No Shirt, No Speech, No Service?

Well...I was wearing a shirt. It was pretty chilly that night after all.

In the recent times at the cafeteria, I have had difficulty with telling what's what on the menu. Given that I am vegan with a probable dairy allergy or intolerance, this can delay me a bit.
So we, as part of the student disability organization, put in a request for individual labelling of all the items.
Which has not come to pass. So I will put in another request of this.

But in the meantime, what was supposed to happen if I was confused about
what an item was, is I was supposed to get help from someone there.
Since I often can't talk in there, I go near to somebody and point to
the location, and use body language and such. Which usually takes a long
time because I have a hard time identifying somebody who works there,
but once I see them then they see me and help me and no problem.

However, today right from the start I was in front of somebody working
there (who was the cashier working, so busy I understand, but still
there were several times when there was a lull of people coming in and
she went to do other things such as going to the coffee and wiping
tables, walking past me, giving me a look and then passing me by).

I start to think, after 10 minutes or so, that in the off chance she
hasn't seen me standing there, and after 20 minutes try to exaggerate my
expressions and flapping and rocking more. Now by this time I didn't
even care about the dessert anymore, but I just didn't want this whole
"ignoring me to go right past me and do tables and stuff"
to go on.

After about 40 minutes when she does acknowledge me (after having walked
past me, cleaned the dessert table I was standing right next to), she
said, "Okay, what do you want?" Indicating, aside from the eye contact,
that she had indeed seen me trying to get her attention.
I pointed to the dessert I was interested in and to the sign that read
"vegan" to the side of it and postured myself questioningly, as I wasn't
sure that it was referring to that dessert or not (there was no board
listing the desserts tonight).

She said, "Yes, you can have a dessert if you want."

And walked off. Then she said to another adult there, "She's always
acting like this."

Then later on she kept going to clean tables and glancing at a newspaper
as I kept trying to get her attention, using the body language of the
sentence of "But that doesn't really answer my question" and continuing
to flap my hands and look and point at the dessert table and the "vegan"
sign, as well as to look in her direction.

When she finally did come back, she said, "What do you want?" and picked
up a dessert. I pointed at the dessert, then pointed at the "vegan"
sign, and then she said, "Yes, it's vegan. Do you want it or not?" and
held it in front of me. I took one from the table top. She then said,
"You have to talk louder so I can hear." I then touched my throat and
moved my hands around so that she may understand that I was unable to
speak, not speaking softly. She then said, "There's nothing wrong with
your throat." Which A) she didn't know even that because I didn't talk
in the greenery today and B) obviously she doesn't know about interacting with autistic people.

I'm not sure what to do except for there to be better understanding
among school staff (including dining venues) about how interacting with
someone who's partially non-verbal doesn't mean you have to freak out or
think that they're non-communicative, particularly when clearly communicating
about something this simple. I hate this myth that NV = not
communicating, and even though I'm mostly verbal I run into it a lot.
It's not that you don't notice that the person who is rocking and waving
and pointing at the table and looking back at you needs help - it's that
you think their method of communicating their need is lesser, and
therefore not in need of attention. That's exactly the kind of attitude
I'm constantly up against, and the kind we need to educate out of
existence, so that we prevent consequences that are far more serious
than waiting an hour for a meal or a dessert.

Note: In another correspondence about this matter, there appeared to be a bit of misperception about where my complaint lies. I wrote the following to clarify:

This kind of dismissal of nonverbal communication and derision of the individual who communicates atypically, has led in the past and if not address will continue to lead to, far more serious repercussions to the individuals experiencing these attitudes (some of them from a non-school setting such as institutional abuses, whereas many, many others may also occur in a school setting). It is like a parallel to a woman who is forever considered a "little girl" and not considered capable of (or deserves protection from) making decisions for themselves.

ON Growing Up One Arm in the Straitjacket

There is a spiral, a pattern that embeds itself into the order of the natural world. A mathematical oddity. An improbability. The Greeks saw in it truth and beauty. Today it has applications in the stock market. To most, it is just a pattern unfolding in a patch of dead, scattered sand.

The sand is what gets me. It’s what draws my attention, as does the lone paperclip that catches a small bit of light as it rests in the slight shadow of the nearby desk. The pattern, the golden spiral, is to me the ripple of an ocean wave transposed to a dream. A pure expression unbound by linguistic ambiguities, one that transcends definition and yields to unadulterated communication.

I spent most of my childhood afternoons in class gazing in various directions. Sometimes up the front of the classroom, sometimes the window. Sometimes a wall. Didn’t matter, really. It was the gazing - the thinking - that was the point. However I managed to elude the misperception that I was disengaged from reality as long as I did remains as mysterious to me as is the hidden meaning I am supposed to extract from such written expression as “;)”.

