aspie rhetor

I’ve noticed a common cover design in recent autism books: that of a child, usually a boy, hovering near a body of water. In fact, the more memoirs I read, the more I tend to notice this autie-water depiction. These representations appear on books I love, books I despise, and books I feel luke-warm about. It isn’t as though the autie-water portrait appears solely on curebie diatribes or solely on neurodiverse musings. And so I wonder about these aquatically-oriented representations of autism.

Born on a Blue Day by Daniel Tammet

The RDOS Aspie Quiz asks whether or not I have a fascination with flowing water. I’m not entirely sure how this relates to autism, but perhaps it has to do with perseveration, or attention to detail, or the fact that flowing water is very entrancing and makes really cool whooshing sounds?

Reasonable People by Ralph Savarese

Other than the quiz-question theory, my only other thought behind autism on the beach involves metaphor. Does the water symbolically represent autism somehow? Why all the blue? Are we supposed to feel a certain way, think a certain way, assume a certain way before we read these books? An old, overused adage tells us that we should not judge books by their covers — an adage perhaps devised by a cantankerous, ne’er-do-well book salesman? But we do judge books by their covers. And I wonder what we’re supposed to judge about autism on the beach.

Weather Reports from the Autism Front by James C. Wilson

I know that Wilson’s cover photo is an actual photo of his son, a happy moment from a vacation. The cover makes somewhat more sense with this tidbit of knowledge. Yet, I’m very surprised by the puzzle-piece motif on Wilson’s particularly beachy cover: despite being a parent narrative of an autistic son, I consider his work largely neurodiverse in scope. In fact, one thing I most appreciated about Wilson’s work was his frequent reference to autistic bloggers. His (positive) mention of Autism Hub blogs far exceeded references to medical manuals and statistics. He did not portray his son, nor autistic individuals generally, as a medical mystery in need of research and neurobiological scrutiny. Though Wilson claims that he cannot fully understand his son and that his son cannot fully understand him, he portrays NT-autie communication in a way that speaks to a social, neurodiverse model of autism rather than a model that seeks to eradicate autistic difference in favor of a wholly NT understanding.

Thus, the puzzle motif here is quite puzzling.

Making Peace with Autism by Susan Senator

Of course, there are many people and protocols involved in producing, editing, and publishing a manuscript, discussions and decisions that readers simply aren’t aware of, aren’t privy to. How much influence did Wilson hold in the design of his cover? His photo made the cut — but was this the photo he was originally hoping to use? Did he vie for the (ab)use of the color blue in his cover? Did he hold any sway in the puzzle configuration? Was this his cover or his publisher’s cover?

The cover of Daniel Tammet’s Born on a Blue Day makes sense: the blueness of the cover directly relates to the title and perhaps the synaesthetic topic of the memoir. Moreover, more so than the other images offered here, Tammet’s cover focuses intently on sky. Ralph Savarese’s Reasonable People also shows more sky than water, with the child’s face being framed by the expanse of sky. With Senator’s cover, it’s hard to discern whether the water ends — and, interestingly, in all of these covers (with perhaps the exception of Wilson’s), expanse or limitlessness seems to be a rather large theme.

Women from Another Planet? by Jean Kearns Miller
[omg, women can have autism?] </sarcasm>
[ETA: my sarcasm isn't directed toward the book -- which is awesome -- but toward the statement before the sarcasm brackets.]

DJ Savarese, Ralph’s Savarese’s teenage son, wrote the last chapter of Reasonable People. DJ uses FC to communicate, and a large focus of the book is dedicated to legitimizing FC as a potential channel of communication for non-verbal auties. In the context of the book cover, I find this particular passage from DJ’s chapter to be quite illuminating:

“I dream of being a political freedom fighter. I read that pure real people in especially just free waters insist my real decisions really wasted. They think well respected, tested as normal kids are the okay to teach ones. They forget those lost kids. They’re the ones like me who poke or look like they’re not paying attention” (432).

The mention of “free waters” following “being a political freedom fighter” really strikes me here. This is an image I can digest, can embrace when considering autism on the beach. There is something freeing about water, calm about blue — peaceful, to borrow an idea from Senator’s book cover.

