Smart Again

I have been thinking about something the young self-advocate Bobby Lucas says.

When he talks about winning his fight to be fully included in the regular classroom, he talks about being “smart again.”

It’s really tempting to take that as “I feel stupid when they make me go to the resource room and do work that doesn’t challenge me, and now I don’t feel that way.” Or even “When I am in the resource rooom they treat me like I’m stupid but in the regular classroom they treat me like I am smart.” I’ve no doubt both things are true; Bobby is hardly the first person to make those observations.

But — and let me openly acknowledge that I haven’t spent enough time sorting through Bobby’s theoretical work (that is, the things he says and does to explore and deepen the way he he understands the world to work, and to conmunicate that understanding to others — and as Eric Warwick has pointed out, everyone who takes volitional action in the world theorizes) to have any confidence whether this is what he intends — what if we take him literally?

What if, in the regular classroom, Bobby is smart, and in the resource room he is not?

Because here’s the thing: how intelligent or how stupid you function as is to a significant extent about how well or poorly you are supported.

“What kind of supports do they need? What do we need to come up with? What is the plan that needs to be done? You know, figure it out. Don’t just sit there on the problem. Find the solution!”

– Bryon Murray, self-advocate

Let’s talk about the section of Emma Van der Klift’s and Norman Kunc’s book Being Realistic isn’t Realistic that addresses ability and opportunity as two necessary components of performance.

“It is widely seen as self-evident in our Western Culture that ability leads to opportunity,” Emma and Norm tell us. “If you’re good at something, the reasoning goes, then those skills, talents, and abilities will certainly foster opportunity. We rarely question this belief. When it comes to disability, fostering ability in both schools and human services has traditionally focused on teaching life skills as a prerequisite for entering the “regular” community. This approach fits with an equally unquestioned belief that improving a disabled person’s ability is the best way to improve their quality of life and increase the likelihood of later opportunities. But is this necessarily so?

They conclude, after brief reflection upon the evidence, that it is not.

“Opportunity is determined by social convention, not ability. That is, opportunity is not afforded to those who are most able but to those our society deems worthy of that opportunity.”

Let me push that a little farther: ability is fluid within limits (I will never duplicate the achievements of the great mathematician Srinivasa Ramanujan no matter what, but there is a range of performances in mathematics I am capable of, from the hopeless inability I displayed in 10th grade geometry to the real skill I honed in logic, model theory, and set theory classes. Just dont ask me to study calculus. I have adopted the position that what happens under the curve, stays under the curve), and those limits are largely determined by opportunity.

We have the formula backwards.

Look, we all know that disabled people live in a world in which access — or the power to use things to achieve desired ends — is inequitably offered. Much as we tend to reserve the word “access” to refer to power that is often denied disabled people the power to use things because those things are designed to require abilities that not everyone has, any marginalized status comes with barriers to access. If you want to take your group to DC to lobby your Senators, for instance, some people do not have access to that trip because the medical equipment they need can’t go, or because because they can’t afford to take a personal care attendant or direct support worker, or because they can’t pay their own way,or because they can’t get time off or childcare, or because safe interstate travel requires documents, or because ….

We all know that the services we offer people depend on the kind of people we think they are, including what abilities they. That’s why all the testing. That’s (part of) why it matters whether you say the R word or “learning disability” or “intellectual disability.” That’s why the National Council on Severe Abli- sorry, Autism (NCSA), is working so hard to establish that there is such a thing as severe autism, which neurodiversity advocates both pretend does not exist and spend way too much time talking about, and which requires by its nature the suspension of rights-based protections. It’s why IEPs are basically annual mandatory meetings in which children are portrayed as incompetent.

If you are living in Oregon and working for part-time minimum wage, and your partner is working 4 jobs, and you are barely making ends meet for your 5 kids, and your youngest keeps getting kicked out of daycare because she seems to have ADHD, and you don’t have documented status or health care, and you have to keep a close watch on your eldest because he can’t be trusted not to talk back to a cop while Black yet … we will never know what kind of DC lobbyist you could have been.

But for those of us who need services and supports, what we do or don’t get determines what we can do. And therefore they play an important causative role in what we actually do. And then what we actually do is used to determine what kind of people we are, including what abilities they have.

In other words, this formula is backwards, too.

Echoing my own experience, a self-advocate, Bryon Murray, has reported, “You know, when I travel, I hear a question: ‘what happened to people with the really bad behaviour? What happened to people who hurt themselves or hurt others?’ Supports! If you take the Bryon that you see today, 11 years ago I’d be slamming my head towards the wall. I’d be biting people because I feel trapped. I’d be running away. Run. Don’t understand. Don’t understand what traumatic brain injury does. Don’t understand disabilities. Not accepting it, denying it. Then when I got my supports, this is who I am. You know what? Instead of asking that stupid question, ‘What happened to people with behaviour?’ – okay, what kind of supports do they need? What do we need to come up with? What is the plan that needs to be done? You know, figure it out. Don’t just sit there on the problem. Find the solution!”

Social psychiatry offers us the insight of the fundamental attribution error: we tend, as a species, to overestimate the role of a person’s innate nature, and to underestimate the role of situational factors, when explaining their observed behavior. In the resource room, Bobby Lucas’s vocabulary differs from his abled classmates’ because of his Down Syndrome, not because his educators make sure to use smaller, simpler words around him than his classmates here because they do not believe he is capable of more. Bryon Murray and I smashed our heads into walls because we were inherently self-injurious, not because we were forced into situations where we could not cope. Black Lives Matter activists are in the streets because they don’t bother with “more appropriate” methods, but because 400 years of “more appropriate” methods has still not ended in a real reckoning with what it means to be Black in a white supremacist society. Fundamental attribution error.

Interestingly, if you show an audience a video of a police interrogation shot at an angle where the suspect’s face and the back of the cop’s head, they are more likely to attribute any confession to consciousness of guilt; if you show the exact same interrogation with the angle adjusted so you see the cop’s face and the back of the suspect’s head are shown, the confession is more likely to be attributed to coercion. We attribute significance to whatever we are paying attention to rather than identifying what is significant and paying attention to that. If you went to school to become a special ed teacher or work in human services, there’s a good chance you’d be better at your job if you had taken a class in misdirection from a stage magician.

So when people say, “you are nothing like my child!” (or “my student!” or “my client!” or “my individual!” (blergh)) as an effort to shut down discussions of how to improve their child’s (or whoever’s) circumstances, they are often pointing out that the advocate’s circumstances are nothing like their child’s circumstances. Which was the point.

So back to Bobby Lucas.

Yes, he is included enough — he is getting good enough services and supports in the regular classroom — that he actually functions and, as is seen as, smarter than when he was in the resource room — and can trade on that later in his educational career to further fine-tune services and supports, and advocate for more opportunity. That’s not just about physical presence (Emma and Norm have more on that); resentfully dumping a disabled kid in the regular classroom and letting them flounder isn’t inclusion. It’s about the fit of services and supports.

The NCSA crowd has a point to this extent: their loved ones aren’t getting quality services and supports in the community. But instead of calling for better services and supports, they want to pull all community services and supports on the theory that the failure to benefit adequately from community services and supports is inherent in their loved ones, not a sign that their loved ones are being shortchanged. Fundamental attribution error.

The BIPOC and not-cis-male community sees a failure of services and supports too, because the needs of white cisgender boys and men — even marginalized white cisgender boys and men — are different, in a society that consistently privileges white cisgender boys and meds, from the needs of people socialized in a world that does not privilege them in those ways. But those are the services they get (at best; often it is services customized a bit to the heavily-groomed preferences of parents of inadequately supported white cisgender boys and men, designed to meet the needs of professionals who believe they are entitled to control disabled lives while decorating their curriculum vitae with sciencey-sounding accomplishments).

Let me repeat the words of my teachers and friends: “[O]pportunity is not afforded to those who are most able but to those our society deems worthy of that opportunity.” And that has tremendous consequences for who gets to “be smart.”

Congratulations, Bobby Lucas, on your win. May it be followed by a tsunami of wins for other students who want, and deserve, the opportunity to be as smart as you are. And may you continue to use the opportunities you have been afforded, and the support of your loved ones, in your work as a self-advocate to make the world better for others.

Introduction

I was 15, and he was 2.

The rector at the church recommended me to the family as a babysitter who liked atypical kids. His mom picked me up with him in a carseat in the back. He seemed atypically quiet.

The information about him trickled out as she glanced nervously over at me.

He was autistic. He didn’t speak.

When I was 12 and 13 I had “apprenticed” at a nursery school. An almost nonspeaking autistic boy and I had sat under tables for a few months. Every so often I had commented on the world around us. Eventually he had started commenting back. The adults seemed surprised, but it made sense to me. In a busy classroom the only one who had time to be still enough to build a relationship was the superfluous “apprentice.”

So I shrugged.

He had an intellectual disability. I still thought that meant “slow.” I had sat for babies. If he was a bigger baby (he disabused me of that notion within an hour), I could handle it.

I nodded.

At the house there was more. She told me his bedtime but warned he wouldn’t sleep for me. He still nursed to sleep.

And then: “He has seizures. Do you think you can handle that?”

I pointed out that she was obviously quite thorough. I was sure she would tell me what I needed to know. And she did. I learned about absence seizures; he had several an hour.

I had never seen a parent so anxious as her husband shepherded her out the door. I was young; I did not understand it yet.

It was the same as any other babysitting job, really. We played. I fed him. Within the parameters of what his parents had said was okay, I followed his lead. Sure, we paused for seizures. But every child is an individual.

