aspie rhetor

Revisitation: Jenny McCarthy on Oprah. In a comment on the Livejournal Asperger’s forum, I coined her display as the “new McCarthyism.” Another blogger apparently shares my sentiments (smart people think alike — sometimes). Admittedly, since Livejournal’s comment dates/times are all incomprehensible to me, I can’t figure which of us used it first, but we certainly seem to have used it independently. This paragraph is my attempt at avoiding plagiarism. (Go me. The Rhetorician/Compositionist inside me lives!)

McCarthy’s talk of cure hinted at witch-hunt — specifically geared toward the elimination of any and all autistic traits, or elements of autism. She made clear that her son was not an autistic: he was a person with autism. Now, I’m all for semantics, especially since, from a disability studies standpoint, politically correct parlance includes disabled person or person with disabilities rather than the disabled — the key difference here being that the latter does not use the word person. Elimination of person removes more than mere letters: it removes the humanity from the person in question, conjures images of partial personhood rather than wholeness. I get this distinction, and I agree with it.

However, as a person with a form of autism, I don’t really make this distinction — of being “with” something rather than just being that something. In a lot of ways, I prefer to be called autistic or Aspergian rather than with autism or with Asperger’s. Being someone “with something” makes it sound as though, should that “with” and “something” be removed, I’d still, essentially, be the same me. And, quite honestly, I don’t believe that to be the case. As I’ve stated in a previous entry, I often cannot distinguish between my autistic symptoms and my personality traits. Am I quiet because I have autism? If I didn’t have this disorder, if my brain were rewired, would I suddenly become garrulous? If I weren’t Aspergian, would I still have an excellent visual memory, or would I suddenly be a learner of different sorts? Would I still be detail-oriented and drawn to patterns? Would I still experience synesthesia? Would I still love Jeff Lynne and the Electric Light Orchestra? Would I have facility with road maps and bus schedules? Would these “elements” occur or exist with the same unabashed intensity?

The above questions, of course, are rhetorical and unanswerable. That McCarthy could believe — or pretend — that she has the answers baffles me. I have to reiterate that I am *not* against her want of helping her son, of her doing everything possible to help him “function” in a “mainstream world.” But this cure stuff, this crap treatment stuff, this MMR stuff, all on Oprah – it bothers me. Sincerely. Treatment of negative symptoms is worlds away from cure, especially with something as developmentally rooted as autism.

Truth be told, sometimes I even like my negative symptoms, or my less desirable personality traits. At times, I’m glad to have few to no friends and acquaintances. I enjoy solitude and despise speaking. I like pacing — I really like it. I like talking to myself and staring at mirrors. Shiny and spinning objects are quite nice things, and I honestly wish I could dissertate on ELO. I can’t conceive of things being any other way.

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I watched the Oprah special on autism today, with Jenny McCarthy and Holly Robinson Peete: Their Fight to Save Their Autistic Sons.

I have a good deal to say, only, it stems from no productive part of my brain, so I think I’ll curtail all bloggerly manifestos until my minimal, thimerosal-induced cognitive resources have had a chance to de-auticize.

Oh, wait. That won’t ever happen, now will it?

I am happy that McCarthy’s son has gained speech/communication, that he is able to reciprocate emotionally with his mother. I am displeased, however, with her whole “autism is reversible!” tirade. McCarthy repeatedly exclaimed that her message was one of hope and faith for parents of children with autism. Yet, she significantly reduced her credibility with MMR jonesing and her contention that her son’s autism was “death” to her. Death?

Upon watching this, I almost feel the need to apologize to my parents for all the pain I’ve caused. I’m sorry for pooping up to my neck as an infant, as a toddler, as a pre-kindergartner. I’m sorry for rarely crying as a baby, for seeming oblivious to sensory stimuli. I’m sorry for not learning how to urinate on my own until age four. I’m sorry that you had to bring me to Easter Seals for my walking problems as an infant. (I’m sure my siblings, who were also toe-walkers, likewise apologize.) I’m sorry that I never made friends, that I never learned to play violin, that I didn’t invent the cure for cancer. I’m sorry that I can’t drive or push a shopping cart, can’t display affection in a way that is commensurate with societal expectations, can’t eat fruit or meatloaf or stuff with mixed sauces, can’t modulate the volume of my voice.

