aspie rhetor

So, one of the popular medical theories surrounding the “puzzle” of autism spectrum disorders involves theory of mind — or lack thereof. Possessing a theory of mind involves the illusion that one can understand what another human being is thinking or feeling, a neurotypical ESP of sorts. Theory of mind largely concerns empathy, the ability to place oneself in another’s shoes, so to speak. Many autism specialists, among them Simon Baron-Cohen, argue that people on the autism spectrum either lack a theory of mind or have an impaired theory of mind. Auties and aspies supposedly cannot empathize with or predict the NT world, and they thus have a whole bunch of communication issues.

Of course, I think that this theory has done quite some damage. Autistics have been represented as characteristically unempathetic individuals. And this “unempathetic” characterization has often been conflated with emotionlessness, conceitedness, apathy, and plain old malevolent and murderous evil. While I don’t deny that I’m hardly able to place myself in the shoes of others, I do posit that no one can really, truly place themselves in someone else’s shoes, unless we’re talking about literal shoes with similar foot sizes. In any event, I think there’s a limit and a danger to this thing we call empathy, because empathy isn’t wholly concrete and logical. Empathy, by definition, involves assumption and guesswork.

Empathy (or imagined understanding) can only be remotely successful when engaged between people with similar backgrounds, people who occupy similar social stations. Thus, in the same manner that aspies and auties have difficulty empathizing with NTs, so too do NTs have difficulty empathizing with auties. (James Wilson, in Weather Reports from the Autism Front, makes this very point about empathy. He can’t pretend to understand his autistic son’s experiences, his ways of knowing and being. Neurotypicals are just as empathetically impaired as autistics.)

[Jenny McCarthy: "expert" on autism, empathy, and strapless bras]

I like Dennis Lynch’s complication of empathy in “Rhetorics of Proximity: Empathy in Temple Grandin and Cornel West.” In his article, Lynch suggests that true empathy is never possible because such an act results in “bodily displacement,” in colonization or assimilation. So, in order for an NT to step into an autistic’s shoes, the autistic has to physically remove her feet from her shoes. As a result, when an NT claims to empathize with autistic experience, the NT is really imagining what it would be like for an NT to be an autistic — not what it is like for an autistic to be an autistic. The same could be said about an aspie or autie attempting to empathize with an NT: bodily displacement results.

Of course, because neurotypicality is the dominant neuro-discourse, NT ways of empathizing are considered more acceptable than autistic ways of empathizing. Warning of empathy’s co-optive dangers, Lynch writes,

Empathy in this way may seem like a harmless practice as one imagines how another may be feeling about an event, circumstance, or issue, but, as these critics argue, whatever’s empathy’s expressed aims may be, asking people to empathize usually locates the obstacles to empathy—to listening and to being heard—solely in the minds and habits of individual participants, and so obscures or ignores the political and economic and bodily dimensions of social struggles. (6)

This isn’t to say that empathy is inherently bad or wrong. However, empathy has its limits and dangers — severe limits and dangers. In assuming we can experience the fullness of another person’s “lifeworld,” we erase, or make transparent, very real differences (Lynch 9).

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I’m sad that September is ending in the next half hour. As a tribute, I’ve been listening to Jeff Lynne’s rendition of “September Song” repetitively in iTunes. I’m wondering if Jeff Lynne will ever release a new album again, whether he does it under his own name or the guise of ELO. His only solo album, Armchair Theatre, on which “September Song” resides, came out in 1990. Zoom, under the ELO name, was released in 2001. And, though several ELO albums have been re-released with bonus tracks, b-sides, outtakes, and alternate song versions these past few years, it’s been a while since anything wholly new has come about. I suppose all I can do is wait and wonder. (And listen to every ELO song in alphabetical order. That’s always fun.)

So, as I now listen to “September Song” for what is probably the fiftieth time today, I am also trying to complete a “map” of what I want to complete (and when) in my independent study this term. As I mentioned a couple of weeks ago, I’m focusing on autism, rhetoric, and representation. I’ve so many things that I want to read, and I keep having to tell myself that I only have ten weeks to accomplish this, and it’s hard for me to figure out what a workable reading load is. This past weekend I wanted to read a couple books written by parents of autistic children (including Jenny McCarthy’s book — and not because I like Jenny McCarthy’s ideas). However, I ended up on a rabbit trail of sorts, and ended up re-reading Michael John Carley’s Asperger’s from the Inside Out. (I suppose he counts as both an aspie AND a parent of an aspie. So I wasn’t completely off track.)