Within the year I would sit for an older child who could become violent when overwhelmed. We would spend some time relationship building before I would try things like taking him to a public pool alone. He’d melt down sometimes in public. It wouldn’t always be easy, but we would manage.

The 2-year-old, on the other hand? Well within my comfort zone.

At bedtime I took him upstairs. He was a big wiggly kid and he didn’t seem eager to have his diaper changed, so I changed him on the floor so we could relax and play as I did it and not worry about falling. Once his pyjamas were on, I tried soothing him on the bed but his mom was right: he was having none of it. We went back down.

The tail end was a bit rough. He was very tired and he cried and pawed at my chest. I tried to comfort him, but I could not satisfy him.

When his mom came back she looked at me through tears as I handed over her red-faced, tear-streaked son. I felt terrible. She asked me to wait as she put him down. I chatted awkwardly with his dad.

When she came back she asked me if I was sure about my rates. I shrugged. My material needs were met; this was pocket money for luxuries. Many of the families I sat for didn’t have a lot of spare cash. Tips were fine, but not necessary.

She seemed so upset.

Finally she told me that I was the first teen babysitter she had ever used. Usually it was special ed grad students at ten to twenty times my prices. And this was the first time she had come home to find him in a clean diaper and pyjamas. The grad students said changing him was too hard.

That, I think, was my baptism into the realities of disability service provision.

I spent a lot of time with that boy from then until I graduated high school. I loved him, and his mother was nurturing to me too. The mothers in the park would stare at us, so I played with him an extra lot in hopes he wouldn’t notice. I stayed with him while his mother gave birth to his sibling. I miss the family, even now.

Maybe my life would have turned out different if I had been sophisticated enough to know that it was hard to support him. As it was, that lesson still hasn’t sunk in.

I’m still a big believer in amateur support workers. When the prejudices aren’t formally educated in, they aren’t as forceful.

Disabled People in the Mist

The gorillas in the zoo are not free.

Regular circumstances and ways of life

In the better zoos, their enclosures are designed to simulate key features of free environments and prompt them to behave in ways that are similar to the ways free gorillas behave.

But the gorillas are not free.

It’s freedom theatre.

We do that in home and community-based services, too.

We comply with the principle of normalisation — disabled people’s patterns of life should be “as close as possible to the … regular circumstances and ways of life in their communities.”

You live in the same neighborhoods as other people, in the same kind of housing, furnished similarly, in similar household sizes. You get up at the same time as your neighbours, dress similarly, and spend your days doing similar things, with similar kinds of people.

Home and community-based settings are now often designed to simulate what are seen as key features of community living. Just like gorilla enclosures.

One reason many people want minimum wage requirements to be waived for some disabled people is that sheltered workshops provide daily respite services to families of adults with disabilities in a way that looks, superficially, like a regular way of life.

I once read a memo on creating home-like living environments for group home residents.

It contained detailed guidance on how to decorate the living room.

If you walk through a group home living room and the next door neighbor’s living room, they might look the same.

There’s a difference.

The neighbor decorated their own living room.

That may not matter to you as you tour where others live, but if a social worker gave someone else a budget for redecorating your living room and a memo on how to do it, you might have a thing or two to say.

Yes, when you had people getting their suppers at 5 and being sent to bed at 7, people living in dorms in cottages on institutional grounds, people left naked in huge filthy dayrooms and only offered clothes for family visits, slop poured rapidly down the throats of people who needed assistance to eat, normalisation was a step forward. The surface features of many disabled lives were so appalling that shifting to better surfaces was critically urgent.

But what was under the surface mattered too.

It’s also apparently better for gorillas to have zookeepers hide food in the enclosure so they will engage in foraging-like activity rather than have all the food dumped in a pile in the open.

Still doesn’t mean that gorillas in zoos are free.

Also? It’s not 1964 any more.

The National Council on Disability has defined “institution” as “a facility of four or more people who did not choose to live together.” Four seems arbitrary.

ADAPT and the National Council on Independent Living (NCIL) have been pushing to pass the Disability Integration Act (DIA), which, while it places some valuable limits on how they are run, explicitly permits something NCD regards as an institution, namely four-person group homes.

In any event, although large-scale congregation is a significant part of how people have been institutionalized, it is not the main problem with institutions.

Segregation, restriction, and loss of freedom are.

“I can make my bed or not.” – Peter Park

People First of Canada has defined “institution” this way: “any place in which people who have been labelled as having an intellectual disability are isolated, segregated, and/or congregated. An institution is any place in which people do not have, or are not allowed to exercise control over their lives and their day to day decisions. An institution is not defined merely by its size.”

I’ve defined an institution as a place where the people providing the supports are in control.

Ivan Smith says it more simply and clearly institutionalisation is “administrative control over people’s lives.”

Peter Park, cofounder of People First of Canada , once said, “What was that day [when I moved into my own apartment] like? That was wonderful. I had a key to my front door. I — that was — I, uh — if there were — I don’t know — I just wanted to celebrate with everybody and their neighbor, that, ‘Okay, I’m free! I have my freedom! I can do what I want. I can get up, I can sleep in if I want to, get up when I want to, make my bed or not when I want to.’ Things like that, everyday things, that everybody does. So I felt marvelous, wonderful, fantastic!”

Note that the everyday thing is not making the bed or not making the bed. It’s choosing whether to make the bed.

If we focus on the duvet rather than the choice, we err.

It’s not created by the shape of a building

I worked in a program once that was big on “empowering people through choice,” and I began to document what that looked like.

“Alice was woken at 6:45. She was offered a choice between a red shirt and a green shirt and she chose red. She was offered a choice between cereal with milk and cereal without milk and she chose cereal with milk. Alice did not want to go to the day hab, but she was reminded that no staff are present during the day. Alice was offered a choice between putting on her jacket before the bus came or when the bus came and she chose to put it on when the bus came. She got into an argument with her roommate, whom she says she hates. She was given a choice of taking her lunch out of the refrigerator before the bus came or when the bus came and she chose before ….”

That’s the illusion of choice. It looks good, as long as you don’t look too close, or if you believe certain people are unsuited to freedom. But it’s not a life to aspire to.

I was singled out for my excellence in documenting my program’s commitment to empowerment through choice. But that’s not empowerment through choice.

In another program, where I did a relief shift, I was warned, ‘Don’t turn your back on Martha. But don’t worry, we’ve hidden all the knives.

Wait — what?!!

Martha was a pleasant middle-aged woman, and when I asked her, ‘Hey, I hear you’re upset. Do you want to talk about it?” she explained the issue.

Change of shift in her group home from evenings to nights was at 11:00 p.m., and bedtime was 10:45, to facilitate a smooth and uninterrupted handover. Martha wanted it changed to 11:00 so she could see the end of her TV shows. Management wasn’t budging.

We talked protest tactics for a bit, and she went back to whatever it was she had to do that day — and I was struck from that program’s relief worker list.

Roland Johnson used to ask, “Who’s in charge?”

You know who wasn’t in charge? Alice. Martha.

They had choices within the parameters the group home — or the family, or the state — thought were both reasonable and feasible. In other words, there was administrative control over their lives.

Who’s in charge, indeed?

Freedom is not about aesthetics.

Mel Baggs nailed it.

“The problem is not that we just haven’t found the magic formula for the perfect institution yet but these new ones will be wonderful. The problem is that in most of the service system we have barely moved away from what an institution is, at all.

“An institution is not created by the shape of the building. It’s created by who holds the power, and what kind of power they hold.”

Alice had 3 roommates and Martha had 2. NCD would have said Alice but not Martha was in an institution, and ADAPT and NCIL would have only said said they were because of whose names were on the deed or lease. People First of Canada, Ivan, Mel, and I would have said she was, but not for the reasons the other organisations think.

If the zookeepers make the decision that the zoo gorillas will engage in foraging-like behavior similar to what wild gorillas do, that doesn’t mean the zoo gorillas are wild rather than captive.

And if I make you do what your free neighbours do, that doesn’t make you free.

10 Things to Keep in Mind When Writing About Autism, Violence, and Services

ONE

Autistic people are less likely to commit intentional violence than neurotypical people.

Even so, the repetition of autism and violence in the same stories reinforces existing prejudices about autistics and makes people believe we are especially violent. These beliefs are reproduced throughout society, including among people you know. Many people believe autistics are simply an especially more dangerous group than others, and where we have been making progress at convincing others to look at the facts, certain parent and professional groups have successfully claimed that “severely autistic” people, at least, are dangerous.

TWO

Autistic people are more likely to be the targets of intentional violence than neurotypical people. This violence may come from classmates, family members, professionals and the police.

This includes a distressing rate of parents murdering autistic children. The rate is so high that the autistic community has established an annual National Day of Mourning for disabled people killed by family and carers. Rather than blame the aggressors, society tends to blame the targets and suggest that they need to be less autistic in order to avoid violence. When your existence in a family member’s life is regarded as “pre-punishment” for a crime not yet committed against you, the crime begins to seem almost reasonable.

Autistic activists and advocates are thus constantly aware both of the physical dangers inherent in living among neurotypicals and the fact that many neurotypicals regard violence against us as acceptable, if not desirable.

THREE

The level of service provision for autistic children and adults is inadequate. Many in the older generation of autistic activists and advocates grew up without services and many still struggle to exist without them.

We know all too well that a dearth of services is devastating, for us and often those around us. Moreover, autistics are routinely denied access to goods and services available to others, which places an additional burden both on us and on those who pick up the slack.

FOUR

However, the services that are available to autistic people and their families largely focus on control and trying to make autistic people seem less autistic. Or they involve inappropriate “behavioral health” interventions. They may be available only in segregated and/or disability-specific congregate settings.

