstrues the meaning of the speaker, and frequently accidentally affronts. This can be seen in her conversation with the mouse:
“‘Mine is a long and a sad tale” said the Mouse, turning to Alice and sighing.
“It is a long tail, certainly” said Alice, looking down with wonder at the mouse’s tail, “but why do you call it sad?”
“You are not attending!” said the Mouse to Alice severely “What are you thinking of?”’ (Carroll p.16-17).
As the website A Resident of Wonderland illuminates, Alice appears to lack the intuition to comprehend the actual context of the dialogue (AROW p.4). Alice’s verbal issues and her context insensitivity push each character she meets away from her, often leaving her ‘lonely and low-spirited’ (Carroll p.18). Conversation is far from Alice’s specialty. Her fear about upsetting individuals leads to frequent contemplation and uncomfortable small talk.
As suggested by Lisa Jo Rudy’s article on autistic communication, pragmatic speech for autistic individuals is almost always difficult. Our speech patterns vary but tend to include repetition of scripts from films and shows, bluntly telling the truth without concern of a negative outcome, trouble recognizing sarcasm and expressions, asking question simply so we can show our own opinions or ideas, and directing the conversation to a topic of their personal interest (Rudy p.3). An instance of the latter occurs when Alice starts to connect with the Duchess, she feels an urge to literally interpret the latter’s words:
‘“If everybody minded their own business” the Duchess said in a hoarse growl, “the world would go around a deal faster than it does”.
“Which would not be an advantage” said Alice, who felt very glad to get an opportunity of showing off a little of her knowledge (Carroll p.38)
I find this entire exchange extremely humorous in the way that I find it infinitely relatable. I am reminded of the many moments in which I suddenly come alive in a conversation when I am able to transition from speaking about idle matters to being able to discuss a topic of my interest and expertise. Where I can reveal all these details and facts, usually about a piece of media, hoping that the other individual will share some of the enthusiasm I have. The people who are my people do so.
Another thing to consider regarding communication for autistic is that we are usually concrete thinkers, meaning we understand language quite literally. So things like sarcasm, idioms, puns, and sometimes nuances, can be lost on us (Viceligar p.1). Alice’s literal interpretation and understanding of language can be seen when during her fall down the rabbit hall, she questions ‘what Latitude or Longitude [she’s] got to?’ (Carroll p.2). The narrator however underscores that Alice ‘had not the slightest idea what Latitude was, or Longitude either, but she thought they were nice grand words to say’ (Carroll p.2). The National Autistic Society have postulated that the employment of complicated language is either misinterpreted or employed out of context is usual in autistic people (Elmer p.10). Similarly, in the Pig and Pepper episode, the exchanges and occurrences that happen are all recognized quite literally. The Duchess’s labelling of her baby as ‘pig’ leads to Alice applying it directly to the baby’s physical form, her mind altering the baby into a genuine animal.
With each strange meeting, it is Alice, rather than the Wonderland characters, who appears as improper and odd. Her lack of social intuition renders her solitary and often in her own head. She has to rely on her semantic understanding to figure how most things function. In the scene where she chooses whether or not to fall on the ground like the rest of the car soldiers when the Queen of Hearts approaches, Alice uses her reason, and past experiences, but not her intuition in order to decide not to fall. As A Resident of Wonderland illuminates, Alice has to consciously fathom the law that should direct her behaviour (AROW p.8). Many autistic individuals share this kind of inner deliberation. Even as an adult the laws remain mystifying to me. I still attempt to discern how others act and try to imitate, hoping that no one will discover my incompetence
Alice’s Spatial Awareness Difficulties
Language however is not the only difficulty that Alice must encounter. She strives to understand the laws of her setting, her inner dialogue reflecting her confusion as she contends with her experiences. In particular, Alice has a lack of spatial awareness, as she becomes lost at multiple points in her visit to Wonderland. I’m reminded of the times during high school where I would rhythmically walk into a room and forget why I had arrived there, or which pair of stairs led to which labelled classroom door.