I also finally worked up the nerve to email a professor in the field of rhetoric and composition who has been doing work with autism. I wasn’t sure whether or not it was socially appropriate to email random professors at different colleges because of e-stalking I’d done via Google and CCCC electronic conference programs. So, I spoke with a couple of non-random professors (a.k.a. my professors) and got some tips on what to say (and what not to say). After spending three days writing the email and having two fellow grad assistants read over what I’d written, I finally hit “send,” and actually got a response — a very pleasant, encouraging, and helpful response. He sent me several pieces he’d written, and so I decided to read those in lieu of vaccine-bashing narratives.

I’m really excited to finally connect with people in my field who are looking at rhetorical and social constructions of ASDs. It’s hard to talk about my interests in autism to non-humanities people a lot of the time. It’s not their faults, necessarily: we just have different disciplinary approaches, and the things I’m interested in are wrapped up in language and philosophies about meaning-making and axiological assumptions, not studying brain functions or therapeutic interventions.

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As does any stressed out grad student, I’ve been questioning my decisions. Why am I an English major? How on earth did I come to enjoy rhetoric and composition in the first place? How can I stay up later without abusing caffeine?

This past fall, in a composition theory course, we were asked to compose our “entry tales” into the field. I decided to focus my narrative on the intersections I saw between my experiences as an Asperger’s autistic and my experiences as a compositionist wannabe. As I reread what I wrote nearly one year ago, I’m struck by how much I’ve learned since then — “then” being a moment when I thought I knew lots. And I realize that I’ve got lots more to learn… which makes me want to stick around in academia for another fifty years, even if it does mean that I have to socialize.

What I wrote, October 2007:

I have in my stockpile two narratives for describing my entry into composition studies. The first, and most often used, relies on metaphor and describes my aspirations to become a computer programmer when, lo and behold, I “saw the light” and realized, via divine inspiration, that English studies held my salvation. This first story often makes for wonderful application fodder: it lumps my previous computer science background and my newfound love of writing into a realization of spiritual proportions, thereby opening up the digital communication doorway in composition studies. Through this story, I have somehow become the mediator of two discourses, the champion of writing/communication and technology or writing/communication as technology—anything dealing with both words, as long as the emphasis remains on writing or communication.

My second narrative, however, does not meld the right-brain/left-brain worlds quite so fluently. In fact, of the few times I’ve dared to disclose it, my audience has probably doubted the existence of any “mediating” corpus callossum. Like many an interesting story, this one begins with the lost me seeking to be a saved me—a high school drop-out attempting a technical college. There’s a stock character, Professor Dan, the pony-tailed English teacher with a penchant for hacky sack and Donald Murray truisms. At one point, as with all stock conversations, an exchange occurs between the outside-the-box hipster and the conservative, inexperienced student, an exchange meant to spark conflict and radical new ideas, man, an exchange meant to so totally blow minds—except, this exchange results in all of the wrong things. After reading several of my essays, Professor Dan tells me that I’m in the wrong major and that I should switch to English. And I, horrified that I could be in the wrong major, visit the English department head and switch majors that day. Later, I learned from a mortified Professor Dan, after one of his close-your-eyes-while-freewriting techniques, that he was merely complimenting me, not really suggesting that I must go change my major that instant. He had wanted me to “think about it,” to muse and question, not to take immediate action. I recall thinking, in a bemused and irritated manner, Why didn’t he just say so?

Literally speaking, story number one occurs after story number two: after I’d already done the deed, I began to question being a student of English. There have been other notable misunderstandings on my part along my path toward grad-student-hood, but all theoretical perceptions of writing and communication began, for me, the moment I failed to understand the subtext of an important conversation: I could not register the simple genre of “the compliment,” and yet there I was, an English major. As a composition scholar wannabe, issues of understanding, of perception versus reception, strike me as most paramount. As a student-teacher with Asperger Syndrome, a mild variant of autistic disorder, I supposedly cannot communicate appropriately: I am what some (but not what I) might label as idiot savant, social retard, or male-brained. In everyday situations, I fail to meet the aims of the English 110 text, Writing Analytically, to make the implicit explicit, to root out the subtext from the apparently literal, or the literal from the apparently subtext. And somehow, I am a person with a communication disorder teaching first-year students how to communicate. This paradox used to trouble me, therefore keeping me closeted and guarded—until very recently.

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Although I love composition theory (reading it, obsessing over it, writing it, using it + fire in lieu of natural gas for heating purposes), theory-ish musings often frustrate me. In fact, if I were forced to condense the past thirty years of composition theory into one all-encompassing solution statement, it’d probably resemble this: we [educators, students, graduate lackeys] need to be more aware [of _insert variable here_].

