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Autism Speaks walked today. I decided not to protest. I had other things to do. I also felt that there were better uses of my time and energy. Something about the pitiful ratio of people who talk big online to those who come out weighed down my spirits. I sat this one out knowing that there were at least flyers. Those light posts were private property, so I will not say who put them up. Maybe someone will see the pleas for reason. Maybe someone will care. It was probably more effective than shouting at them. I am resisting the urge to go looking for an argument with the organizers later. Last year, I managed to find one at Target.
Instead, I am trying to muster the energy to do something useful: someone at the state wants an autistic perspective on the insurance-coverage-for-ABA bill they want passed. I should write it. Today or tomorrow, I will. It might be tomorrow. I am tired from visiting one friend last night, helping another move the night before. My friend-group’s fleet leaves something to be desired. My Buick is our only vehicle big enough to be useful for moving. It gives me hope that the state is soliciting autistic opinions. There more sense in Georgia than I realized. I hope that, between disability advocates and regulation-hating conservatives, we can prevent ‘quiet hands.’ I would love to see this turn into a discussion that might ultimately lead to a better bill. There are services families could use. I like to see Georgia taking an interest in autism and disability issues. However, I worry that the existing legislation would incentivize ABA, create a market for more of it, and cause a lot of the most inexperienced, ham-handed, child-traumatizing variety to spring up. An abrupt expansion of demand for ABA is a scary thought. Tonight or in the morning, I will write that up and finish my IRB papers. These are small, good things I can do. After that, I should sleep.
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I have eight credit hours and a grant to study Georgia’s Central State Hospital, once the largest such institution in the world. I plan to seek IRB approval, so it is likely that I will be able to talk to vulnerable people. I am willing to be discrete. This story remains untold to an amazing degree given the number of people involved. I would love to hear from anyone who knows anything. If you would rather not reach out to me on Tumblr, drop me a line at larkin92@comcast.net. The other way you can help is by passing this on. I need all the signal boosts I can get.
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The only thing better than getting to show kids that tuba is awesome is getting to show autistic kids that tuba is awesome and that they can do cool things when they grow up.
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Post reblogged from Son of a Glitch!!
My Asperger’s diagnosis amounts to programming to look rationally at an irrational world. My brain’s suffering right now, spending cycles to work through things that are inherently irrational and trying to find something logical in the mess.
I hope things get easier. Laughing at the outlandish parts helps me. It might be different for you.
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Click the link. It is happy, a textbook example of a parent getting it right. If you are a parent and cannot come to terms with the child you have, you are in the wrong. If you are on the fence, imagine your child as an adult. If they are not currently communicative in words of some form, imagine that changing. It may well. What will you feel if your child asks why you loved the imaginary, ‘fixed’ version more than the real thing? What if your kid turns to you, makes rare, unbroken eye contact, and asks why you hated them enough to try replacing them with a different person? Could you live with that?
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I got my first good look at Atlanta taking the long way into Decatur, 75/85 to I-20, Moreland, and Dekalb through interesting parts of town. That was one of my worst days, but those roads are where my life happens, now. Downtown, as seen on a spring night from the window of a car around the cultural speed limit, looks like home. I see it at least once a week. I hate the way they light it up blue. The next time I make the trip home from Douglass, those insipid floodlights will be gone. They were always jarring.
The skyline was an unpleasant reminder of times I would rather forget, but it never ruined my night. They were distant. The radio, the cushy, leather seats, the engine’s hearty rumble, the beautiful tuba were more real. So was the rehearsal that prefaces the drive. I like musicians, especially tuba players, because no one cares what I am. The band has substance. The section is alive. The lights had ninety seconds. People who care more about what I do and choose to be than what I was born had two hours. These things were before blue, or any, light bulbs. The needs for community, expression run marrow deep in humankind. Bread and roses, people of goodwill, and implausible tuba sections will outlast the pathetic display. In the mean time, I am safe.
What really bothered me about the lights is that not everyone is. They represent marginalization on a long spectrum. At one end, in my life, the discomfort is an inaudible hiss if the radio is on. It usually is. At the other, there are murders and apologists. Between, there are dour group homes, people who are about to age out of public school without a clear next step, kids whose parents are trying to ‘recover’ them. I spoke to one such mother. in April. She wanted to know how I got well. I said I was never sick, suggested that it was possible her son would grow up to feel the same way. The lights represent a narrative that we are suffering, waiting at the doorway of personhood for someone to let us in. It is a compelling story, wise researchers and brave, devoted relatives saving the helpless and ill.
Inclusion is an inherently harder sell. There are no heroes, just people quietly making room. The medical model is the stuff of bestsellers. The social model is the lady down the street hiring a guy with an intellectual disability to stock shelves in her store. The lights on I-20, the DSM V controversy, and articles like this remind me that society is wrestling with the question of normalcy: what does it mean to be sick vs. well, broken vs. whole, productive vs. useless? I presume competence. Anything else leaves precious human potential untapped. I am not going to argue with someone who feels healthy, whole, content as they are. I am not going to decide what kinds of people to exclude from the human community. I do not presume to be wise enough to know what innate ways of being should be cured. I know I want mine left alone. Blue lights were a reminder that not everyone agrees. There are people who think I, by definition, cannot answer the question.