These services are themselves devastating. The effort at masking autism they demand is partly responsible for the extremely high rates of suicidality and completed suicide in the autistic community, separate from the risk factors that affect both autistics and allistics. There are indications they promote high rates of post-traumatic stress disorders and other mental health issues.

FIVE

One of the consequences of distress in autistics and other people with cognitive and communication-related disabilities is violent or violent-appearing actions related to frustration, trauma, meltdown, and efforts to communicate, and actions intended to harm others (intentional violence) are rarely clearly distinguished from actions which convey distress which can potentially result in inadvertent harm, or even from incontrollable movements relating to dyspraxia, spasms, seizures, etc., which can result in unavoidable harm to others.

The distress caused by coercive services is thus one factor in autistic violence, as are failure to take seriously and learn from the reports of adult autistics with experience being inadvertently “violent” or engaging in violence before they understood the consequences of those acts, and what helped them to address those problems.

The response to this distress tends to be an increase in coercion, up to and including Level III aversives (the most notorious of which is the remote control shock device (still in use at the Judge Rotenberg Center as we await enforcement of a federal ban)), which would be judged as child abuse if parents implemented them themselves.

SIX

One of the consequences of the autism establishment’s relentless socialization on the importance of masking is that parents whose children do not mask effectively are encouraged to see this as a failure and a guarantee of future suffering. Only autistics who approximate typical behavior are seen as capable of having good lives, despite the experience of many adult autistics (but then also, few efforts are made to investigate what autistics who do not mask need to live good lives, and the services these people need are often not provided, too). This contributes to parental distress and a sense that they and their children are doomed, which is a factor in parental violence against autistics.

SEVEN

As part of the traditional services, autistics are encouraged to be docile and compliant and let perceived authority figures, including those they have just met, do what they want. This effectively grooms them for later predators and makes them easier targets of violence, including sexual violence.

EIGHT

When autism, violence and services are linked, there are two ways it is likely to go:

EIGHT-A

The lack of services is seen as a mitigating factor in violence against autistics. This overlooks a number of things.

For one, many of the high-profile cases under discussion involve families who have significantly more services than most, or who turned down services.

For another, many of the families who struggle most with access to services are loving and nurturing.

For a third, intentional violence is a choice. People who feel as if they may commit violence have options. Admittedly, few are very good options, but when the alternative is murder even lousy options like dropping your child at the ER become plausible.

For a fourth, it suggests that having an autistic child is especially burdensome, and the data do not bear that out. There is, for example, a common but false stereotype suggesting that the existence of an autistic child wrecks their parents’ marriages. In fact, autistic children’s families are demographically similar to allistic children’s families. All children involve joys and sorrows, and while the experiences of parents of autistics and neurotypicals are different, parents of autistics who resist the dominant narrative that the only path to happiness is successful mimicry of neurotypicality report similar quality of life to parents of neurotypicals.

EIGHT-B

There is a suggestion that autistics should be controlled better and earlier. This would, in fact, produce some decrease in any behavior that is to be controlled, but it comes at substantial cost down the road. And since mass murder is not caused by autism, it would not address that.

NINE

We know that murder apologism in the form of linking autistic filicide to lack of services increases the filicide rate. We know that moral panics about uncontrolled autistics leads to restrictions on self-determination, integration, civil rights and quality of life. When you promote conversations that link autism, violence and services without considering what you hope to achieve, how best to achieve it, what the risks are, and how best to mitigate them, or if you are unprepared to do the work to balance the benefits and costs of such a conversation, you risk causing harm where you intended to help.

Filicide and other violence against autistic people is one conversation. The services conversation is another. They are both important, but they are separate. Mixed, they can have deadly consequences.

TEN

Autistic people are people. We learn and grow. We love. We experience loneliness. We know joy and despair. We are curious about our world. We can be by turns eager, terrified, and grief-stricken. We don’t always act in ways that neurotypicals and other allistics understand. Our efforts to communicate and socialize are not always understood or welcomed. But we are people. And we are here in the same spaces as everyone else. We see and hear these conversations. We understand them. And they often cause us immense pain, because we see the accretion of prejudice, of fear and hatred, the looming consequences of a public being shaped toward increasing coercion and violence.

That alone is not a reason to not have the conversations. But it is a reason to do it thoughtfully and responsibly.

Do it Anyway

This was to a friend of mine who when I first wrote it, was reaching out to others, talking about how hard things were and getting the message that all that talking about it was “too much.”

Do it anyway.

People may tell you you are “just attention-seeking.” Hell, yes, you are attention-seeking! And thank you for doing it! Saying hi is attention-seeking. Wearing a nice shirt to work is attention-seeking. We humans are a social species. That’s what we do. We want attention because it is part of connection, and we need connection. It’s literally in our genes; it is part of how our species survives from one generation to the next. We don’t all want the same kinds of attention and some of us have learned that attention is unbearably painful, but in some way or others each of us wants to be with people we love, or at least with somebody, and that involves attention.

What people mean is, they don’t like how you are seeking attention and they want you to cut it out. So, okay, ask if there are ways to reach out for connection that will serve you and the people you love better and, if there are, try to learn them and use them to replace the ones you find most problematic. But putting someone down for seeking attention is putting them down for being a mammal and it’s not fair. And people who seek attention in desperate ways are expressing desperate needs, so even if it gets to that, keep going.

Do not let people shame you out of doing the best you can to find ways to connect with other human beings including “attention-seeking behaviour”: do it anyway.

Because, yeah, we’ve talked about travel, we’ve talked about beer, we’ve talked about services, I’ve seen your pride in your home and in the recognition you have earned. And we all know people who get joy from travel or knowledge or or power or hobbies or money or achievement. But whenever I have seen you really light up, the conversation has been about people, one way or another. And whenever I have seen you expressing deep pain over something specific, the conversation has been about people, too. I get that. That’s about how it works for me as well. So keep reaching out. Even when it’s people you love and respect telling you not to, do it anyway.

There will be people who tell you to reach out, but they don’t mean to them. They mean to a professional. They will give you hotline numbers, tell you about medication, suggest counseling. Those things help some people. If you want them, pursue them. But sometimes this kind of “helpful advice” means “stop reaching out to non-professionals. Whatever you do, don’t reach out to me. Your needs are too much.”

Paid relationships, while they have value (who, on a summer day, goes into a 7-11 for a Slurpee and doesn’t value their relationship with the clerk, who would not stand there ensuring they get their cold sweet wish satisfied as an unpaid hobby?), are no substitute for chosen, reciprocal relationships. There is nothing like people who are around you just because they want to be.

Nothing.

So seek professional help if that seems like a good idea, but when it comes to not seeking connection, don’t listen. Do it anyway.

Yeah, you are going to get some well-intentioned but hurtful responses along the lines of “Settle down, things really aren’t that bad.” Discourage them, but as kindly and gently as you can, because not only they but others are watching, and the lesson some of those watchers are getting is, “It’s better not to reach out because I may make things worse.” That is not a lesson you want to teach, however unintentionally; when people reach out it is attention-seeking and we want others to feel okay about reaching back. Do your best to hear that people are uncomfortable, that they don’t know how to respond, that at least some of them are really trying to help and that’s a good thing — and let them know you appreciate that much, if you do and if you can — although also recognise that sometimes others just want you to stop, and then do it anyway.

Some people are going to say things that are helpful. For me, from people not in a position to actually make things better, which most of the time is everybody, what helps is along the lines of “Yeah, that sucks, I wish things were different.” Flag what is helpful to you. That is a big part of how people learn to do scary things they are afraid to mess up: they see it done more skillfully than they know how to do, they learn that it is more skillful, and they dare to imitate it.

So scary stuff not only has to be done, but sometimes it has to be done in front of audiences. Some people desperately want to say something helpful but they are afraid of making things worse, so they let you dangle, which makes things worse. Showing them — as kindly and gently as you can — is part of building the community you need and others need and the next generation will need, so even though it is hard, do it anyway.

People will sometimes tell you about self-help and self-care. If you’ve asked, or if it’s someone close to you, this can be an act of kindness. Otherwise, it’s usually a way of reminding you that your problems are your problems to solve. And that is not untrue. Nobody else has to be there for you. But if you want to live in a world of connection, where people reach out and reach back, if you want to strengthen that part of the culture that says we are responsible to and for each other, for yourself, for the people you love, for the people coming up after you — and from what I know of you, I believe you do — this is part of how you move slowly and almost imperceptibly toward that. I know you know this; you are a patient and generous teacher. So do it anyway.

Because you are a teacher. You are an activist, an organizer, an advocate and a community-builder. I’ve watched you do all these things and do them beautifully. Reach out, make connections, and do in in public so those who don’t have your skills or your bravery or your experience can see how to do it, too. I know you get told a lot that other people are better at things than you, and it is true that everyone you meet will be better than you at something. But when it comes to the stuff that really excites me, you are amazing. No college degree or car, no dancing lessons or polished resume, would make you a better or more beautiful person, and part of your beauty is expressed in your willingness to reach out to others, to ask for and give help. Whatever anyone says to you, do it anyway.

There will be behaviourists — maybe, because you are disabled, highly trained professionals, but certainly those who have incorporated the behaviourists’ methods into their everyday relationships — who will figure out what you love and hold it hostage until you behave the way they want. They will tell themselves, and you, and anyone who will listen, that this is for your own good. I know you know better. It’s control. It’s abuse.

Anyone has the right to not go out of their way for you; nobody has the right to use that fact to control you. You never have to accept abuse. Never. People will tell you you should. People can be f***heads. That said, it can be hard to keep reaching out in the face of having been abused, but please, do it anyway.

