Beyond the stigma; disability can positively forge identity

An Autistic's guide to autism: Deciphering sarcasm and saving my social life

Being autistic, I am not always able to tell when someone is being serious and when they are kidding around. Things like sarcasm and teasing are hard for me to identify; the contextual clues required to differentiate a light hearted joke from a serious insult are not always obvious, resulting in my often taking funny situations far too seriously.
This caused problems for me when I was in my early years of education. When a teacher was trying to be lighthearted—perhaps making a silly joke about my name in relation to the similarly named state or peppermint patty—I would take the joke too seriously, coming home in tears thinking my teacher was mocking me. By contrast, I would also take situations in jest when they were not meant to be. A fight between friends could seem to me like a lighthearted spat, and my attempt to join in on the fun would only escalate the situation, leaving two very angry friends and one very confused me.
When coming to Bowdoin, I was worried at how my inability to register serious situations might hinder me socially. I worried that I would come off on the wrong foot if I was taking things too casually or too seriously, and thus alienate the people I would be studying with for the next four years. I was especially worried about how I would interact with the people living on my floor. If I could not interact appropriately with them, then I would be left dealing with a very long—and very uncomfortable—first year.
Unfortunately for me, my dormmates turned out to be the joking type. At times I worry that the only way they can communicate with one another is to rib and tease. While for the first few weeks of my first semester, my use of the age old autistic tactic of “winging it” allowed me to differentiate between teasing and serious comments, I was still worried that the façade might come down, and I might slip up in a major way.
Fortunately for me, my new friends and I came up with a way for me to cope with their joking nature, and still allow them their fun. On one cold night, while walking back from Super Snack, I made a suggestion that would save me forever more from the embarrassment and confusion that I feared. Enter the sarcasm eagle.
The sarcasm eagle is an effective and efficient, autism-approved way of indicating when someone is not being serious. To use the sarcasm eagle, one puts one’s hands together, with the thumbs wrapped around one another, and the hands splayed out to either side, palms inward, as if miming a bird or other winged creature. Then, one flaps the “wings” of their hands and says, in a clear tone, “Ca-caw.”
The beauty of the sarcasm eagle lies in its clarity and simplicity. It is so outside the realm of typical behavior that there is no way of misinterpreting it (how many times a day do you see someone imitating a bird?). And instead of a long, drawn-out explanation as to the nature of a joke, or a justification as to the reasons for a comment, one need only flap their hands and say “Ca-caw,” and with that simple physical gesture and masterful onomatopoeic phrase, one conveys a wealth of information as to the nature of the situation.
For me, having such a simple and reliable way of reading a situation is a godsend. I know just what the tone of a situation is, without having to use my less than stellar reasoning to figure it out on my own. I am very grateful to my floormates for accommodating me in this regard.

An Autistic's guide to autism: Dividing autism into high and low-functioning individuals

In the parlances of many medical and educational professionals, as well as among the majority of autistic and non-autistic individuals who speak and write about autism, autistic individuals are classified into two broad categories: those of high functioning and low functioning individuals. The stereotypical high functioning individual is often—though not always—a person who would be considered to have Asperger’s Syndrome. They are socially inept, often extremely quirky and with an interest in a subject so intense that they can often talk about nothing else. The stereotypical low functioning autistic person is much more obviously disabled. They may be limited in their ability to walk, talk or have any real control over their gross motor functions. Their intelligence will be low, and they will not be able to take care of themselves: they will, in short, be disabled.
Any actual discussions or characterizations of autism are of course more nuanced than this, but this portrayal of autism condenses a number of stereotypes associated with functioning labels (that is, high functioning and low functioning autism). While autism composes a spectrum of different behaviors and individuals, it is often lumped in this way into two categories: quirky and disabled. This imagined dichotomy is not only inaccurate but also at times harmful to autistic individuals, not only because it marginalizes the struggles of those who are well adapted, but also downplays the true strengths of those whose difficulties are greater.
First and foremost, functioning labels do not accurately classify or describe the autistic experience. Many autistic people do not fall anywhere near either of the boxes that functioning labels might place them in, so these terms do not provide accurate labels for them. For instance, a person who often passes for neurotypical, but in certain high stress situations is very limited in their ability to function. Or, take the autistic person who is mute and can’t make eye contact, yet writes masterful poetry and teaches online classes on writing. Or the autistic person who must use a wheelchair because they do not have full motor control, and yet has an incredible intellect. Functioning labels leave no room for these individuals, whose spectrum of abilities give autism its full name.
Secondly, and more importantly, the use of functioning labels reinforces an assumption about how people should be that is fundamentally incorrect. That is that there is a right and a wrong way for a brain to function. By using terms such as high functioning and low functioning autism, we make the assumption that there is a level of functioning that these labels approach, high functioning being closer to the ideal, and low functioning being farther away. However, there is no such thing as an ideal brain or an ideal way of being. That is what makes humans so diverse. And diversity is a great thing.

An Autistic's guide to autism

Beyond the stigma; disability can positively forge identity

This piece represents the opinion of the author:

April 14, 2016

I am a disabled person. Much of my life is dictated by the fact that I am autistic, and that therefore I am unable to do certain things easily. Being autistic dictates where I go to eat every day, where and with who I spend my time, in what places I can work and study and enjoy myself. If a food is too complex I cannot eat it. If a place is too loud then I cannot be there. If a statement is too vague, then I cannot understand it. As well, that which I consider in excess is just fine for the typical person. In short, because I am autistic there are things that are much more difficult for me then they are for the majority of other people.

And yet, I consider autism to be fundamental to my identity: to my internal conception of myself. When I give a presentation about autism, or write an article about autism, or just talk about autism in casual conversation, I try to make it very clear that I do not consider autism like an ailment that I am stuck with, but as a part of who I am. So much so, that I have changed the way that I speak about myself: from “a person with autism” to “an autistic person.” I also try to make it clear that I would not want to be any other way than I am now. Despite all the difficulties I experience because I am autistic, if some procedure were developed that would stop me from being autistic then I would refuse it (and vehemently at that).

Why?

Two reasons.

The first concerns the concept of disability itself. Having a disability is often associated with bearing a burden, or with withstanding a trial. When we speak and think of disability, we are often making the implicit statement that “there is something wrong with that person, because there is something that they have difficulty with, or that they cannot do.” Or put another way, “a person with a disability is to some degree broken.” I maintain that this is false. To have a disability literally means that one is limited in one’s ability to perform certain tasks or actions. That does not mean that the person with a disability needs fixing. Human beings should never be considered broken, because they never are. Not only is that conception emotionally harmful to individuals with disabilities, who grow up to think that they are broken, but it is a misunderstanding of what it means to be disabled.

The second concerns the specific nature of autism. As autism is neurological in nature, to say that someone is autistic is to say that their brain works or is arranged in a certain way. A device that claimed to “cure” a person of their autism would have to change—in a very fundamental way—the nature of that person. To “cure” a person of their autism would be to change the way that they process and perceive the world. To “cure” a person of their autism would be to kill that person, and replace them with a new, non-autistic person, who would then take up residence in the body of the deceased. As such, I consider my difficulties, numerous as they may be, a reasonable price to pay for my continued existence.

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