The National Autistic Society highlights that autistic individuals carry restricted spatial awareness and can experience trouble navigating spaces (Elmer p.12). When Alice enters Wonderland, she experiences a sense of alarm as she must encounter various swift changes in place and time. From when she receives no caution about the upcoming rabbit hole, she has, to quote, ‘no moment to think about stopping herself’ (Carroll p.2). The anxiety behind Alice’s fall is quelled by her focusing on the cupboards, pictures, maps and bookshelves surrounding her. More than simply domesticating a space in order to remove the fear, this echoes to me the way an autistic person will cling to any sense of familiarity to ground them when they are literally falling into a new space entirely.
In addition, when Alice shrinks for the first time, she describes the experience as akin to ‘shutting up like a telescope!’ (Carroll p.5). The allusion to an apparatus that is inherently changeable reflects the uncertainty with which the autistic mind contends with physical spaces. Alice’s later reflection that ‘It was much pleasanter at home’ (Carroll p.21) indicates her feelings of entrapment and unhappiness as a consequence of an unfamiliar environment. Her home, in contrast, is a familiar space, and thus one where she experiences no spatial awareness problems. It is exactly because Wonderland is unknown and novel territory that it takes her time to adjust and navigate it. And it is the moment where she recovers her regular size, following her consummation of the mushroom, that indicates Alice becoming at ease with the navigation of her environment.
Alice’s need for order and routine
Autistic author Robert Waltz indicates that autistic people can usually take an engineering approach to the world, attempting to comprehend the rules by which people and things function (Waltz p.31). I will often try to observe how things are organised so that I can create a routine that I am comfortable with, where I know what to expect. It means though that any moments of unplanned activity, opportunity, spontaneity register like earthquakes. For Alice it is the same.
In Wonderland, there is an absence of organisation or rules in the games played, most notably in the Queen’s croquet game:
‘it was a very difficult game indeed. The players all played at once without waiting for turns, quarrelling all the while, and fighting for the hedgehogs; and in a very short time the Queen was in a furious passion, and went stamping about, and shouting, “Off with his head!” or “Off with her head!” about once in a minute […] Alice began to feel very uneasy’ (Carroll p.56).
With this frenzied image, Alice is discouraged by the nonsense before her: she cannot comprehend a game where there is no clear direction. The Queen’s yelling of ‘Off with his head!’ would be interpreted quite literally to an autistic individual. Alice remarks to the Cheshire Cat that the people don’t ‘play at all fairly […] they don’t seem to have any rules in particular: at least, if there, nobody attends to them’ (Carroll p.56). Her feelings of agitation are representative of an autistic need to impose organization so that she can exist comfortably. During the croquet game, where everything is too literally alive, without sequence or order, Alice is upset by this fluidity, needing to, as critic James Kincaid recognises, ‘reduce things to the most mechanical level’ (Kincaid p.94). This suggestion of a pathological need for logic links to how for the autistic mind, the presence of rules is something quantifiable, and therefore something that can be depended on in order to operate. And consequently, we are overwhelmed when what we have learned and been taught to survive is constantly contradicted.
In social environments I am Alice at the Queen’s croquet game with a flamingo uncomfortably tucked under my arm, questioning the absurdity of the situation and why everyone else is going along with it. My imposter syndrome is at an all-time high as I desperately search for an escape from a fate that in my eyes could lead to my death. I’m lucky if I find a Cheshire Cat who is willing to check in on my state. Like Alice, I will comment ‘you’ve no idea how confusing it is all the things being alive’ (Carroll p.56).
Alice’s Masking and Conformity
In my research, I discovered a qualitative study on women and girls with autism conducted by scientist Victoria Milner. The results indicated that women and girls incorporate strategies to camouflage and mask their autistic tendencies, often utilizing stock phrases in social manners or conscious observance of the right amount of time to sustain eye contact. Many women described negative repercussions to this behaviour like poor mental health and fatigue (Milner et al p.2399-400). The study also showed that while autistic females grapple with establishing and sustain relationships, many are socially driven, all desiring friendship despite their feelings of loneliness.