There will be times when people convey that whatever you are having a hard time with really isn’t that upsetting. It wouldn’t upset them, they think (sometimes they are right, sometimes they are clueless, and sometimes they are lying). Or others have gone through, and seemed to handle, worse (so what? It’s not a contest. And they may not have been coping. They may just not have been reaching out).

But there is no objective scale for what upsets us. I’ve watched people absolutely thrive in situations I could never handle, I’ve coped with things that almost everyone thinks are intolerable and completely lost it in situations nobody else seems to mind, and I’ve watched people crumble in situations that gave me joy. It’s not anyone else’s place to judge the worthiness of your pain or tell you when it isn’t okay to reach out to others about it. Let them have their say — you can’t stop them — but ignore them and do it anyway.

When there are people who could help, a lot of them won’t. Some that you think could help really can’t, in ways that may not be obvious. If you love someone, try to understand who they really are, what they really can and can’t do, the ways that what they can’t do are inextricably linked to the best things about them, and try not to get angry that they aren’t who they aren’t, because that’s not love. But some people are making choices. They have a right to do that, as much as it hurts.

Not asking for help is a failing of mine. As long as I don’t ask for what I need, I can pretend that if I did ask, I would get it. And there are days that I need that fantasy. But I also need what I am not asking for, and if nobody knows, I definitely can’t have it. So take a deep breath, risk the fantasy, and do it anyway.

You’re going to hurt people and they’re going to hurt you back. There is really no way to be around other people without it being a bruising experience for everyone some of the time. That’s in the nature of fallible humanity. Hurting someone by accident or in some other ways is not the same as being an abuser. Being hurt is not the same as being abused. (But you also don’t owe it to anyone to stick around for pain you don’t want, even if it is not caused by abuse. They don’t have to deserve to be left for you to deserve to be able to leave.)

Listen to this stuff and ask yourself if it’s true. It is certainly possible to cross the line and hurt someone, and I know you don’t want to do that. And anyone else has the right to say, “I don’t want to be around you” over anything at all. But that doesn’t mean that who you are is not okay. So respect what other people want and need in their own lives. Ask for what you need, but don’t demand from someone what they won’t freely give. Social media is amazing for this because it relieves people from individual responsibility; you can say what you have to say and other people can choose to take a break from hearing it. But no matter how much people are telling you that good manners or health or the rules of a civilised society require you to stop trying to connect with other people, do it anyway.

Also, some people really don’t want to hear this stuff. Some people need not to. Be thoughtful about that. When you learn that about someone, don’t make them hear it. But don’t let other people’s general discomfort stop you, either. Some people will try to police you: they’ll tell you you are inappropriate or even toxic, that you have to stop so they can have healthy boundaries, that you are a bully.

People are going to tell you to be more grateful and remind you of the good things in life. As hard as it is to be told to be grateful when you are in pain, there’s a kernel of truth to it. Good things happen, and noticing and acknowledging them does help. The ability to be in the presence of people who matter to me, to joke around with them, to be a part of something meaningful, to do work I value — these are real gifts and I treasure them. Express your gratitude as best you can, because the people who give you these gifts should get reached back to. But don’t try to force gratitude. Pain counts, too, and if it is not visible people cannot connect with you in those moments. So when you want or need to express your pain, even though people will point out that pain is not (or in their opinion should not be) all there is, do it anyway.

There are going to be days when you want to walk away from it all and take a break from other people. And that is okay, if you are doing it for you. There are going to be days when you want to give the people you love a break from the discomfort of being around you. And that is okay, too, as long as it’s temporary and really based in an assessment of their needs. It’s the overall shape of things that counts. If you stop reaching out altogether, other people stop reaching back. If you stop being honest, you lose that ability to connect. And that kind of cut-all-ties withdrawal that seems in the moment to make sense does not work long-term. So know yourself. Sometimes when you don’t want to reach out, let yourself off the hook. Sometimes, do it anyway.

It is only by showing up and reaching out, by opening yourself up to the possibility of real pain, that you lay the groundwork for connection-based joy. And you never know when those moments are going to come. You may be freezing your ass off in some park somewhere when someone you deeply respect takes one of your suggestions seriously. You may be in someone’s office when they ask you to do something that is easy for you and hard for them. Someone may tell you they trust you to do a job that you know is important. You may be in an ER QR someone stuck you in because you couldn’t cope in the last place they had you, even with your eyes shut, trying to control the rising panic and not bolt because you know you need not to, when the person with you (note that oppportunity for gratitude) sucks you into a ridiculous discussion about someone’s duct-taped, disintegrating wheelchair tyre and you find yourself laughing. You may be in a parking lot with friends listening to someone’s hilarious story of trying to figure out the worst pack of boxer shorts he ever encountered. You may be in a place where you are supposed to have your game face on, trying like hell not to laugh at a private joke with the person next to you. You may be in a hotel lobby learning you don’t have a room when someone you admire shows up, supports you, and goes with you for a burger, a beer, and an epic conversation. If you reach out, you get hurt a lot. But if you don’t reach out, you don’t get those joys, so do it anyway.

Some people are going to get overwhelmed by you and walk away, and that’s going to hurt so much. It hurts to be given up on. Especially when it is someone you really, really love. And I know enough about how people with your disability get treated to bet you have experience with that pain. When you have something that really matters to you, there is incredible risk. You can lose it. It can be weaponised against you. For some of us, that is a never-ending experience. The only relationships of mine that ever last involve a whole lot of distance and non-contact; people like me sometimes, but nobody likes me for very long, and that is almost unbearable knowkedge to live with. You learn to hide and hoard what matters to you. I’ve certainly learned to act as if I barely notice the people I want to know, and not to trust signs that they may want to know me, too. You can do that with a lot of things. But love doesn’t work like that. There’s no way to do it right, to give or receive it, without risk. Without unbelievable risk. You have to force yourself to take the risk. There is no way not to get hurt.

Love is a contact sport, played without protective gear. So as terrifying as it is to try over and over to connect with those whom, right now, today, you love and who love you back, and those whom you might love or be loved by, do it anyway.

And there are going to be times when you fuck it all up and you just want to hide. It is hard to be human. Do it anyway.

Here’s the thing. At any given moment there are reasons not to reach out. And sometimes those reasons will be enough and that is okay. I’m not going to tell you when or or how often to whom or how to keep reaching out. Those are personal decisions and different people should make different ones. I’m just saying, there are always reasons not to, and other people will remind you of them, because you reaching out is uncomfortable for most people. They may want to fix it but be unable to. They may want to help but not know how. They may not want to know what you are going through — and some legitimately need to not know about it. They may feel pressured to do something they don’t want to do. It may offend their sense of propriety. They may be subtle; they may be direct. You are going to get hurt worse. DO IT ANYWAY. As much as you need to, and sometimes just because you can.

Because the cost of not doing it is higher.

I know you know this. I know what a soul-destroying price I paid for extended and total denial of human connection, and I know the one you paid was steeper and younger. But I also know you are hearing from people who are well-meaning but haven’t thought through what they are asking of you, and I wanted you to to hear from someone who has.

Your best move in the moment is not always your best move. Because it is never just the one moment. Moments lead to other moments lead to still other moments. They mean something. A life emerges. It means something. It means a lot.

I am sorry things are so hard right now. You deserve better. I wish I knew a way to help, but I don’t. I hope the unsolicited advice hasn’t made things worse. I wish you were happier, but I am glad you are telling us how things are. I hope they get better soon, but until they do, thank you for reaching out and telling us.

And thank you for being you.

The First Tendrils of Communication

For Mel Baggs and Phil Smith, who knew, and know, communion with the wild places better than I can imagine.

Do you remember how you learned to communicate? If you communicate pretty typically, odds are it wasn’t perfect, but it included something like: you reached out socially, and people reached back.

You looked at them; they gazed adoringly back at you.

You smiled; they smiled back and waved. “Hi, Baby! Hi! Oh, what a beautiful face!”

You laughed; they reveled in your chortles and giggles and were silly in the hope that you would laugh again.

You cried; they held you and comforted you and tried to figure out what was making you miserable.

You called out at night; they pulled themselves out of exhausted slumber, scooped you up, and blearily cuddled and fed you.

You made a sound or a gesture, an approximation of standard meaning — or they convinced themselves of that, anyway — they pounced on that and talked back to you. “That’s right! Ma-ma! You know who your mama is! Can you say it again?”

They celebrated your efforts to engage, amplified them, reflected them, and worked to understand them.

The first tendrils of what would eventually grow to be a robust, redundant, and resilient communication system peeked out of you, questing for the sun of human connection and they, who reveled in what developed, with consummate faith in the richness of the soil those tendrils came from, watered and fertilized them; and between you, the communication system bloomed and blossomed into a strong and supple living thing.

You were human: the development of an adaptive and functional communication system was a drive. Once you knew how to communicate with people close by, those who knew you best, you gradually became better and better at communicating with others.

Through communication, you developed — to a greater or lesser degree — the ability to connect with others. And because you were human that, too, was a drive. It probably has been thwarted to at least some extent, just as there are people among whom you feel unheard, or who make you feel unable to understand. But also, you know you can.

Or maybe it wasn’t so easy or so joyous. Maybe the soil was too thin, or the rain too sparse, or the sunlight too filtered. Maybe those who should have nurtured you did not, for reasons within or beyond their control. Maybe the communication system grew slowly. Maybe it bore the signs of hard growth. But again, if you communicate pretty typically, then probably, between whatever you did have and human instinct, those hardy tendrils, doggedly found a way. Communication, connection, after all, is a human drive, and you were, you are, human.

