The Promise—and Pitfalls—of Autism Representation

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As an autistic who longs for better autistic representation in media, I approached Love on the Spectrum a lot like its subjects appeared to approach their dates: excited but extremely nervous. Hopeful that this time would be different, despite a long history of frustration and disappointment.

The five-part reality series, which premiered on Netflix earlier this week, seemed fairly promising in theory. Dating, sex, romance and relationships might present some challenges that are unique to autistic people, but they’re hard for almost everyone, which makes love a great topic through which to explore autistic existence without making us seem like an entirely alien species, or adorable animals who think they’re people. Any show that could tackle our common humanity as well as our often significant differences could be entertaining for both autistic and non-autistic audiences—and potentially illuminating for the latter.

Stories about autism and love have rarely lived up to that promise in the past. But Love on the Spectrum has the potential to open minds, foster genuine empathy for its stars and maybe even spark interest in more autistic stories. The bar for autism depictions is still low (read on for more on that), but the series ambles over it by rightfully allowing its autistic subjects to speak for and at least somewhat guide their stories themselves, so that viewers can get to know them as people with individual thoughts, desires, and needs. This might sound basic to the uninitiated, but it’s still painfully uncommon for autistic people to see any hints of our actual realities on screen.

Even in recent years, fictional takes have mostly been patronizing affairs made by and for non-autistic people. For every Keep The Change, a 2017 romantic comedy that cast autistic actors in autistic roles and valued their input, there are more movies like Adam—which is more about how hard it is to love an autistic person than how challenging it is to be an autistic person who wants to be loved—and Jane Wants A Boyfriend, which centers the titular Jane’s sister’s struggles to accept Jane over anything Jane does herself. Nonfiction storytelling can provide more opportunities for actual autistic participation, but it comes with a higher risk of exploitation, too. I thought the critically acclaimed 2015 documentary Autism in Love was a decent portrayal of autistic people working to find and maintain romantic relationships, but was later horrified to read about the ongoing mistreatment star Lindsey Nebeker says she faced during production and promotion.

Even in less obviously manipulative scenarios, I worry about what boundaries non-autistic people might unintentionally breach. It’s something I’ve experienced in my writing career, especially when I was working on my memoir. I often felt pressure to expose more than I was comfortable revealing throughout the process, especially about romantic relationships. It’s definitely left me wondering if the professionals that autistic people are trusting to facilitate the telling of our stories are truly aware of how much bullying and isolation we can face, and how the desperate need to avoid more of those experiences could possibly make us eager to please and a bit too malleable. And how easily a lack of understanding surrounding this potential issue could lead producers and editors of a reality show to unwittingly nudge participants toward stories and behaviors that might not be the healthiest for their ongoing post-show existence as real people who have to live with the consequences of what has been filmed, streamed, discussed, and possibly memed—or even particularly true to who they were and what they really wanted to do at the time of filming.

As uneasy as I am, though, I’m still open to almost all new autism-related entertainment that comes out. Pop culture helped me better understand non-autistic people and the world around me. I remain convinced that it has the potential to be just as powerful in reverse.

My major grievance with the series is the demographic of its cast, which doesn’t accurately reflect the autistic community in terms of race, gender, or sexuality. My other misgivings may not occur to non-autistic viewers, but might linger in the minds of autistic ones: Is the score a bit too cutesy for a show about adults and dating? What are the cuts between awkward date moments and other, more “natural” seeming interactions among people in other parts of the venues trying to say? Would the close-ups on potentially eccentric clothing choices have happened if their subjects were neurotypical? Were the introductions that listed their subjects’ “quirky” likes and dislikes genuinely informative or infantilizing? Will audiences sympathize with the subjects, or pity them? Or maybe even laugh at them?

But it’s admittedly hard to untangle these concerns from my fears as an older autistic person feeling protective (or overprotective) of her younger counterparts. It’s not like reality unscripted programming about non-autistic love is a bastion of accuracy and perfectly fair depictions. Even the more earnest and straightforward ones aren’t perfect. There is always the risk of misrepresentation and misinterpretation. Perhaps accepting that autistic reality show stars will be subject to the same hazards as non-autistic ones—and respecting the autonomy of those who choose to participate—is its own awkward step toward equality.