Renaldo Kuhler was neurodivergent, only he never knew it.
Described in 1943 by Leo Kanner, Autism did not become a diagnosis until 1980 with its inclusion in the DSM-III. It wasn’t commonly diagnosed until the 1980s-90s. Asperger syndrome was added in 1987, and later definitions further expanded to include a wider spectrum.
Renaldo was born in 1931 in Blauvelt, New York to immigrant parents. His father was German. His mother was Belgian. His parents worked hard for financial stability, as did everyone during the Depression, and they also desperately wanted to assimilate into American society. Renaldo’s behavior was seen as embarrassment.
His father was traveling for work most of the time. His mother was abusive and neglectful. He was mostly raised by a strict German governess until he was sent to boarding school at age nine. At a series of boarding schools, the story was always the same. He was bullied, mocked, and ridiculed by the other boys, and harshly disciplined for his unacceptable behavior by headmasters. Beatings were frequent and severe. No one seemed to be able to straighten this boy out.
Renaldo lived largely in his own world, a world of his creation. He had many imaginary friends in settings that were invented or loosely based on real places. He said the happiest times of his youth were spent riding the subway lines around New York City alone on weekends. He wanted to be around people, but he just couldn’t seem to relate to them in ways that would develop relationships. All he could surmise was that people didn’t accept him because he was different from them in some way he didn’t understand.
At some point, Renaldo’s mother took him to a psychologist who diagnosed Renaldo as a “dull normal,” indicating an IQ range of 76-89. Renaldo grew up believing his difference was a lower-than-average intelligence. In 1948, when Renaldo was 16, his parents moved him from the suburbs of NYC to a remote cattle ranch in the Rockies near Bailey, Colorado. Isolated on the ranch with constantly bickering parents who had never understood him, Renaldo retreated into a world he secretly created, an imaginary country he called Rocaterrania. He began illustrating the country’s history, a process he would continue for six decades. No one knew he was metaphorically documenting the story of his life.
Renaldo eventually went to college at CU in Boulder, worked in Spokane for a while, returned to Boulder for a postgraduate program in museum techniques, and landed a job at the North Carolina Museum of Natural Sciences in Raleigh. He taught himself the specialized craft of scientific illustration and made a career of it.
I met Renaldo while working at the same museum where his eccentricities were noted by coworkers and the public. I soon suspected he might be Autistic (as it was simply called then), or at least had some form of Aspergers. Later, I became convinced. He never mentioned it – and he would have, given our relationship – so I never asked about it. I have no idea whether he had ever heard the term used. Ironically or not, one of his former boarding schools “for unruly boys” has since become the Anderson Center for Autism.
Renaldo’s sister attended the premiere of my documentary about him. A few weeks later, I received a letter. Having observed Renaldo in the condensed narrative of the film, his sister wrote, “I just realized my brother is Autistic. So much more makes sense now.” She enclosed a clipping from an article on Autism Spectrum Disorder. Many years later, as I thumb through the DSM-V, I can recall behaviors and interactions that check quite a few boxes under Autistic Spectrum Disorder.
Renaldo had difficulty with back-and-forth conversations (he generally delivered monologues in short spurts) and emotional reciprocity; he rarely asked many questions about the person he was speaking with; he rarely made eye contact; he had difficulty reading facial expressions or detecting sarcasm; he had difficulty adjusting his behavior and conversation to suit various social contexts; he had difficulty in developing, maintaining, and understanding relationships; he used idiosyncratic phrases, including neologisms he created, and inside jokes (with himself); he would be upset at changes in his daily routine or set plan; his greeting rituals were rigid (in fact he would repeat them if not gotten right the first time; he had difficulty with transitions; sudden unexpected noises were jarring to him; he had highly restricted, fixated interests (history, illustration, classic movies); and he processed shapes and objects through a “bottom-up” approach, focusing on minute, local details rather than the big picture.
He marginalized, ostracized, taken advantage of, mocked, and ridiculed most of his life, he said, for “being different.” I admired Renaldo for having overcome so many obstacles in becoming independent, steadily employed, and courageous enough to be himself without any of the benefits that a correct diagnosis can provide. I have wondered what Renaldo’s life might have been like if he had been diagnosed early, and gotten the kind of accommodations, support, and acceptance available to many today. If so, would Rocaterrania have been the same? Would he have been driven to create it in the first place?
Earlier this year, I was an inpatient resident in a Tennessee facility battling a surge of PTSD-triggered symptoms. There I met people with a wide range of diagnoses. Because the facility had a barnyard where they offered animal-assisted therapy, many neurodivergent residents were assigned there. I met a tall, bearded man who was a walking encyclopedia. For art class, he wrote an essay arguing for the commercial availability of beef hearts, citing facts about sustainability, environmental statistics, and the Native American spiritual practice of not allowing any part of an animal go to waste. He reminded me a little of Renaldo.
I met a 38-year-old wife and mother who had only recently a diagnosis only recently. She was grateful for it because, as Renaldo’s sister noted, so many things from her past now made sense. She was a talented artist and spent most of the day drawing colorful portraits in her pajamas. I also met a 20-year-old woman who had difficulty expressing herself verbally and needed a constant care provider. She lit up like a Christmas tree around the animals, especially the turkeys for some reason. When she overheard a therapist say, “turkeys aren’t very nice,” she became upset. She said, “Turkeys are nice!”
Renaldo Kuhler’s neurodivergence was but a small part of who he was. He was genuinely kind. He saw the best in others. He motivated me to learn and create. He was generous with his friends, taking us to dinner, even a hockey game once. He was a brilliant historian and a talented illustrator. He was a loyal friend. He was funny, honest, earnest, and had a pure heart. He was larger than life. He was more than the sum of his parts. A mold was never made for him; he was a hand-sculpted original. I miss Renaldo, and many other friends do, too.