And sure, there are times when you feel lonely, and times when you struggle to express what you want to say, when the living thing between you and others seems battered and bedraggled, beset by drought, but the fundamental ability to engage in human give-and-take is there, waiting, like a cactus, for the rare and precious rain.

But now imagine if your reaching-out is misunderstood or unnoticed, if it is ignored or even discouraged. Imagine if, instead of being showered, or at least drizzled, with nutrients, it is sprayed with pesticide, or even torn out at the roots. Imagine if someone else, like a landscaper who has been educated by those who cultivate formal gardens, decides how you should communucate, and then enforces that decision, stamping out whatever errant shoots creep out of you, and which she sees as weeds. Imagine if your communication system, instead of growing in fertile ground, is constructed in a lab and forcibly buried in you in place of what was already growing but fervently opposed. Imagine if your efforts to communicate and connect — because it is all one thing — elicit not excited reciprocity but measurement, evaluation, strict weeding, and control.

I’m not saying text-based AAC is better than grid-based. I’m not saying any kind of chunk of a communication system is better than any other kind of chunk. I’m not saying to push for that instead of this. I’m saying that a communication system must be one that takes root in the ground where it will live, and that allows for the fullest expression possible of what the ground already contains.

As much as I completely understand the terror a parent feels when they look into the future and cannot imagine what communication is going to look like, as much as I completely understand the hope that a professional seems to offer, who has with a system for forcing the approximation of that which the parent has come to expect natural growth to look like, it’s the wrong choice.

A fear-and-control-based approach to human connection is wrong. You can’t make connection that way. It has to be organic. And yes, there is a time to prune, a time to tell your child not to comment on other people’s bodies, a time to coach your teen in the art of the handshake rather than the hug, a time to mark the trails that those who are welcomed in will follow, but the more tender the shoots of the communication system, the riskier that pruning is.

I am saying when you plan in advance how someone else will communicate, you plan what they will communicate, and then it ceases to be communication. When you enforce a particular way of communication and relentlessly prune anything that does not meet your standards, then what should have become, perhaps, a powerful redwood is trained into a bonsai instead; and a bonsai, however artistically presented, cannot do the work of a tree that has grown as its own nature commanded it. What should have been, perhaps, sorrel, harassed by the controlling landscaper because it is not the violets she wishes it to be, will have leaves so damaged that they cannot absorb the sunshine of connection. And when the landscaper beams at the parents and proclaims, “Nothing worthwhile would have grown here without my efforts, so celebrate this withered stem I have coaxed from earth that was once overrun by weeds!” it is cause for grief, not gratitude.

You may have wanted tulips, and by all means, bury a bulb or two and see what comes up in the Spring, but if the absence of tulips is all that you can think about, you may miss the sweetness of honeysuckle.

I Will Celebrate ADA30

The ADA represents a shining promise: that never again will someone’s disability be used as an excuse to deny them full participation in their communities. As such, it is a piece of the bigger promise: of a society in which who we are is never weaponised against us.

But the ADA represents a hollow promise. It was never meant for all of us. It was always intended to protect some disabled more than others, and still other disabled not at all. And the independent living movement, which plays an enormous role in cross-disability agenda setting, has focused on the kind of “one and done” accessibility that is coded into the ADA Accessibility Guidelines (ADAAG) (and even then only some people’s “one and done” needs are addressed) rather than the ongoing work of negotiating the fluctuating and complex access needs of individuals, groups, and communities.

The question, then, for those of us disenfranchised within the disability community in one or more ways, as we approach ADA30, is what to do about the discrepancy between that shining promise and the tawdry refusal to take it seriously on the part of much of our leadership.

Do we continue to call on them, after decades of betrayal, to finally live up to their stated values? Or do we accept that decades of treating some community members as people who do not deserve full participation in our society is an expression of their real values, and refuse to cooperate further with them?

I do not ordinarily participate in the ADA commemorative events. I am trans, queer, and autistic. I have a low IQ score. I come from a family with an intergenerational history of substance abuse. I have been nonspeaking much of my adult life, and am partially speaking now. I am a SIBber and a psych survivor. I am under no impression that the ADA was meant for me, and if I ever had been, I have sat through enough lectures from framers to have been disabused of that heady notion. When I fought alongside the white crips who were horrified that passage of HR 620 in the last Congress might mean that they had to wait a few months for access, they did not turn around and agree that I should not have to wait for decades. I did not expect them to. They took their victory and continued to see me and my subcommunity and other subcommunities as undeserving of what is nonnegotiable for them. It was still the right thing for me to do, to fight the attack on what we have built; the right thing for them to do would have been to finally agree that what is nonnegotiable for them cannot be unimaginable for us.

I can acknowledge the effort the Eds and Judys and Justins and Evans put in; I can acknowledge their substantial achievements; I can admire and even love them as people. But I cannot ignore the relative privilege that permitted them the opportunities they used so well, and I cannot overlook that a movement they had so much influence over excluded so many from making any contribution, erased so many who did make a contribution, and continues to do so.

I believe in the promise of the ADA. I believe in the promise of justice for all marginalized groups. I believe we can get there. But I also believe it will take not just hard work and commitment, but revolutionary change within our movement (I will not presume to suggest I know what other movements need to do). So I will not mark ADA30 by celebrating the glorious history of white wheelchair users. We celebrate that glorious history every day, and too few of us peek behind the curtain.

I will, instead, celebrate the movement that Brad Lomax tried to build, the one that Bernard Carabello devoted his career to, the one Lois Curtis should have inspired, the one that incorporated Roland Johnson’s insights, the one that took seriously Mel Baggs’ ethical efforts. I will celebrate a movement in which I am neither more nor less human than the next person on the line, in which residents of no one institutional system take priority while residents of others languish, abandoned to their fates, and that therefore has the moral force to demand that the larger society remake itself in a similar way. I will celebrate ADA30 by celebrating the shining promise of a just future, and the dream of a movement that can deliver that promise to us — and then I will return to the tawdry reality and continue to try to build toward the dream by creating the movement that the Brads and Bernards and Loises and Rolands and Mels of today are working toward. And I will hope that the excellence of these activists and advocates will overcome the mediocrity of the movement they are inheriting. I have met some of these activists and advocates. There is reason to hope.

I hope that, however you choose to celebrate ADA30, it is a good celebration and that it nourishes you as you recommit to the long struggle toward a just world.

Why We Need to Get People Out of Congregate Care

There is a highly successful program called Money Follows the Person, which helps transition people from large institutions to home and community-based settings. The multiyear authorization expired and Congress is only trickling money into it to barely keep it going but the data show the value of getting people out of big facilities and back into small community-based facilities (which are still congregate and not enough) or their own homes.

Living in a congregate (grouped) setting is a rough life at the best of times, even with skilled, caring staff doing their best, because the realities of mass-produced care force restrictions on personal liberties, self-determination, community integratiom, and so on. And at worst, we get truly horrific outcomes, rife with abuse and neglect.

Lois Curtis, for instance, who went to the Supreme Court for us as the lead plaintiff in the Olmstead case 21 years ago, has talked about what winning her case and getting out has meant to her.

The memoir of disability rights leader Roland Johnson, who grew up in the infamous Pennhurst, is also powerful.

There’s a film about some Canadians’ efforts to free themselves from congregate settings, called Hope Is Not a Plan, that I strongly recommend.

I have done time long-term in the psych system and short-term in the nursing facility system, and I’ve worked in the DD system. I’ve got experience with poorly- and well-funded programs, with programs that had nakedly abusive staff and ones with great staff. Some parts of these systems are absolutely better than others, and none of it is good.

And it gets worse. In late 2018, 11 children died in an adenovirus outbreak at a nursing home in Wanaque, NJ because of the kind of lousy infection controls that we see over and over in these facilities.

And then came COVID-19 . And the carnage has been staggering.

It has been overwhelming in nursing facilities.

It has been overwhelming in psych facilities.

It has been overwhelming in the developmental disability system.

It has struck our elders, our disabled adults, and our children with disabilities.

Nor has it struck evenhandedly. The preexisting effects of structural racism means that people in nursing homes with primarily Black and Latinx residents are substantially more at risk than those in nursing homes with primarily white residents.

This isn’t just about disability-specific congregate settings, either. We’re seeing that prisons, jails, detention facilities, and college dorms can be impossible places to be safe in a pandemic, too.

So how do disabled people end up in congregate settings? If they need long-term services and supports (LTSS), there is something called “the institutional bias,” a set of structures that mean a lot more people end up in large facilities than would if it were truly up to them. In particular, state Medicaid programs have to pay for institutional care for recipients with a certain level of support, but don’t have to offer those same supports in the community. So some people get home and community-based services (HCBS) through a waiver. Most don’t.

And we have been fighting this one a long, long time, folks. Katie Beckett came home in 1981 at the age of 3 after President Reagan created a waiver for her; and because she had that waiver, she had a good life.

For short-termers, there is a hospital to rehab (often the same facilities LTSS residents are in) track. I have been hospitalized recently, and I was strongly pressured to enter one. After this story came out tying 44% of Illinois COVID-19 deaths to nursing facilities (I am in Illinois), I was confronted by administrators from Northwestern Memorial Hospital accusing me of being “hurtful” to suggest it wasn’t “perfectly safe” for me to enter one. A Rush Medical Center employee insisted the data isn’t in yet on whether the facilities pose risks. People don’t even have the information, much less the material resources, to protect themselves.