Yet, I don’t think that the audiences for these books — or other books that sport autism-on-the-beach covers — will immediately recognize or infer the freedom element of these cover illustrations. As calming and peaceful as blue is, as free as it is, I think blue also runs the danger of being melancholy, solitary, bluesy. I also wonder what stereotypes are reinforced by these images: in each, the (presumably) autistic individuals stand alone by the water as if they are locked into their “own little world.”

This isn’t to say that autistics never go off into their own little worlds, that autistics never stand alone, that autistics never love water and beaches. But I daresay that the frequency of this alone-on-the-beach-and-deep-in-thought imagery constitutes its own weird little genre. And any time a metaphor becomes popularized in autism discourse, I think we need to examine it, to rhetorically analyze it and question it.

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Apparently, there are a lot of people who fake Asperger’s on the internet. Or, at the very least, apparently there are a lot of people who, whether or not they have Asperger’s, use Asperger’s as an excuse for ridiculous behavior. Key word: apparently.

Enter Luke McKinney’s The 5 Most Retarded Causes People Are Actually Fighting For on cracked.com. The title itself cues readers into the sort of rhetoric that McKinney abides by. Item #1 on his list is the Asperger’s Pride Movement:

Asperger’s is a real disorder for some, but has turned into a kind of “get out of self-improvement free” card for legions of socially awkward Pokemon fans. This latter group doesn’t care about your “medical credentials,” “basic common sense” or even “knowing people who actually do have Aspergers.” This syndrome they read about on Wikipedia once is their winning lottery ticket to a life of never having to learn how to interact with other humans. Welcome to the Aspergian Pride movement.

I’m really at a loss as to where this attitude toward Asperger’s comes from. It’s an attitude I encounter quite a bit online. In aspie forums, we often discuss the difference between using Asperger’s as an explanation versus using Asperger’s as an excuse – but the dominant NT perception online seems to be that Asperger’s is an excuse about 90% of the time, or that Asperger’s is a largely mythical disorder.

Per my own understanding, Asperger’s as explanation involves disclosing in such a way that communication and understanding are more easily achieved for all parties, regardless of neurological wiring. Conversely, Asperger’s as excuse occurs when the goal involves getting out of or getting away with something, e.g., Mom, I can’t clean my room because I have Asperger’s and am resistant to change.

I don’t think that the latter example, Asperger’s as excuse, is as problematic of a phenomenon as people on the net make it out to be. Who hasn’t used something as an excuse to get out of something? Moreover, there is a fine line between explanation and excuse, I think. While there is very little I “cannot” do, there are many, many things that I have extremely great difficulty doing, just as there are many, many things that I “can” do, but can only do very poorly. (For example, I can physically make eye contact. However, in forcing myself to do so, I stop paying attention to other things, and I also maintain eye contact in a very obviously forced, unrealistic fashion.) The aspies I’ve met generally don’t use Asperger’s as a way of excusing themselves for being manipulative jerks, as cracked.com would have people believe.

This whole debate — the excuse versus the explanation — goes back to the ADA, I think, especially to issues of accommodation. If we judge PWDs based on “retarded causes” and fakery claims postulated by internet sources, then accommodations for largely “invisible” disabilities like ASD or LDs become unsubstantiated complaints made by a pack of faking whiners.

As an example, I think to my own documentation that sits in my university’s office for disability services. One of the suggested accommodations involves class participation, a request that I be entirely absolved from verbally participating in class. Now, I know how to speak, and do speak, despite having difficulties. Does this make my accommodation an excuse made by a lazy whiner?

I should also mention that I’ve rarely asked disability services to contact my professors. I am fearful of being perceived as lazy, even though, legally, I shouldn’t experience such backlash. However, I’ve generally found that telling my professors of my difficulties — without invoking the disability/autism label — has worked as well as (and sometimes better than) asking disability services to intervene. One negative experience with disclosure comes to mind: my ODS counselor contacted a professor of mine, mid-quarter, and informed them (I’m being gender-neutral on purpose) that I was registered with their office and had communication issues. My professor, in response, said, “Melanie has a disability? But she’s smart!” My professor treated me differently after this point, and tended to be very patronizing.

