Narrator: In May of 2000, a cruise ship called the Volendam set sail for Alaska. This was no ordinary vacation; it was the "Geek Cruise," a floating conference for the world's top computer programmers. Onboard was Larry Wall, the creator of the Perl programming language, a man revered in his community. The author, Steve Silberman, was there to write a profile on him and observed a tribe of brilliant, socially unconventional minds at work. A year later, Silberman discovered that Larry Wall had an autistic daughter. Then he learned that another tech luminary he was profiling also had an autistic child. A special-education teacher told him there was an "epidemic of autism" in Silicon Valley. This observation sparked a decade-long investigation into a profound question: Was autism a new and terrifying epidemic, or was it something else entirely—a fundamental part of human diversity that had been misunderstood and hidden for generations?

In his groundbreaking book, NeuroTribes: The Legacy of Autism and the Future of Neurodiversity, Steve Silberman unearths this lost history. He reveals that the story of autism is not one of a modern-day plague, but of a community finding its voice and a society slowly learning to appreciate the full spectrum of the human mind.

Narrator: The conventional history of autism begins with Leo Kanner, a psychiatrist at Johns Hopkins who, in 1943, described a group of children with what he called "infantile autism." His definition was narrow and rigid, portraying these children as living in a private world, detached from others. For decades, this became the definitive, and very rare, diagnosis.

However, Silberman reveals a parallel, forgotten history. A year after Kanner’s paper, an Austrian pediatrician named Hans Asperger published his own thesis on a similar group of children. Asperger’s perspective was radically different. He saw a broad continuum of traits, not a rare, monolithic disorder. He described his young patients as "little professors," often possessing precocious abilities, intense interests, and a unique form of intelligence. He believed that for success in science and art, "a dash of autism is essential."

Asperger’s humane, strengths-based view was lost to the world for decades, buried by the horrors of World War II and the dominance of Kanner’s more pathological model in the English-speaking world. This historical accident meant that for half a century, the medical community viewed autism through a narrow, deficit-focused lens, failing to see the potential and diversity that Asperger had recognized from the very beginning.

Narrator: As Kanner’s narrow definition of autism took hold, a devastating theory emerged alongside it: the "refrigerator mother." This psychoanalytic idea, which Kanner himself helped popularize, blamed autism on cold, intellectual, and unloving parents—particularly mothers—who had supposedly failed to form an emotional bond with their children. This theory inflicted immense guilt and shame on families who were already struggling to understand and support their children.

This era of blame was challenged not by the medical establishment, but by a parent. In the 1960s, a Navy psychologist named Bernard Rimland, whose own son, Mark, was autistic, refused to accept that he and his wife were the cause. He spent years conducting exhaustive research, culminating in his 1964 book, Infantile Autism. The book systematically dismantled the "refrigerator mother" theory, arguing persuasively that autism was a biological, neurological condition, not the result of toxic parenting.

Rimland’s work was revolutionary. It not only shifted the scientific focus toward biology and genetics but also ignited a parent-led movement. He co-founded the National Society for Autistic Children (which later became the Autism Society of America), creating a network where parents could share information, advocate for educational rights, and fight the stigma that had isolated them for so long. This was the first time parents had organized to demand better services and a more accurate understanding of their children.

Narrator: For decades, the official diagnostic criteria for autism remained incredibly restrictive, based on Kanner’s original observations. This meant countless individuals who didn't fit the precise mold were denied a diagnosis and, consequently, access to support and services. The person who would change this was a British psychiatrist and parent of an autistic daughter named Lorna Wing.

In the 1970s, Wing conducted a landmark study in a London suburb. She didn't just look for children who fit Kanner’s classic description; she looked for a "triad of impairments" in social interaction, communication, and imagination. What she found shattered the old model. Autism wasn't a rare, single condition but a vast and varied continuum—a spectrum. Her research revealed that for every one child who met Kanner’s criteria, there were many more with related difficulties.

Wing’s work, particularly her influential 1981 paper, forced the psychiatric world to reconsider its definitions. Her concept of the "autism spectrum" was eventually incorporated into the official diagnostic manuals. This change explains much of the so-called autism "epidemic." The numbers rose not because of a new disease, but because the diagnostic map was finally redrawn to be more inclusive, recognizing a tribe that had always been there, just outside the borders of the old definitions.

Narrator: Long before the internet, autistic individuals, often without a diagnosis, found refuge in communities built around intense, shared interests. Silberman highlights the worlds of early science fiction fandom and amateur radio as crucial "neurotribes." These spaces valued technical knowledge, deep focus, and unconventional thinking—traits often punished in mainstream society. Figures like Hugo Gernsback, the publisher who essentially created science fiction fandom, provided a platform where "nerds" and "geeks" could connect and feel a sense of belonging.

This pattern accelerated dramatically with the arrival of the internet. Online forums and email lists became the first places where autistic people from around the world could communicate on their own terms, free from the pressures of face-to-face interaction. It was in these digital spaces that a new culture and identity began to form. They coined the term "neurotypical" to describe non-autistic people, a linguistic turn that framed the majority's way of thinking as just one type among many, not the only "normal" one. This digital community-building, exemplified by early networks like Autism Network International (ANI), laid the groundwork for a powerful new movement.

Narrator: The culmination of this history is the neurodiversity movement. The term was coined in the late 1990s by sociologist Judy Singer, who was herself on the autism spectrum and had an autistic daughter. The core idea of neurodiversity is that conditions like autism, ADHD, and dyslexia are not diseases to be cured, but natural variations in the human brain. They are an essential part of human biodiversity, bringing unique perspectives and strengths to society.

This paradigm shift was championed by autistic self-advocates like Jim Sinclair, who famously told parents, "Don’t mourn for us." He argued that autism is a way of being that is not separable from the person. The goal should not be to make an autistic person "normal," but to help them grow into the best autistic person they can be. This movement gained significant political force with the rise of organizations like the Autistic Self-Advocacy Network (ASAN), which fights for the civil rights of autistic people, summed up in their motto: "Nothing About Us, Without Us." This represents the final, crucial step in the journey: from being subjects of study and objects of pity to being the authors of their own story.

Narrator: The single most important takeaway from NeuroTribes is that the history of autism is not a linear story of medical discovery, but a fractured and rediscovered history of a people. For decades, a more humane, inclusive understanding of autism was lost, leading to generations of misunderstanding, blame, and isolation. The book reveals that the recent rise in diagnoses is not an epidemic of pathology but an "epidemic of awareness"—a community that has always existed is finally being seen and is now speaking for itself.

Ultimately, NeuroTribes challenges us to fundamentally rethink our concept of a "normal" mind. It asks us to move beyond the search for a cure and instead focus on building a world that is more accommodating and appreciative of neurological differences. The real question the book leaves us with is not how we can eliminate autism, but how we can create a society that harnesses the unique strengths of every neurotribe.