Then again, I suppose my apologies aren’t so necessary since my mother is to blame. After all, she decided to breed — and she is also autistic. Nonverbal until age four.

McCarthy credited her son’s reversal to the GFCF diet (gluten-free, casein-free diet; aka no wheat or dairy). She likened it to chemotherapy: works for some, but not all. Again, I’m glad that going GFCF “helped” her child… but CFGF diets aren’t cures.

OK. Before I rant any more, I’m going to perseverate on something more constructive, like a Law & Order rerun. I might even chug a huge glass of milk and down a loaf of bread. Just to celebrate.

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During a professional development workshop, we were asked to remix images, to swap rhetorical contexts and purposes in order to arrive at a new message. Out of ideas, I decided to parody curebie ads from organizations such as Cure Autism Now / Defeat Autism Now.

No offense meant to neurotypicals. Honest.

[Click for larger image.]

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I literally hate all fruit: it’s not a taste thing (usually); it’s wholly tactile. The only two fruits I can stand are apples and cantaloupe — and, even then, they have to be cut a certain way, in very tiny pieces, for me to stand them. Fruit is slimy and chunky and gross, and biting often involves a sensation that I imagine is analogous to chewing styrofoam or eyeballs.

I’ve taken to getting nutritional value by eating baby food, specifically, banana baby food. All fears of potassium deficiency can be alleviated, thanks to Gerber. Of course, many people find it “strange” or “psychotic” that an adult woman would willingly eat and enjoy baby food. (I mean, it’s not as though my teeth are AWOL, or that I wear diapers, or that I bang metal spoons on my head.) I think the invisibility of sensory dysfunction affects me most — why is pureed food such a “bad” or “socially inappropriate” thing? Why are soft foods infantile and chewy steaks manly? Who made these decisions?

Gerber, fresh from the freezer.

I loathe chunks, gag on chunks, and baby food hasn’t got any chunks. It also hasn’t got any pulp, and I don’t have to worry about my lips touching the food because I can spoon the food straight into my mouth. (Dirty/gritty sensations on my lips drive me into panic. Literally. I am the paper napkin/wet nap queen.)

In short, banana baby food pwnz0rs.

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My seventh grade Language Arts teacher often commented that I crafted “interesting” story leads.

Interesting, over the years, has come to signify a catch-all word that means anything from beautiful to bile-inducing to uninteresting but so friggin strange that someone must find it interesting. I am, therefore, quite weary of interesting, and Ms. Fox’s insistence that my introductory statements possessed twinges of interestingness did little more than creep me out, quite frankly. With each piece due, I’d attempt to de-interestify my leading sentences, hoping for remarks such as creative or good, but still I’d receive interesting.

In college, professors no longer coined my essays as interesting, but rather insisted that I stop reading Flannery O’Connor and Christopher Durang. This was hard to do, especially since I enjoyed their morbid senses of humor, but I managed — that is, until I realized stop reading Flannery O’Connor and Christopher Durang in fact meant keep reading Flannery O’Connor and Christopher Durang, that it was in fact a compliment, not a command.

This blog, I think, will be a combination of many things — mostly, whatever the heck I want — but I mainly wish to explore rhetoric through my Aspergian lens, a lens I’ve always perceived as normal until told otherwise. Perhaps interesting will still be thrown around since normal isn’t applicable. But, then again, who are these normal people? Who belongs to the all-powerful majority discourse, and do they have a postal address within the continental US?

Lately, as I’ve been coming to grips with my status as an aspie PhD student, slowly outing myself to the world at large, I’ve felt more insecure. As a rule, I rarely disclose, but the few times I have disclosed have either resulted in, 0MG! I so T0T4LLY KNEW IT!!!1ONEONE!11, or Wow! You must have outgrown it/you must be super high-functioning because people with Asperger’s are retards who blow things up.

[NOTE: I've never been one for paraphrasing.]

I don’t necessarily like this AS label — I mean, it labels me. Yet, it explains me, allows me to overanalyze my strengths and weaknesses, allows me to overanalyze every rhetorical move that emanates from my socially awkward self. My autistic tendencies have their own rhetoric; they are my commonplaces; they provide context for my actions and (mis)interpretations.

I mostly, though, enjoy the logos of it all.

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