I wonder how it is that we identify these so-called fakers who take excessive pride in their fraudulent disorders, disorders which, when real, supposedly cause “extreme suffering.” Because that’s the point, isn’t it? Unless we hate ourselves, we don’t have a real disability.

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PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment for Animals) launched a new ad campaign three weeks ago in their fight against cow milk:

I’m not entirely sure where to start here, PETA. First of all, though I realize that ads meant for billboards and quick web visits are meant to be image-heavy and textually sparse, you’ve provided a whole lot of misinformation in your few measly independent clauses. In asking the lovely “Got autism?” question, are you trying to be sardonic and rhetorical, or are you in fact addressing the 20 million autistics who currently occupy planet earth? Because, sure, I’ve got autism, and no, I had no idea that studies linked cow’s milk to autism. But perhaps your “study” is actually synonymous with what I would call “total crap.” Just a thought. Although, since I’m autistic, it might be that my inner thesaurus is operating on some totally whacked out, casein-induced frenzy. Or how about not?

Anecdotally, some autistics note amelioration of their “symptoms” — e.g., isolation, meltdowns, sensory overload — when they’ve removed dairy and wheat from their diet. (Of course, PETA, you would never crusade against wheat.) However, this “improvement” is anecdotal and not scientific. It could be that some autistics experience food intolerances or digestive problems. But, see, there’s a big problem with this “link” word, PETA, because any protective parent who reads this will assume that milk has been shown to have a causative impact on autism, which it simply doesn’t. There are plenty of vegan autistics who are just as autie or aspie as ever. I suppose, on the positive side, if people were to assume that milk does cause autism, then maybe they’d get their kids vaccinated and stop with the mercury-poisoning mantras.

And then there’s that frowny face, PETA. The Cheerios are a nice touch, really. I’m glad you didn’t use Fruit Loops, because then that might play into the assumption that only autistic children are worth giving a crap about.  But the frown — oh, the frown. I may have difficulty with nonverbals and facial expressions, but I think I’m accurate in concluding that Mr. Cheerio Face is quite weepy and pathetic. Basically, PETA, you and Mr. Cheerio Face are making the assumption that autism is a sad, sad thing. And, quite honestly, it’s not. Autism is a way of life, much like veganism, minus the liking of food-with-freaky-textures thing.

On another page, you write:

Autism is a brain disorder that causes sufferers to have extreme difficulty communicating and relating to others. It is often marked by anti-social behavior like screaming and obsessive repetition of actions, which takes an enormous emotional toll on sufferers and their families. PETA has created a billboard to alert the public to the connection between this devastating disease and dairy-product consumption. …

Anyone who wants to alleviate or avoid the devastating effects of autism should give cow’s milk the boot and switch to healthy vegan alternatives instead.

Again, PETA, you’ve mixed up some pretty important facts. Autism isn’t a disease.  It isn’t something that you wake up with one morning; it isn’t something that you catch on the subway; it isn’t something that goes away. Autism is a neurological condition, a condition that affects how one’s brain is wired. Autistic brains and autistic existence aren’t devastatingly anything, unless you’re claiming that they’re devastatingly awesome.

You ask, “Got autism?” I say, “Yes, I do.” Somehow, though, I don’t think you were ever asking me anything in the first place.

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My university — as with many universities, I’m sure — is holding a walk that is being sponsored by Autism Speaks. I learned of this via a newsletter sent out from my school’s disability services office. The promo blurb rambled about cures and epidemics and puzzle pieces and “combatting” ASDs. It all just really, really upset me.

Consequently, in my state of upset-ness, I attempted to parody an Autism Speaks YouTube video: I took an interview with Suzanne Wright (founder of Autism Speaks) and replaced a CNN dude’s questions with my own. It’s not great quality or anything, but producing this has kept me from fulfilling my head-banging desires, so it’s served at least one fruitful purpose. Using Vixy, I captured video of the CNN interview. I then extracted the sound using iMovie and recorded my own voice using Audacity. (I interspersed my “interview” questions with Suzanne’s Wright’s answers from the original video.) I also took a screen shot of the original video and modified it in GIMP to fit the neurotypicality disorder parody.