Social masking is a tactic used by neurodivergent and autistic people to conceal their difference in social environments by actively learning the laws for the anticipated meeting, and then emulating the behaviour of our peers (AROW p.11) This is a deliberate ongoing process of active monitoring and assessment, with little assurance of success. Initially, attempting to fake and pretend our way through social settings seems to be reasonable. We are rewarded for our conformity, in schools, institutions, by surrounding peers. As a result, masking appears as a survival tool, as to confess my disorientation in contrast to everyone else, is to reveal a difference and the possibility of derision and exclusion. I fear that the real person must remain hidden, as that person is inadequate. It has taken me a long time to realise that this continual practice of concealing myself, the exhaustion and depletion of being a heightened version of myself, rather than coping, it contributed to my lack of self-worth and depressive moods. I had no self-belief to sustain and support myself through emotional adversity. It is moments like that that I want to disappear, or as Alice would say, ‘shut up like a telescope’ (Carroll p.5). Sometimes I fear, because of the number of times I have masked, I no longer know who I am or who I once was. As A Resident of Wonderland indicates, when the mask is no longer a conscious form of roleplay, that is when we know that we have fallen down the rabbit hole (AROW p.16).
I remember when Alice, before entering the Duchess’ home, Alice adjusts her size and stature to make herself appear socially acceptable. And I’m brought back to the multiple points where I changed myself for the comfort of others. I know that my child brain figured that if everything I did was wrong, then doing the opposite had to be correct. And so rules would be my guide, and equally, I would have to continually traverse beyond my zones of familiarity and comfort. Smothering that anxiety though only enhances another kind of anxiety. And as I have to come to learn, and accept a little more each day, if we only ever show anyone our fabricated self, those people will not have the knowledge they need to understand our autistic traits, and we can never be happy as our true selves. At its worst, autistic masking, as A Resident of Wonderland reinforces, leads to a socially subservient adult (AROW p.20). Because we do not believe in our own sense or intuition, we believe that if there is an issue, we are the ones to blame. So we change ourselves to suit others’ expectation, anxious of creating an upset or making a mistake. We consequently become adults who do not know how to set boundaries, and seek external approval to make up for our lack of self-worth. Writer Tony Attwood suggests that autistic women are ‘more likely to apologise and appease when making a social error. Peers and adults may then forgive and forget, but without realising that a pattern is emerging’ (AROW p.20).
Alice is resistant to be among the “mad” people. Rather she desires to reach the seemingly organized garden that seems to divide the sane individuals from the mad individuals. The garden however is to keep non conformists away. When inside, Alice discovers that the playing cards exist in the roles prescribed to them and are ultimately identical to each other, each anxious of disapproval from an authority. Conformity is such an overwhelming power that Alice, while in the garden, experiences a necessity to conform, despite acknowledging that the behaviour is absurd (AROW p.23-4).
When I picked my Wonderland costume for my friend’s birthday party, consciously I picked the blue caterpillar, not because he was necessarily my favourite character, but because I guessed that no one else was going to be dressed as that character. It would be white rabbits, Mad Hatters, and Cheshire Cats, which I was correct about. Maybe it was also appropriate, on a subconscious level, that I chose the caterpillar: his entire deal is ‘Who are you?’, a question I was figuring out then, and honestly still am now, even with more answers. I’m sure all of us at that party were secretly asking that same question. I just couldn’t mask it as well. Like with Alice though, the answers you are often given are questions. And those questions lead to more questions, until answers never really felt like they existed.
It could be argued, as critic Royston Elmer does, that Alice, from an autistic understanding, carries no determinable notion of self as an internal measure (Elmer p.17). When the Caterpillar asks her who she is, she states that she must have ‘been changed’ (Carroll p.27), situating the source of authority over her identity as external to her physical body. However, I disagree with the notion that autistic people are incapable of articulating their identity. Our expression of our selves often exists outside traditional forms of language. In some ways, we are closer to feeling and sensitivity than anyone else. As for Alice, she firmly maintains her identity despite the weathering of her self-concept through the changes in her size, the warping of her body, and occasional loss of memory (Rother p.94).