These individuals annoy me, but there is nothing they can do to me. My competence at things society values, relatively good executive functioning, car title, driver’s license, bank account, voter registration, friends, contacts, and acquaintances cement my status as someone who can decide things. No one is going to do anything to me. I had to earn acknowledgement as fully human, but I got it. Were it otherwise, I doubt the lights would have been mildly unpleasant. They might have been frightening. -
Link reblogged from Autistic Drift
Making friends can be hard. The only way I’ve ever made friends as an adult was via a common interest.
I’ve tried making friends with neighbors or moms of my child’s friends (the way other women seem to do) but have never been successful because I have no idea what women talk about or how to…
You have something with common interests. Those are important. There is something else that helps. There is no delicate way to put this: find other weird people. They do not necessarily have to be autistic, but it helps if they are eccentric. People like that are usually less judgmental and more accepting. Almost everyone I have been able to connect with deeply is odd or has been marginalized in some way.
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Photoset reblogged from Awkward Octo-Pia
MIniature Wood Houses (by Daniel Barreto)
[The images are trees standing in the snow at night. They have glowing windows set into their trunks].
This is incredible. How do I make one?
(Source: from89)
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Link reblogged from I am. I am. I am.
Hello everyone! This is my little sister, Emily. Emily looks like a normal girl, doesn’t she? Sadly, my sister was diagnosed with autism at the age of two. For those of you who do not know what autism is, I will explain. Autism is a mental…
Actually, we can form relationships. That is the most offensive thing you said. Where did you look it up? Do you have any research to support that outrageous claim? I have known and loved one of my best friends for over ten years. That is a relationship. My parents, one autistic, have been together over twenty-five years with all the beauty, flaws, depth, and commitment that entails. Are you going to tell me that a marriage that survived a University of Chicago Ph. D. program and two children is fake?
Before you argue that you meant really seriously autistic people, not your dad with his marriage and career and advanced degree, let me tell you something: I discovered my diagnosis in high school and immediately began volunteering in two self-contained classes that were exclusively for autistics. They were all diagnosed LFA. I made friends with two of them. One was sort of, sometimes, non-traditionally verbal. He will always need supports in daily life. We hung out for a couple of years. He attended my sixteenth birthday party. Between my junior and senior years, I moved to another state. I went to visit my remaining schoolmates over a year later, after my class had graduated. He did not catch up with me in the same way that other people did, but he knew who I was. He was very pleased to see me. That is friendship, relationship between two autistics. He likes castles. I got to go to the Czech Republic the summer after that and sent him a postcard with a picture for each one I visited. Remembering what a friend likes, including him in it as best I could without the money to buy him a plane ticket, is what relationship means.
There was another kid in the self-contained class who smiled, high-fived, and used his ten words whenever he saw me. He did not do that for everyone. He was not well-spoken but made up for it by being stunningly articulate on keyboard. He is a brilliant jazz pianist.* Not everyone knew that. He never felt like showing off in front of his teacher. He had to particularly like someone to stop banging out tunes the music therapist color-coded on that cheap, little keyboard. His way of having relationships is bestowing this remarkable gift. It is probably the only thing in his life that he controls. He shows preference for some people, and affection, by sharing it. On my end, relationship, or the remnants of it, is regret that I never managed to get contact information for him. He has turned twenty-one and left the school. I think of him often. When I do, I worry. I pray that someone else has discovered how brilliant he is. That might save his life. He is a disabled, almost nonverbal man of color from a working class background. He is not as charming and handsome as the first guy I described. Terrible things happen to people like him. I worry less about the first young man. It is not easy for him to communicate over distances, but he has a great family. He has siblings who will never let anyone hurt him.
I am like your sister in some important ways. I care about her without even knowing her. I am devoting my life to improving her prospects. I am glad to know you care. That is good news for her chances at a decent life. I have to tell you that someone is misleading you. She can form relationships. Her way of doing that may lack words, but she knows you. If you are the one taking the picture, she clearly adores you. Look at that smile. The person behind the camera is special to her. Have enough respect for her to acknowledge the obvious. In the future, do not believe people who tell you things that contradict realities staring you in the face. At best, they are ignorant. At worst, they think you and your money might be easily parted. This poor girl is probably wondering why no one understands that she can love them. That is the saddest thing I have seen since I saw a story about another autistic kid killed by her relatives earlier today.
*I refuse to call him a savant. Disabled people can be good at things, too. There does not need to be a special word for that. As a musician, I have too much respect for him to treat talent I can only imagine having as a symptom.
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Another option is finding the casual donors. Give them a couple of links showing why Autism Speaks is not what they think. You can divert thousands of dollars to real charities that way.