Original video:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6GuyTJ…

[cross-posted to the Asperger Syndrome Livejournal Community]

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My jaw dropped when I read this article yesterday morning. Apparently, the guy who directed Hairspray is directing a new musical based on ELO songs. (The article deems ELO as an “iconic eighties band.” Incorrect. ELO’s only top U.S. hits in the 80s were Hold on Tight and the Xanadu soundtrack, which incidentally brought about their demise, seeing as most people don’t find movies about roller-skating Greek muses who save disco houses with a tap-dancing Gene Kelly to be, erm, enjoyable? The 70s were ELO’s heyday. 1978, specifically. Big spaceships and laser shows.)

Also from the article:

In a script written by newcomer Marvin Easter, the two socially-prominent Trump-Hilton sisters and their mildly autistic brother, a toy store proprietor, attempt to reinvent a centuries-old love potion and launch a designer clothing line based on insomnia and prescription pharmaceuticals to save their “Grey Gardens”-style penthouse from foreclosure.

I’m not sure how “true” this article is, but it’s been plastered on a lot of ELO sites and listservs. Apparently, they’re looking to cast Steve Carell, Sarah Jessica Parker, and Amy Sedaris as the lead roles. I take this to mean that, if Steve Carell were cast, he would play the “mildly autistic brother.” A mildly autistic guy who sings ELO songs? All I can think of is his performance in Bruce Almighty.

I hope that this musical doesn’t make ELO look ridiculous, and I’m also curious to see how autism will be performed. I keep imagining a faux-autistic Steve Carell trying to sing something like Evil Woman or Ticket to the Moon. And that kind of scares me.

As an example of ELO gone bad, take the recent Broadway remaking of Xanadu, the 1980 bomb starring Olivia Newton-John. The plot was pointless, but the soundtrack, half of it being written and performed by ELO, rocked. The 2007 remake of the music is quite horrific, and the singers have even added a couple ELO songs to their show that were not in the original movie.

Here is a comparison of the original “Do Ya” with its recent bastardization:

1. The original 1972 version of Do Ya by the Move (which was basically early ELO with a different name)
2. The sucky new version

Additionally, being that ELO has been my nearly lifelong perseveration of choice, I writhe over any cheesy commercialization of them that might occur. As an AS child of the eighties and nineties, I suffered for my love of ELO. Kids tortured me over my obsession with Jeff Lynne. And while one of my largest hopes in life is to talk intelligibly with people about ELO, I don’t think that this musical will accomplish that for me. Rather, I think that a bunch of fourteen-year-old girls will become engrossed with tin-can, screechy sounding ELO makeovers and the actors and actresses who sing them. They’d be clueless as to the context and history surrounding the real ELO. And I highly doubt that this wannabe musical would have cellists running around on stage with instruments over their heads, or dudes in sequins playing their violins with oranges. And the setting doesn’t sound amenable to giant spaceships either, unless the HFA toy-store guy happens to perseverate on them.

I always imagined that an ELO movie would revolve around time travel or outer space and aliens, something cultishly classic. Not this pop-culturish rich people stuff.

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A few weeks back, I played around with a dazzle box and decided to digitize a few portions of my kindergarten graduation. It’s strange how clearly I remember being six years old. I received the part of “Polly Prune” very last-minute, replacing a girl by the name of Farrah. Originally, I wasn’t even cast because I was so painfully quiet and “shy,” but Farrah couldn’t remember her lines, and apparently I knew everybody’s lines. During the last few rehearsals, my kindergarten teacher kept yelling at me to speak up.

I think I did a decent job during my 15-second debut. As for my hat: a woman from church made it. It’s white with little prunes taped on, the prunes being rolled-up garbage bags. My teacher asked if she could keep my hat, and I gave it to her.

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