If my teachers didn’t notice anything unusual, my sisters sure did. And while not saying so outright, my mom certainly must have noticed, for all of her exasperated attempts to understand why “simple” things were so much more difficult for me than other things, things that would typically be considered complicated and challenging. I quickly ascertained that I was some different kind of person, a foreign person within the only home I’d ever known. Culture clashes were inevitable, but it was hard for either party to not feel personally targeted, as there was no clear physical indicator that my culture even existed.

Before anyone ever uttered the word “autism”, I was keenly aware that people like me were routinely shoved into institutions under the premise that their lives were not worth the trouble of accommodating them independently, and that such effort would be wasted on individuals perceived to be clearly incapable of enjoying it. I still remember watching a program on TV in the early 1990s, and all the gloom and doom predictions people made for the people featured, the people I pointed at and said, “They’re like me!” with childlike enthusiasm. My mom corrected me, said that I wasn’t like them, as they were severely disabled and would bang their heads. I wondered what made me so different from them.

Whatever my perceptions, the message was clear: there is a set pattern of development that typical children follow like a map with only one road. And if these milestones are not met within given ranges, then that is sign of disease process. Not a sign of having a different sort of body than people expected, not a sign of having a different sort of mind. Not a sign of difference or disability, but of disease.

This as the backdrop of my childhood, I made the unconscious yet purposeful effort to watch myself every second of my life that I was in public. Make eye contact, no matter how much it hurts, just do it. Explaining that the lack of eye contact means you’re paying attention isn’t good enough. No hand gestures, either. And don’t rock, but talk even if it pains you. You have to walk a certain way that is unnatural and difficult, you must keep your head at a proper, normal angle, and don’t let your mouth hang open. If you don’t keep this up, you look retarded, and you know how much your peers belittle the mentally retarded, as if they’re somehow lesser. If a loud noise scares you, or an offending touch hurts you, you cannot shout or move away. You must bear all intrusions, no matter how violent, with silence and good behavior.

I like to try this thought experiment with people who don’t understand how stressful this can be, people who think that if someone is capable of imitating “normal” behavior, that they should act that way all the time. Now imagine that you are a child, and I am a doctor. A teacher. A parent. I tell you that it is absolutely imperative to rock back and forth for most of your waking life, despite your never having had the inclination or the thought to do so. Although too much is forbidden, you may talk sometimes. But only on one subject, and you must never look at someone’s eyes, or even their face. If you do, you must stare “through” and not “at” – whether or not you actually understand this distinction. And whenever you screw up, I am going to correct you, and withhold rewards. After all, these things are good behavior. Only good behavior gets rewards. Bad behavior never gets a reward, because we don’t really want to see that anymore.

When I advanced to seventh grade, the reward for good behavior changed from approval to safety, as if the junior high were operating as a miniature institution. While the total population of the institution was about 500, only a small handful of us were held captive to its most prized tenet of conformity beyond possibility. If someone threatened my life, it was because I could not afford designer jeans. If someone stole from me, it was because I look strange when having a seizure. If someone beat me up, it was because I failed to acquiesce to the moral superiority of my verbally abusive peers, but rather entertained the foolish thought of defending my dignity.

I sometimes like to think I have permanently overcome the flashbacks I still from time to time experience, that I am strong enough to stare my memories in the face as they creep along at my heels and to say “no more.” I sometimes like to think that once these personal emotions are resolved that I have defeated the problem. I sometimes like to think that my experiences were aberrations. As I face school, public transportation, job interviews, dating, adoption and parenting, though, I cannot ever ignore the fact that what has happened to me is a mere appendage of a wider phenomenon. Regardless of my own circumstances, through the collective experiences of the autistic community, I will always have one arm tucked firmly out of sight in the straitjacket.

Some basic myths about autism

Keep in mind that, in any of my posts, inevitably there will be issues not addressed, or those that are barely elaborated. Anything less than a book is necessarily incomplete in this manner.

This is what I wrote in the comments/discussion section of an article in The Guardian about autism (some writing added, especially near end):

Anti-cure doesn't mean anti-support. I am autistic, and I am in speech therapy, since even though I write coherently, I rarely speak well (especially when I am to speak spontaneously, this is mostly impossible). I took until I was about 10 to be fully toilet trained, and I couldn't dress myself until I was about 8. I still can't brush my hair without help. The sound of my mother or sister making a phone call in the other room with the door shut was often a sensory overload. I scored in the bottom 8% of people my age in the Test Of Problem-Solving, with a social age level at <11 years, 4 months (I am 18). I have seizures and have head banged for a good portion of my life (not as common now, but still sometimes). I was diagnosed Asperger's at age 10 through the elementary school, and my dad has some autistic traits.

