What’s My Line?

My husband gets frustrated with my teenage daughter when we go out to eat. Every single time the server comes to our table, the first question is the same: “What do you want to drink?” And every single time, without fail, my daughter stares as if she could not possibly have anticipated that question, opens her mouth, and days, “Uhhhhhhh…”

“You know what they’re going to ask,” he says, “And you know what you’re going to order. Why not be ready?”

The restaurant thing doesn’t bother me as much as it bothers him, but recently, my daughter came with me to work. I introduced her to a few of my coworkers. Every single time, she nodded mutely and then simply stared at them as though she simply could not imagine what to say to them. Understand: I have bragged on this child. She’s played in national wheelchair basketball tournaments. She has two state champion medals in high school track. And she just…stared, like she wasn’t even sure where she was.  

I don’t blame my daughter for this. I blame myself. Somehow, when it comes to restaurants and introductions, I have failed to teach her the expected script. Scripts aren’t just for actors; they’re predictable sets of expectations for social interactions that can reduce social anxiety and make life’s daily tasks and interactions run more smoothly Both “ordering in restaurants” and “meeting new people” are scripted interactions, with predictable progressions. First, the server asks about drinks. Then, the server asks about appetizers and food. Then, the server asks if you need anything else. Then the server asks about dessert. The number of possible responses is finite; once you’re familiar with a restaurant’s menu, it is even more so. Because my daughter avoids caffeine, eight times out of ten, she orders Sprite or Sierra Mist (recently rebranded as ‘Starry,’ probably because somebody paid a consultant a lot of money to come up with that).

Being introduced to new people also has a fairly standard script. My mother teaches it to her kindergarteners in Sunday school: “Mr. So-and-So, this is Joey. Joey, this is Mr. So-and-So. Now, Joey, say, ‘Hello, Mr. So-and-So, it is nice to meet you.’ Then Mr. So-and-So will say, ‘It is nice to meet you, too, Joey.’” The skill—and the script—can be deepened, of course; someone who is really skilled at introductions will give each party some small, relevant fact about the other that they can then use to start a conversation—but the basic pleasantries are easily taught. Certainly they should be easy enough that my daughter should not be left staring at my perfectly ordinary coworkers as if they have all suddenly hissed at her with forked tongues through venomous fangs.

In fairness to my daughter, she actually has a disability that makes conversation harder—she has expressive language disorder. But one of the coping mechanisms for expressive language disorder is…to use scripts. Whenever my daughter goes to see a doctor, there is a basic script the interaction will follow. She is so familiar with this script that when she went to see a specialist who did not use a stethoscope to listen to her heart and lungs, she protested that she did not think he was a real doctor. He didn’t follow the script. Another time, she took a class in job skills, where she did mock-interviews. What is a mock-interview, but a script for getting a job?

So, my daughter and I will work on scripts for use in restaurants, and we will work on the scripts she needs for when she meets new people. Once she has mastered those, we’ll move on to other scripts for other situations.

“All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players,” Shakespeare wrote. Like so many things he said, it’s true—right down to the level of how to talk to the clerk at the grocery store, and all the way up to meeting the King of England. Whenever you’re anxious about a situation or interaction, just ask yourself: What’s my line?

It’s probably not, “Uhhhhhhhhhhhh…”