And I overheard patients — mostly older Black patients whose families were on the phone every single day talked into shoddy facilities with active infections. In one case the facility had recently been in the news for running out of disinfectant. I have no doubt the front-line staff were desperately trying to protect everyone. But the impact of the realities we are addressing overpowers those good intentions.

You know what happens to some of the folks who get placed in these facilities because “there’s no-one to stay with you at home”? What happened to Senator Elizabeth Warren’s brother. (Spoiler alert: he’s dead.)

How many lives could we save, how many lives could we improve, how many opportunities could we offer, how many communities could we strengthen, if we did what we know we can do — and can do not just for some of disabled people, but for every single one (nobody is “too disabled” to live successfully in the community so long as they have adequate supports)? A lot. I don’t have an exact number, but a damned lot.

We could raise kids like the ones at Wanaque, and like Roland Johnson, at home. We could give them lives so much closer to what Katie Beckett had. We could give the Lois Curtises the kind of life that let her become a successful artist. We could let elders age with people they know and trust love. We could protect people after health crises and let them die at home.

And we can do this. We can do this. We can establish a right to home and community-based services for everyone who has an entitlement to institutional care. We can build the accessible, affordable, integrated housing. We can train and pay personal care attendants and direct support professionals well, both people who do it professionally and people who do it for family members. We can abolish guardianship and agency control in favor of options like supported decision-making and microboards. We can fund the kind of community mental health services that people want and need. We can learn more about promoting self-determination, and put what we learn into practice. We can improve protections for people at risk of going in, and permanently reauthorize Money Follows the Person to help those who are already in and want to get out. For families who want to stay together, we can support that, and we can offer adequate help for those who want to strike out on their own. We can do it all, if only we solidify the national will to do it.

We can say “No more Wanaques” and not plunge ourselves into a situation thousands of times worse within a year and a half. We can say “Every child deserves to grow up in a family” and mean it this time. We can keep our elders, surrounded by support, in the communities that matter to them. We can change everything for disabled people who have signigicant support needs. We can finally learn the lessons of Willowbrook and Pennhurst — that these facilities have a life cycle and no matter what your intentions they are still congregate institutional settings with all that entails — and we can move on to something better.

We can’t undo the ravages of COVID-19 that we have already permitted to be visited on those in congregate care, but we can do better for the survivors and for those coming after them.

And we must. We must. Because these are our people.

p.s. If you want to contact your Senators and Representatives in Washington, D.C., and let them know how important this is to you, here is a good place to start. Scroll down.

On Presuming Humanity Across Opacity

opaque (adj) – (1) not transparent or translucent; impenetrable to light; not allowing light to pass through, (2) hard to understand or explain


The Mystery of the Squirrels

When I was 4, we moved to Canberra. On (some? all? I don’t remember) Sunday mornings, we called my grandmother in Dallas.

This, for those of you in the internet generation, was a really big deal. I don’t remember any other intercontinental phone calls from my childhood. You had something to say to someone on another continent — and my dad’s job requirements meant my parents often did — you got some of this really flimsy lightweight blue airmail paper and you wrote out whatever you had to say in your most squinched-up handwriting on both sides to save money and then you put it in this little Por Avion envelope and paid more in postage than you thought reasonable so it didn’t go surface mail (surface mail meant by ship, and it took long enough that when I was in Prague (we ate Australian food in Canberra), killing the weevil infestation in my food was the first step of eating many many meals and snacks involving American food, all of which got to Europe by surface. I do not like food with weevils in it to this day) and they wouldn’t die of old age before it got to them.

Anyway. My dad really liked his mom a whole lot and she spent a lot of time pretty much unable to leave her home, just sitting there and watching what went on in her back yard (the implications of this, as you will see, were lost on me until much later), so she got phone calls. My other grandmother had the cash to come out every few years, see us, drink a lot of gin, and show off her latest fur coat. So she just got letters in between episodes of freaking me out. Yeah, I have reached the age where “the olden days” didn’t all happen before I was born any more. But I digress.

At some point in there, I asked my dad why we had to call my grandmother so early, and he explained that although we called her early, she did not receive the call until much later in the day. Now, by the time I was 4 I had a very battered (so obviously much-used, but in fairness sometimes used for football (soccer) rather than geography) world globe. I understood that the world was round and that it both rotated and revolved, and that noon was when the sun was high up above, but I had not yet extrapolated well enough to have sorted out time zones. (I would figure that out a little better on a surface trip across the International Date Line when I was 6. I would also get thrown into a pool by a temporary devotee of Poseidon to celebrate the event. Learning about the world is not risk-free and sometimes requires a change of clothes.) The fact that the same moment occurs at one time in Canberra and at a totally different time or even on a different day in Dallas was utterly opaque to me.

So as I puzzled out how we could be talking to Grandmother at a different time than she was talking to us, it occurred to me that perhaps this was related to the fact that the only bloody thing the woman ever talked about was the squirrels in her back yard. At that time the children I knew mostly talked about things like their decision to never invite me to their houses, but the men I knew talked about the geopolitical situation, which had its boring moments, but which I found a lot more interesting than a group of squirrels in Texas. (I never had a clue what the women were going on about. This is not a fact about my relationships with men and women or a judgment about the conversation of housewives, which most of those particular women were. It is a fact about my complete inability to understand my mother, who was my conduit to the conversations among women, and my partial ability to understand my father, who was my conduit to the conversations among men.)

The conclusion I came to was that the telephone had the ability to predict what my grandmother was going to say a few hours later, but it really could only do that if she stuck to very very basic topics. And thus we had to discuss squirrels. Faced with this sad yet apparently immutable limitation of the predictive telephone technology, I listened to her stories of fights at the bird feeder and chases through trees as patiently as I could, produced a requisite sentence or two about my life, told her I loved her (I did not have a very clear sense of who she was, as I was 6 before my mother explained human reproduction, and I did not have an emotional tie to her yet at all, as I reliably saw her briefly every 2 years from my birth until her death, but I was a lot more pliable at 4 than I am now and, all evidence to the contrary, I don’t actually enjoy making other people feel bad), and went about my business.

Grandmother talked about squirrels during the whole time I knew her. For the record, I wish I had learned to hear the non-explicit content in her conversation, the isolation, the boredom, the loneliness, the repeated efforts to connect with her distant grandchildren the way she did with the ones near her, before she died. I have the impression that I would have liked her a lot if I had known how to connect. And she loved me; she spent real care showing me that.


Protective Opacity

One of the earliest lessons I learned was to hide everything important. The best phrasing I have for it is preserved as echolalia from some book dealing in some way with terrorism (I don’t recall the details) I read when I was 8, in DC, while my father was in Czech language training. “No man is strong who is weak for someone weak.” But I knew that long before. My mother took my baby blanket because it mattered too much to me. She slathered my thumb with something foul-tasting because it was a source of comfort, and then when I hid behind the couch to soothe myself anyway she escalated. She took my stuffed animal. She took a dog. She took what I liked to read, the clothes that felt good on my body. She took my relationships with my siblings, my cousins, my aunts. She delighted in institutionalizing me. My mother once — after my grandmother’s death — smashed the frame of my father’s favorite photo of her during an argument. She once created a sitution that forced friends of hers to flee their home with their children in fear. She used what other people loved against them, too. But as far as I can tell, I was her favorite target.

Most of what I loved, what made me feel safe, disappeared regularly anyway. That is the life of a child who moves a lot. There is nothing you can do about that except to do your best not to love what cannot be trusted. But some things I could protect to some degree by hiding how I felt … and later, as it became clear what the proliferation of unspoken but rigorously enforced apparently random social rules meant for me, I learned to get the opportunity to be around the people who were important to me by being as useful to them as possible while studiously pretending I did not care that they were there.

And then came institutionalization, where the slightest hint of connection to another person meant punishment for you and them. And then came the long years of exile, when again I forced myself not to love, that I might survive.

I was always opaque to other people, as they were to me. More so, I suspect, than many people are opaque to each other — though the old AA slogan “Don’t compare your insides to other people’s outsides” tells me it is a more universal experience than the professional literature of those with the dominant neurotype about the minds they try to deny would suggest. I learned to strengthen and fortify that opacity as a way to protect myself. I learned that opacity was a key to survival. To emotional survival every day, and to physical survival all too often.

It amazes me when I see people who just casually tell people they love them, or whose affections are visible, who display their attachments as if they are nothing. I wonder if that casualness is an act. I wonder if they understand the beauty of it. I wonder if the terror of ostracism runs deep and they simply are very brave, or if it ever is as effortless as it looks. It took me a long time to learn to see any but the most verbal and explicit of these expressions, but I watch as many as I can see, and I force myself to try to copy them. Panic every time. I can still almost never force myself to initiate touching another human being, even when I know intellectually it would be welcome, no matter how much I want to. Casual touch between friends fascinates me. Maybe I will get there. I choose as much as I can not to live according to many the rules experience has taught me are necessary for survival, and it’s much better, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t still feel like careening toward disaster.


Personal Symbol-Sets

People keep souvenirs. Mementoes. Symbols of things that are important to them. If you are a traveler you may have a snow globe from a city you loved. If you are a serial killer it may be a victim’s bracelet. If you are a parent it may be your child’s first pair of shoes.

But the souvenirs are clues to what matters, and as symbols they come to matter in themselves. (In a psychology class once we were told of an experiment in which students were asked to bring photos of their mothers to class … and then asked to gouge the eyes out of the photos. Photos (in those days) were pieces of colored cardboard. Gouging the eyes out of a photo hurts no-one. It is purely symbolic. But the people who could do it were considered pathological.)

Between the fact that other people can rarely predict what connections I am going to make between things (though they can often follow them once they are explained) and the fact that I prefer them not to paint targets on things that matter, the souvenirs I collect are often opaque to other people. And I learned to hide them deeper, at the ends of long chains of connections.