Anti-cure perspective is not only by Aspies or HFA people. Look to Amanda Baggs, who is a nonspeaking, autistic woman who stims very much. She is against cure.We do not believe that autism-related difficulties should be ignored. We believe that there should be a balance between adaptation (of the autistic person to a non-autistic society) and acceptance (of the autistic person by other people in society). One of the myths is that autistics are constantly suffering of autism. We suffer when adults at the school, or sometimes in the home, yell in our ears thinking that we are disobeying them, when in fact we simply are not hearing or are not understanding the specific instructions given.

Just because someone isn't smiling doesn't mean the happiness isn't there. I have tremendous difficulty hugging my parents, but they have been educated as to the realities of autism, that because I do not want physical contact does not mean that I don't care, or don't love them, or am cold and aloof or simply not trying.We are also said to be doomed to a life without friends. This is not true, although yes, it is harder for us than for others, and our friendships tend to have a different texture to them than NT relationships.

In elementary and junior high school, I never really had friends. I was beaten horribly by my peers, in fact, for my difference, for the way I rocked in history class, or needed clarification on so-called "simple" instructions that for me were incredibly vague. But the answer is not to get rid of autism, but rather to enforce the school counselors to follow the law. By law, those bullies should have been suspended (for some), expelled (for many others), or even faced criminal charges (for one or two of them). The counselor told me that if I behaved more "normally", then I wouldn't have these problems. She seemed to think that, since my test scores were high, then I must be high-functioning in all areas - and even if I could have changed, I made on that day the difficult resolve that even if I had the ability to change, and that this change would make my life so much easier, that I would not want to be anyone else.

In high school, I switched to an arts high school, where the student body was radically different from the other schools - they were incredibly accepting of differences, and when I got out of my seat in my literature class and spun around in the room, people didn't laugh at me, nor did they pity me. I was just being me, and people at the school thought it was cool - whether they knew it was in my neurological nature to behave this way, or whether they thought I was just nonconforming, I found a place where I was accepted as myself - as the person I was and wanted to be.

Nowadays, three years from when I entered the school, I have several friends, and I never make eye contact, I often break the flow of conversation with my silence, at not knowing what to say or how to say it, I rock and spin and have difficulty doing simple things unless everything is broken down into detailed instructions, I meltdown when the fire alarm rings, or when it is crowded and noisy, and my friends show me compassion just as they would if a "normal" friend had been assaulted (or insulted) and needed help, emotionally or physically. I am treated as a social equal, despite my social and speech ineptitude.

Helping an autistic person to function does not mean training him or her to make eye contact, or to stop spinning or rocking. When I do manage, to somehow, for some few seconds at a time, to make eye contact, I have an even harder time than usual in processing spoken speech. Stimming helps me to not get quite as stressed out from fluorescent lighting, or that grating buzzing sound I'm hearing now, from a machine not too distant.

It disturbs me is that much of the autism research supposedly going towards a cure and "prevention" is going toward the development of a pre-natal test for autism, so that parents can selectively abort their autistic children, an action that would amount to the eugenic screening out of autistics.

And do not think this is just an Aspie issue.

I would be just as saddened, and disheartened, to hear that autistics who don't speak, have IQ scores in the range of mentally retarded, and who have poor self-help skills were no longer being born as if the speaking, Nobel-prize-winning Aspies were no longer being born. The fact that I am compelled to state this is enough to show how bad the culture of perfection is gearing us to believe that none but those fitting the narrow mold of "perfect" and "high-functioning" are worth living their lives.

The truth is, functioning levels are often arbitrary, and offer no more use than a common stereotype when it comes to getting to know and helping people. I have heard/read things far more intelligent from some people who have IQ in the retarded range than some ignorant and stupid things I have heard/read from people with a Ph.D. in psychology. Our definitions of intelligence are flawed, as are our ideas of the inherent relationship between functioning level and value of person's existence as they are.

If you still believe that "low-functioning" people and the mentally retarded are not valuable enough people that they should be given opportunity to life as much as any "normal" person, I suggest that you expand your views. Peruse the blogs of the many intelligent autism and disability activists (ballastexistenz and Rett Devil come to mind). Learn about people by getting to know them, rather than going by first impressions and the words of outside professionals who may not have ever looked into the perspectives of the people they claimed to understand so well.

With regards to the issue of "should we try to prevent/cure people we deem to be less perfect than most", an example of fiction I recommend is the book Flowers For Algernon by Daniel Keyes. It is about a mentally retarded man who wants to be more like his "normal" friends and get smarter and so participates in an experimental surgery to increase his intelligence. I read it in eighth grade, and we had many discussions about genetic engineering and whether we should abort people with disabilities or try to make retarded people "smarter" (I feel that "smart" is a bit of a loaded word). These discussions basically set the foundations for my passion of advocacy I am beginning to take to a more serious interest. Mr. Williams (my language arts teacher of grade 8) was a great teacher and I thank him very much!

My two cents (whatever that means).