Alice’s evolution and ending
Alice dreams of order and reason and can become easily overwhelmed; but she still progresses on this adventure nonetheless by herself, even when she feels lost. She may have a literal comprehension of matters and restricted spatial awareness, but by the conclusion of her narrative is able to assert herself and who she is, literally towering above everyone else, reflecting her growth in self-knowledge. We as autistic individuals, as A Resident of Wonderland advocates, need to learn to care less about what others judge of us (AROW p.24). Alice fortunately comes to realise this by the culmination of the novel. Despite adversity, Alice is able to come a long way, having better control over her emotions and circumstances like during the mad tea party, her rescue of the gardeners from the Queen’s wrath, and her assertion her own rights when questioned by the Duchess. Whenever I question whether my own judgment is sound, like Alice I have to declare to myself ‘I’ve a right to think’ (Carroll p.61).
In spite of her distress, Alice does not ultimately lose her courage in Wonderland. She stands up for herself in the Queen’s absurd court trial, asserting one of her most famous lines: ‘You’re nothing but a pack of cards!’, a line I too often wished I could use against those who claimed to know what I was capable of. She ultimately dismisses the self-designated power of the governing norm, experiencing a sense of real lucidity. When the Queen demands that she be executed ‘Nobody move[s]’ (Carroll p.83), indicating that the authority has transferred to Alice. In one move she dissipates their control. By the end of her escapade, Alice recognized that she did not desire to belong to a ruling social order whose laws make no sense. Looking for approval demands warping one’s self that will lead to an unhappiness where one’s self becomes unrecognizable. She discovered that the only authority that majority possesses is the submission and power you permit it yourself (AROW p.25-6).
I do always mournfully note though that even when she is able to leave her strange and overwhelming dream universe, in the real world, Alice is still alone. As an autistic individual who connects deeply with her struggles, I feel sad when she wakes up, moving on from her dream too easily, once more isolated without a community to support her. This book was my community in my childhood years, and thankfully now, I’ve found my people beyond the pages.
Conclusion
For the autistic girl, Carroll’s novel is an embodiment of her inner reality. Beyond the nonsense exists a narrative about difference, miscommunication, muddled identity, and emotional seclusion. Whether or not this narrative was intended by Carroll, it is this experience that is so impressively represented that is identifiable to an autistic individual who has to encounter it each day. Wonderland is not so much a land of wonder, so much as a land where you wonder what the point of everything is.
Like many autistic writers, such as Kirsty Kendall, I think that Alice in Wonderland can be viewed as an allegory of the life of an autistic individual within a neurotypical universe. Alice discovers an unusual, disorderly world where nothing appears logical. Her multiple changes in size quite literally reflect her inability to fit into any setting. And she attempts to communicate with the characters around her, but they misinterpret all of her words (Kendall p.12-13). Like Alice, an autistic individual encounters unfamiliar or ridiculous circumstances in everyday life. And we attempt to operate in an absurd universe that was not assembled for us.
However, when we decide to exist authentically as our neurodivergent selves, regardless of social validation, we will discover our people, and we will be at liberty to hold the tea party however we desire. This is better than choosing to exist so as to assimilate, all the while knowing that we can never truly do so. As autism activist Temple Grandin states: ‘The most interesting people you’ll find are ones that don’t fit into your average cardboard box’ (Remington p.5). You have the power to craft this narrative, even if it appears intangible. Even without putting pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard, you tell your story every day by living it. All the sounds and voices that echo and buzz and mould and shape and cluster around you, you register them in the novel of your heart and the record of your mind.
Perhaps though we need to stop being Alice in the sense of trying to conform and play to a world that does not wish to understand or help you. Instead, we need to discover our own community, which we cannot do through faking who we are. Our differences need to be recognized and our weirdness needs to be welcomed. We’re not late to the tea party. We have our own at a different time.
Bibliography/Works Cited
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