Here is an example with short chains. I have some bowls out of which I eat. Some are blue and some are orange. I don’t like the color orange, really, but I bought orange bowls on purpose. If you gave me grey bowls to add to the stack, I would thank you for your kindness set them aside, although I love grey. (If I really like you, I might find a different purpose for them.)

I assume that makes no sense to you. Why would anyone reject bowls in a color they like, in favor of bowls in a color they don’t? They aren’t an inheritance or gift. I bought them. And that is fine. The opacity of my fondness for these specific bowls is fine. You don’t have to know or care why it matters to me. If you do care, I don’t have to tell you. If I want to, you don’t have to listen.

But I have reasons. There are two chains of associations that mean those bowls are, for me, souvenirs of things from far enough back that every contemporaneous souvenir of the thing was taken from me.

First, the blue/orange combination reminds me of a Joe Penhall play that I put the effort into reading. (Plays are hard. They are like novels, which are also hard, but with all the bits that cue me into what is happening stripped out. I don’t read a lot of plays now that the advantage of a tiny book that I will not be able finish within 50 hours of reading has been canceled out by portable e-text. In fairness I didn’t read that many before, but I read even fewer.) And the Penhall play reminds me of specific people in my past.

Second, even though the shade of blue is wrong, the blue/orange combination reminds me of the covers of current editions of some books that are reprints of books I read in editions with dark and light green covers, and those books remind me of the 18 months of my life when I could imagine a future for myself that involved a career I loved and being surrounded by people I loved, and which I wanted.

So no, more bowls might be convenient, but that convenience would not be worth the loss of the reminder of valued relationships that the sight of a stack of blue and orange bowls gives me.

People think and feel. Everybody does. They make connections and they use symbols. Their communication, their emotional states and their symbol-sets may be so opaque to you that you have no sense that they exist, but they do. And if you go from “I can’t see it” to “It doesn’t exist,” and build your relationship on a default presumption that there is nothing there, you get so much wrong.

A professional is capable of looking at my insistence on the bowls being blue and orange and diagnosing a pathological rigid insistence on sameness. (I’m an activist. If I have a pathological rigid insistence on something, it’s more likely to be the unsatisfactory nature of certain samenesses.) The prescription? Force change that upsets me, to teach me to tolerate change.

A professional is capable of looking at my (in reality hypothetical) failure to use a gift of grey bowls and diagnosing a pathological absence of “socially relevant behavior.” (This is seeing the situation only from the perspective of the gift-giver. I have a perspective, too, and social interaction is a two-way thing.) The prescription? Train me to display behavior that validates the giver.

A professional is capable of looking at my attachment to this stack of bowls and diagnosing a pathological indifference to other people demonstrated by a preference for things. (My attachment to a stack of bowls displays my attachment to other people.) The prescription? Teach me to forego expressions of what matters to me in favor of empty ritualistic behavior that others find reassuring.

There is nothing wrong with people finding various things opaque, and I’d be a hypocrite to tell you otherwise. I have melted down, recently, with people who work their asses off to include me, over the sheer opacity of “our” conversations. What’s wrong is the assumption that because you cannot perceive the humanity in a person, it isn’t there.


7 Lost Years

For almost the entire time we were both alive, I missed Grandmother’s efforts to connect with me. I did not see them. This wasn’t just because I didn’t understand time zones or because I did not yet understand how extended isolation saps the ability to connect. I’m not good at picking up on this stuff. It has taken years of effort to learn, and I still tend to need to concentrate. Part of that is the communication chasm that comes with efforts to signal, and receive signals, across radical neurotype differences, and a lot is the many times it was driven home to me that nobody would ever want to connect with someone like me anyway. (Now, think of the effect it has on autistic children that everyone around them is socialized as hard as they are to think autistics are defective in the area of social reciprocity.)

It wasn’t just the time zones. There was so much more going on than just the time zones. There was the fact that I was struggling to connect even with the people I spent hours and hours with, and I was having 60-second phone chats with my grandmother at most once a week. And even if it had been the time zones, I was 4. The ethical issues involved were far too complex to expect a 4-year-old to work out by himself.

But here’s the thing: I was asking the right question. “Why is this woman who wants to talk to me constantly telling me about squirrels?” And when confronted by the impenetrable opacity of a basic fact about the world, and my failure to grasp what I didn’t know, I came up with an explanation that covered all the known facts, and then I stopped asking for 7 years.

I regret those 7 lost years

That pattern is not limited to 4-year-olds. People enact it all the time through their whole lives. Moreover, at a certain point, in certain contexts, when enacted by people with power over others’ lives, it becomes an ethical failing, because it predictably and reliably hurts people.


A Fact About the World

Here is a fact about the world: everybody thinks, everybody feels, everybody makes connections, and everybody uses symbols. Here is another fact about the world: when someone thinks, feels, makes connections, and uses symbols and you treat them as if they don’t, you harm them.

This is the moment in the conversation where the university-ordained and self-proclaimed disability experts start lecturing me. “…not like my child…” – A Parent. “…unethical to assume…” – A Bickba. “…theory of mind deficits…” – A Researcher. “…functioning level is: breathing…” – A Professional. “…no mind at all…” – An ADAPTer. “…parents have a different perspective…” – A CIL Staffer. “…no place in disability rights…” – A National-Level Independent Living Leader.

Then if I stick to my guns sometimes there is a pause for some saccharine ablesplaining. “Cal, you need to understand, not everyone is like you.”

Then if I stick to my guns the accusations begin. “Stop assuming things about me.” “You would do the same thing.” “You just want to hurt people.” “You don’t care about anyone but yourself.”

Then if I stick to my guns they start the name-calling. “You are inappropriate … bitter … disgusting … hateful … a troll … a bully … unacceptable.”

You know what? Here is a fact about the world: everybody thinks, everybody feels, everybody makes connections, and everybody uses symbols. Here is another fact about the world: when someone thinks, feels, makes connections, and uses symbols and you treat them as if they don’t, you harm them.


Weaponising Simon’s Humanity Against Him

I once knew a man I will call Simon. I worked in his group home.

Simon had about a 6-word spoken vocabulary and no signs. No line drawing vocabulary. No object exchange vocabulary. No AAC of any kind.

One of his words was “ho-ho.” It meant Santa. Another was “bip,” probably derived from “bitch,” and it expressed an attitude of humorous insolence or angry defiance. (Simon was freaking awesome. This fact somehow seemed to elude most people.) And then there was “Kenny,” pronounced “Keeeeeeehhnnnnnnny” in a voice quavering with emotion and with lots of hand-flapping.

I like classic country. I used to like some Kenny Rogers songs. Knowing Simon burned me out on Kenny Rogers. He was enough of an enthusiast that his stereo was padlocked into a box to prevent him smashing it (again) in his excitement at the mere thought of listening to The Gambler. You could cheer him up for hours by leaning over and whispering, “You picked a fine time to leave me, Lucille.” When we would go places, which was not an entirely relaxing thing to do because Simon was an extremely energetic man, I would take photocopies of photos of Kenny Rogers to hand him, to buy a few seconds of standing still until he could not bear the joy and was forced to shred the paper into confetti. During the time I knew Simon, I listened to every Kenny Rogers song there is more times than I could bear, except Ruby, Don’t Take Your Love To Town, because Simon had nonspeaking housemates I could not communicate effectively with, and I have an ethical objection to playing that song for disabled people without their consent, and he never seemed to miss it. I just made him mix tapes of everything else and played those.

Simon was on behavior plans at all times. Because the thing that he loved most that staff could control was Kenny Rogers music, it was supposed to be tightly regulated. Do these 9 things in sequence without doing any of those 14 things (all but impossible for him), one side of one tape, often shortened to one song. It was a point of real tension.

“Too bad, Simon, you lose Kenny for this shift.”

“Bip!”

(Tell me again how group homes are not institutions?)

One day, when Simon’s family came to take him out, something that they did very infrequently (there was a learning curve to enjoying Simon’s company in public and he had grown up in a state school, so although they loved him, I don’t think they found their time with him very comfortable) and also something Simon loved beyond measure, I learned something important: ever since Simon had been institutionalized as a small child, whenever his beloved parents had come to see him and take him out, they had played Kenny Rogers songs for him in the car stereo.

Simon didn’t really speak. I don’t know how much language he understood, or to what extent he followed staff commands because he could read body language or gesture. He was not included in much conversation: most of the language addressed to him was “prompts.” I did not know how to communicate effectively with him. I do know he thought. He felt. He loved. He got angry. He made connections. He used symbols to evoke positive memories. And in failing to see that, to see him as human, to see him as their moral equal, in hijacking his most valued known symbol and using it to control him, the disability experts who designed and implemented the institutional system he was trapped in did him real harm.

In seeing people like Simon as in need of supervision rather than support, as in need of external control rather than self-determination, in trying to be their voice rather than their megaphone, many “advocates” do them harm, too. And it is especially distressing when it comes from disabled people who would fight like hell to stop anyone doing the same thing to them.

Assume humanity.

On Stupidity

I’m stupid. Stupid and lazy. I’ve been told that my whole life.

 

I’ve also been described as brilliant and hardworking.

 

The truth is, the interplay of my strengths, my disabilities, and various environments I’ve been in can lead me to appear as, and to function as, brilliant, or stupid, or something else.

 

I have spent nearly my whole life managing stupidity.

 

Not managing stupid people, you understand. I don’t believe in stupid people.

 

But people (one of whom is often me) who function as stupid because of environmental barriers, or who are treated as stupid.

