How colleges can prepare for Autistic students

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For any young adult, going away to college involves many firsts: the first time living alone, the first time making their own schedule, maybe the first time cooking their own meals. As difficult as this transition is for typical students, it can be especially disorienting for young people on the spectrum, who may also find it difficult to sleep enough, collaborate with others on group projects and advocate for themselves with professors.

Despite those challenges, increasing numbers of young adults with autism have set their sights on a college degree: More than 200,000 students on the spectrum will arrive on campuses around the United States over the next decade, based on statistics from the National Center for Special Education Research. And for the most part, experts say, these students are entering an educational system that is not ready for them. High school comes with a support system — family at home, therapists nearby, special-education classes — but colleges have traditionally embraced a sink-or-swim mentality.

Under U.S. federal law, college students with disabilities are permitted to receive special accommodations, including extra time on exams and extended deadlines. But these allowances usually fall short of the needs of students with autism. Many students on the spectrum require support that extends beyond the classroom into their social and personal lives, such as reminders to do their laundry regularly or help finding study partners. They also have high rates of anxiety, depression and suicidal thoughts, which can worsen in new situations. “Colleges are trying to cope with this expanding mental-health crisis,” says Fred Volkmar, professor of child psychiatry, pediatrics and psychology at Yale University. “They don’t quite know what to do”

reating programs specifically for students with autism is no small commitment. The first such program in the U.S. started in 2002 at Marshall University in Huntington, West Virginia, and was built up from a successful state-run autism initiative. Nearly two decades later, more than 60 support programs have been launched at two- and four-year colleges around the country. But they vary widely in the services they offer and in their cost, ranging from free up to a few thousand dollars per semester, which students and their families pay on top of tuition.

Even with the extra support such programs provide, however, only a minority of people with autism enter college, and even fewer graduate. According to a 2011 study, about 17 percent of young adults with autism enroll in a four-year college, compared with 21 percent of people with learning disabilities and about 10 percent of people with visual or hearing impairments. Among those who attend any type of postsecondary educational institution, including vocational schools and community colleges, only 39 percent earn a degree, compared with 52 percent of typical young adults.

For students with autism, the barriers to graduation are rarely just about grades. More than 75 percent of college students on the spectrum report feeling left out or isolated, and about half have suicidal thoughts, according to a survey of 56 students published in March. Another survey found similar patterns among college students in Australia, who considered anxiety, depression and loneliness to be their greatest challenges. One-third of the Australian students also said they were not getting the academic accommodations they needed.

These difficulties often come as a surprise to students on the spectrum and their families, who may base their expectations on high school performance. Unlike with typical students, solid grades in high school don’t readily predict college success for students with autism. Part of the reason is that special-education programs in schools operate on a ‘success model’: They may boost grades and modify the curriculum to make sure the students graduate. Colleges, by contrast, rely on an ‘equal access’ model, offering the same classes and grading scales to everyone, regardless of ability. College students also lose access to special-education officers, who often provide hours of personalized assistance and tutoring in high school.

Some autism programs look specifically for these qualities. Students who apply for the 60 spots at Mercyhurst University in Erie, Pennsylvania, are assessed in a variety of ways, including whether they have demonstrated some level of independence by, for instance, having attended a sleepaway camp or obtained a driver’s license.

RIT launched the program 10 years ago, including in it many of the key ingredients that can help college students with autism succeed — in particular, assistance with the academic and social transition from high school to college, peer support and career development. As a measure of the program’s success, between 75 and 90 percent of first-year students return for a second year — a rate in line with the 89 percent retention seen in the general student body. The school’s focus on science, technology, engineering and mathematics may help: Students with autism who study these subjects at two-year community colleges are twice as likely to continue and transfer to four-year institutions as their peers with autism who study other subjects.

The RIT program has become a model for other programs. It has also made the university a more welcoming place for all students, says social worker Laurie Ackles, the program’s director. “It’s important for the university to be a place where all students who qualify academically have the support they need to be successful,” she says. “Students on the spectrum are coming to college, whether we have the support ready for them or not.”

Ackles is an energetic Rochester native in her early 50s, though her pixie haircut and thick-frame glasses make her look at least a decade younger. She is wandering around the indoor track building, where almost 250 potential employers, mostly technology companies, have set up tables for the university’s career fair. It’s a nerve-wracking time for many RIT students, most of whom can’t graduate unless they spend two semesters and one summer term with a paid, full-time job relevant to their field of study. Studies show that the transition to adulthood and employment is particularly fraught for young people on the spectrum.

Ackles is checking in on the students with autism and giving employers orange buttons that feature a brain illustration and the words “Celebrate Neurodiversity.” Her office spends weeks before the career fair helping students in the autism program develop an elevator pitch, craft a resume and upload a profile onto an online college-recruiting platform. She steers clear of mothering them, she says, but many need someone to check in on them to make sure they have the right clothes to wear to an interview and manage to show up on time. Some of her students have nabbed coveted gigs at Microsoft and Google.

The first student Ackles runs into outside the hall is beaming. Second-year Daniel Porten, nattily dressed in a houndstooth sport coat, has scored an interview for a job working on control systems for trains. He says he is hurrying off to do more research on the company. “That’s a great idea,” she tells him. Another student, who studies 3-D digital design, seems less pleased. She reminds him that the ‘Creative Industry Day’ in March will have more employers that fit his major.

Before RIT’s program began, students with autism could register with the university’s Disability Services Office. Because the university is home to the National Technical Institute for the Deaf, that small office already accommodates more than 1,200 students. It was unequipped to handle the special demands of students with autism who would show up out of the blue during a crisis, or simply drop out. “It was just too much for that office to handle,” Ackles says.

In 2009, the National Science Foundation funded a pilot program at RIT to provide more tailored support to 12 students on the spectrum pursuing degrees in science and technology. The program’s rationale is not to provide counseling or academic advice, Ackles says, but to coach students on how to manage their time, navigate social situations, access services and advocate for themselves. The office has four full-time staff, including Ackles, plus about 20 graduate students and faculty to meet with students on the spectrum as often as twice a week. The team also helps the students find roommates and runs organized activities, including a pre-orientation program for new students, and social events on Friday nights.

When trouble strikes, Ackles is often one of the first to hear about it. Students can contact her at any time — many do — and RIT has an early-alert system that notifies her office if a student is at risk of failing a class. Her students find ingenious ways of getting in trouble, she says. One young man reprogrammed building access cards for his dormitory so that his friends didn’t have to use the intercom to access his floor. Another fell off the roof of a moving car and broke his leg. “I should have brushed the snow off first,” he told Ackles, implying that the car would have been easier to hold on to if his hands hadn’t been slippery and wet. She suggested he not mention that observation at his disciplinary hearing.

As demand for the program increases, Ackles says, she worries about how many students her office can support. Last year, the university accepted 42 students with autism, bringing the total to 90.