When I was younger, I thought I had life all figured out: I was the math kid, not the social one. That was my lane. I accepted early on that the world saw me differently—and treated me that way, too. But that perception started to shift when my sister got into acting. Her passion for the silver screen pulled the whole family in, and before long, I caught the acting bug myself. There was something liberating about stepping into someone else’s shoes, even if only for a scene.
Most of the roles I played (with one exception—more on that later) weren’t autistic. That meant learning to perform as neurotypical. There’s a certain script to it—look people in the eye, modulate your tone to sound engaged, know when a hug is welcome and when it isn’t. I think of these behaviors as “social lubricants.” They make conversations smoother for everyone involved, no matter how your brain is wired.
Over the years, I got really good at it. With enough repetition, what started as a performance became a habit. Now, this kind of communication comes naturally. I don’t have to think about how I’m supposed to sound or where my eyes should go during a conversation—it just happens. Now, most people don’t even know I’m on the spectrum, and I can communicate effectively with friends, coworkers, and bosses, allowing me to thrive in society without a crutch. But it turns out my story is not completely unique.
A 2010 study published in the Journal of Autism and Developmental Disorders found that after a full musical theater production, “[eight children with ASD] showed some improvement in face identification and theory of mind skills.”1
As an actor, I always hoped to take on a role that mirrored my own life. But those characters are few and far between. So, like Stallone writing Rocky, I decided to write the part I’d never been given. The result was Wally Jackson and the Probability of Love and Car Accidents—a story about a heartbroken, math-loving young man who sets out to optimize his chances of love through equations and self-improvement.
I tried shopping the script around, but studios wouldn’t cast me as the lead even if they bought it. That’s the problem: there aren’t enough autistic voices in positions of creative control. If I sold the script, there was no guarantee the story would stay true to the neurodivergent experience. The risk of it being diluted—or worse, misrepresented—was too high.
So I made a decision. I used my life savings to produce the film independently. And to my surprise, others believed in the project just as much as I did. A talented director volunteered her time. A passionate crew came on board and took reduced pay. And we shot the movie. Now we just need help finishing it.
Because if we want a future where autistic characters are portrayed with honesty and depth, we have to start by empowering neurodiverse artists today.
Austin James Wolff is an autistic self-advocate and filmmaker. To learn more about him, visit wallyjackson.com.
Footnotes
- Corbett, Blythe A et al. “Brief report: theatre as therapy for children with autism spectrum disorder.” Journal of autism and developmental disorders vol. 41,4 (2011): 505-11. doi:10.1007/s10803-010-1064-1