 

I once sat in a grad student lounge and watched a graduate teaching assistant slowly walk an undergraduate student through a philosophical text. The student, who identified as having a learning disability, was having a great deal of trouble extracting the argument from the written words. Once it was explained to him in familiar terms, however, he was clearly taking it on board and grappling with the ideas. Both men were working hard, and they were making real progress.

 

I was a teaching assistant myself at the time, and I was idly thinking about how much I loved my students with learning disabilities to whom so little in philosophy came easily and who still stuck with it, who kept coming to office hours and raising their hands, and worked as hard as the young man across from me. I was thinking what a joy it was to teach students so eager to learn, and how lucky we were to have those students.

 

When the young man left my colleague turned to the rest of us and sighed. “He tries so hard,” he said. “Too bad he has no intellectual merit.”

 

(I had no idea how to respond in the moment. I wrote him a letter later.)

 

If I don’t have the tools I need to understand, to process, to express myself effectively, I’m not going to do those things. And you’re probably going to see my poor performance but not the reasons for it, and assume I just can’t do those things. You’re probably going to assume I am short on “intellectual merit,” in other words.

 

You’re probably going to treat me like I am just unable to do what I don’t do, which means not giving me more tools and probably conveying to me that I can’t (and that message, repeated often enough, sinks in), and I will keep not doing those things, but also I’m likely to become less and less engaged in trying because I don’t like how I’m treated.

 

Back when I was teaching, I had multiple students with learning disabilities — wonderful students who were a joy to teach — who wanted to hire tutors at their own expense rather than come to my office hours “because I don’t want you to think I’m stupid.” That’s a well-earned fear. It comes from having been treated as stupid over and over.

 

They were treated as stupid because they did not learn, or did not express their learning, to the degree expected.  There may have been some innate limitations that contributed to that — you can expect every math student to become another Srinivasa Ramanujan, but even if they have all the tools possible, most won’t — but a lot of it is that they have been expected to learn and to demonstrate learning in ways that simply do not support them.

 

But because they have been forced into functioning as “inadequate” scholars (compared to students who have been provided with at least minimally adequate tools) and then that “inadequate” functioning has been attributed to their own “lack of intellectual merit,” they are less and less likely to get improved access to better tools.

 

So now people get treated as stupid, and may even think they are stupid — and they have to manage stupidity — not their stupidity, because people aren’t stupid but the phenomenon of stupidity — by such means as working extra hours to pay for tutors so their profs and teaching assistants don’t think of them as stupid.

 

I once taught a module on calling for help to a group of women who lived in a group home for people with physical and intellectual disabilities. Some had grown up in state institutions and some in family homes. None of them had been in regular classrooms. They wanted to know how to help if one of their housemates had an emergency.

 

I was feeling pretty proud of myself. We had talked about what is and is not worth calling Nine-One-One over. We had talked about when a situation might call for police, or firefighters, or paramedics. We had talked about and practiced giving the address clearly, and about what other kinds of information might be important to convey. We had talked about staying on the line until help arrives or the Nine-One-One operator says it’s time to hang up. I thought I had given these women everything they needed. Yeah, I thought I was doing fine.

 

And then at the tail end of the last conversation I had a horrible thought. “Hey, Sarah,” I said, “What’s the number to Nine-One-One?”

 

Blank faces looked back at me.

 

If you know the number to Nine-One-One (it’s 9-1-1), it’s really obvious. If you don’t, and if you are accustomed to all kinds of thimgs having all kinds of confusing names, it’s not. It’s really not. And instead of preparing these women to be ready to take decisive action in an emergency, as they had asked me to, I had set them up to fail badly at a moment when failure would have had real consequences. I was not doing fine. I had prepared them to be stupid at a moment when they could have been brilliant and saved a life. And they weren’t going to ask, because their whole lives they had been encouraged to accept that they were just not the kind of people who know things, to accept that nobody is going to slow down and make sure they have the tools to learn.

 

So then everybody else learned the number to Nine-One-One from me, and I learned something about lesson planning from them. But it almost didn’t happen — and if there had been an emergency, and someone had shouted “Hey, Sarah, call Nine-One-One!” the story later would have been “Sarah can’t even dial a 3-digit phone number.” Nobody would have thought it was I who had failed. In a real sense in that context, I couldn’t fail: every bad outcome would have been blamed on the women. Because in that situation they were seen as stupid, and I was seen as smart.

 

That’s privilege and oppression for you.

 

I’m at high risk for this spiral, because it is known that I have cognitive disabilities and because the tools provided by default often don’t work for me. But that risk is mitigated and sometimes eliminated because I can make effective use of some tools that are routinely available and in certain circumstances I don’t trip the “stupid” stereotypes but the “intelligent” and “educated” ones.

 

So here I am, stupid and brilliant, lazy and hardworking. It’s very confusing. I don’t know who I am.

 

The truth is, I’m neither stupid nor brilliant. I have found very effective ways to do some things with the kinds of supports that are routinely provided, so I do them well and people respond by assuming I have innate talents. But some barriers stop me in my tracks, some supports are inadequate, and sometimes I stumble, I fall, I fail miserably so that people assume I have innate and insurmountable mental deficits.

 

The truth is that in some ways the world — the social and intellectual world that is constantly made and remade by its participants — around me is well-suited to me, and this is a form of privilege; in other ways it is poorly-suited, and this is a form of oppression. One of our words for this kind of privilege is “intelligence”; one of our words for this kind of oppression is “stupidity.” But intelligence/stupidity is not seen as a forms of structural injustice; the concepts are associated with innate (and largely unalterable) traits.

 

What I am not saying is that there is no variation among us. Again, not everyone can ever be a Srinivasa Ramanujan, or even one of those of his peers who made it to Cambridge in part because they were offered much more support as children than he ever was, and who would have needed far more than the few moments of good fortune that enabled Ramanujan to ride his talents that far.

 

It is not that the people we know as great minds do not have talents few of us share or that they haven’t worked hard to make use of them; it is that talent and hard work are not enough. Billions of people — all people — have real talents, which they are never able to even see recognised as talents, let alone to develop, because the supports and tools which would make those things possible are not there. And yes, I am explicitly including people with intellectual disabilities, who are regarded as the most innately limited, and who in every case have talents to develop if only they can be provided the right tools.

 

This is why we in the community of people with intellectual and developmental disabilities have something called “the presumption of competence.” The basic idea, first formulated by Anne Donnellan, is that if you cannot be sure which of several things is true, you should adopt the “least dangerous assumption.” People with power will do greater harm to a person who is capable of developing their talents with the right supports by not bothering to try to find the right supports than they will to someone for whom no right supports are possible by trying to find ways to support them better, for instance, so when you cannot tell, you should assume that better supports are possible.

 

In practice, the presumption of competence looks like the attitude that everyone is worth fully including, that people who seem untalented probanly do not have the tools needed to display and use their talents, combined with willingness and some skill to work on accommodating them better.

 

And in the real world, few people are presumed to be competent. There is a double bind in cognitive disability: sometimes you are considered “not disabled enough” to be worth accommodating because “you should be able to get by if you try,” and sometimes you are considered “too disabled” to be worth accommodating because “really, what’s the point?” Either way, though, you are forced to function as a stupid person because you are not accommodated.

 

And so your relationship to stupidity — and to laziness, which is what it is often called when you are functioning as stupid but others still insist that you could find a way to function as intelligent, if only you wanted to enough — must be carefully navigated to preserve your self-image, your reputation, and your access to opportunities to use your talents.

 

So yes, I’m stupid and lazy. By which I mean that my mind is not one of the ones society is set up to accommodate, and some people think that the result of my inability to navigate the world as it is is down to innate incapacity and others think I don’t try hard enough.

 

But I am not without some massive privilege here, so also, I’m brilliant. Many people are usually treated pretty consistently: they may be thought of as brilliant or smart or normal or stupid — and because the reflection of their minds that the world offers them is so consistent, they come to see themselves that way.

 

And so at the same time that I am trying to negotiate my own relationship to stupidity — again, not innate stupidity, but the idea and the trap of stupidity — a fair amount of what I do involves communication, which means I have to navigate others’ relationship to stupidity.

 

Nobody likes to feel stupid. Nobody likes to function as stupid. Nobody likes to be treated as stupid.

 

If you have a role which involves trying to get people to do things or support them in doing things by means of communication — if you are a teacher or a politician, a political organizer or a benefits counselor, a salesperson or a manager, an information and referral specialist or a doctor, a team leader or a journalist, a fundraiser or a tour guide, a direct support professional or an advertiser, a mentor or any of a thousand other things — you have some ability to affect how some of the people you deal with function: will they, in their dealings with you, be able to develop and use their talents, or will they be trapped in the enforced stupidity of a lack of accommodation?

 

We can communicate in ways that make other people feel stupid, or feel like we think they are stupid; we can communicate in ways that make it impossible for them to understand, process, and express themselves effectively. We can communicate in disabling ways.

 

Or we can comnunicate in enabling ways.

 

What counts as an enabling way, an inclusive way, a way that permits people to use and display their inherent strengths, varies from person to person. But one begins with the presumption of competence. There are some basic approaches that work pretty well for general communication, like plain language and easy read. There are more carefully thought-through approaches for specific audiences. There is a lot of earning people’s trust and a lot of trial and error to find out what works. And it’s worth it.

 

Look, we are all different. We all have limitations. But we also all have strengths. And we also all tend to overestimate the innate limitations in others — and often ourselves — and miss many of the barriers, and to therefore miss our on those strengths.

 

I don’t believe in stupid people. But stupidity hurts.