Now that I’m aware that gender, race, class, and disability are ideologically imbricated constructs [and I'm also aware that, as a teacher, I'm an [in]advertent extension of a hegemonic academy] — now that I’m “aware,” I’m immune to life’s crappiness, and my students will become better-er, moral-er and literate-r people. [Because morality and literacy and good citizenship are all connected and stuff.] In short, awareness = me being awesome. Thanks, comp theory.

Now, I’m sure that my above citation-less paragraph is probably *not* one that any budding comp theorist should compose, let alone show to advisor-type or hiring-type people. And I must also note that I’m not against the concepts (e.g., recognizing ideology) that our current awareness mantras attempt to foster. But, whenever we stretch into the realm of theory, I feel as though our main “praxis recourse” always inches towards “awareness.” Certainly, there are ways to be actively aware — letting theory inform your pedagogy, or “contextualizing” [another comp-theory buzz word] theory/practice for your students’ particular needs.

Nevertheless, because awareness is such a general, almost voyeuristic term, I think that preaching “contextualized awareness” sounds oxymoronic at times. In fact, being aware seems pretty synonymous with receiving awareness, thereby mirroring the “teacher as transmitter of knowledge” model, this idea that the un-aware haven’t yet gotten some sort of Almighty, Capitalized Knowledge that will Capitalized Save them from their Capitalized Wretchedness. If we really love social constructiveness so much, I think we should cease and desist with the “be aware!!!” model. My solution? Be aware, or beware, of awareness.

I suppose I should now segue into autism: today is Autism Awareness Day, and April is Autism Awareness Month. I’m wondering if I should wear a t-shirt that sports the phrase “I exist.” Would I then be completing my duty as an autistic citizen? Or would that be too decontextualized for neurotypical tastes?

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This blog is only pseudo-anonymous. Some people know who I am; others don’t. While I don’t have my name plastered all over the place here, I don’t expect my identity to remain veiled in the safeness of nobodyness. Still, I’m currently enduring several “coming out” issues related to AS. Up until recently, I’ve been very selective about confessing. Only two people at my prior institution explicitly knew of my label.

Perhaps I’m currently fretting because of issues related to my professional identity. I’ve “published” a short article related to AS experiences. I’ve also composed a bizarre webtext that features me and AS prominently. And I’m uneasy about all of this, because even though it explains me and helps others to understand my communication differences, it nevertheless casts me into some sort of Othered position, I feel. Almost as though I’m making “excuses” for my incurability, or as though I’m so different that I’m not worth anyone’s time. I’m probably projecting here, but I think the fear is warranted. At this point, I’m not sure how thoroughly I should broadcast my label, no matter the potential benefits. What must my confessional motives be?

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Being that I’m currently enrolled in a digital media studies course, I’ve been creating lots of digital media-type artifacts. Our class, as it comes to a close, has been dabbling in wikis, and I decided to make my last course/wiki nugget in image form. I like images.

I just finished reading the collection Teaching Writing with Computers (edited by Takayoshi and Huot). In many respects, I really wish I’d come across some of the articles within before I became a red-pen-handler-of-doom. (OK, actually, in all honesty, I usually swap between pencil and Word’s “Track Changes” when I grade. And I’ve generally set “track changes” to blue when I leave comments. But I digress.) While some of the material in the various essays is outdated, much of the content deals with broad, general suggestions for integrating technology, and not so much specific tool-based ideas. Nevertheless, despite the conglomeration of really cool ideas (e.g., having an outside speaker/specialist “speak” with your class via chat room or discussion board), many were really, really commonsensical. However, especially since I come from an AS perspective, I *do* realize that “common sense” ain’t exactly a universal since it’s constructed. I’m a bit hesitant to say that any of these ideas are “no-brainers.”

Consequently, I continually had to re-analyze my starting points here, especially since I do consider myself to be technologically/digitally literate. And, I’m sure most FYW instructors haven’t had the benefit of learning Flash or C++. So, I decided to try my hand at sarcasm (and the color pink) in creating an e-Teaching how-to manual.

I’m kind of wondering: who would indeed claim the below items to be true? Non-writing instructors? Writing instructors who haven’t read the TWWC essay collection? My mom? The only slightly agreeable one, it seems, is my very first image (behind the cut). Are these images blatantly sarcastic? (Translation: how utterly obvious is it that writing instructors should do the opposite of what these images command? And, if it is obvious, why?)

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