blog rants – Page 11

Prepping.

I’m presenting at four conferences between March and June. Two are smaller-scale, on-campus conferences with no travel required on my part. Two are national and are in California. Three of my papers will relate to ASD in some way. (And the fourth somewhat touches on disability studies.)

The papers for the two small conferences have already been written for the most part — they were portions of other projects, things written for past classes and so forth. So — two things less to worry about, I suppose. But four seems like a rather big, intimidating number right now.

I’m starting to get excited about CCCC (Conference on College Composition and Communication), which is the first conference in my slew of conferences. I’ve never been to CCCC, but from what I gather, it’s absolutely huge. And it also happens to be the big conference for my field. So, while the bigness of the conference (as well as the prospect of public speaking) have throttled me into anxiety mode, I am looking forward to attending sessions, some of which concern autism and rhet-comp. I’ve already begun scheduling my days in Excel.

My CCCC paper considers telepresence as a metaphor for autistic bodies. Typically, telepresence refers to telecommunications and the idea of virtual presence (or virtual reality): for example, when talking with someone on the phone, or even via IM or video conference, there are moments when the other person seems really there, even though they’re only virtually there. Lev Manovich, in The Language of New Media, describes telepresence as a sort of anti-presence. This whole “there but not really there” concept seems very applicable to disability when applied to issues of passing, of visibility versus invisibility. In describing the operative functions of digital media, Manovich maintains that “…telepresence can be thought of as one example of representational technologies used to enable action, that is, to allow the viewer to manipulate reality through representations” (165).

In light of Manovich, I analyze the ways in which those considered to have high-functioning autism are authored into enacting normalcy, a virtual and imposed identity: in what ways do professors regulate their students’ compositions into texts of normalcy, texts of autism, texts of defense? How does disclosure affect one’s tendencies—both bodily and rhetorically—toward (in)visibility? How do these telepresent masks resemble “good” writing or speaking?

Telepresence isn’t a perfect metaphor for the “autistic condition.” But the idea of putting up a virtual, communicative front in order to “pass” for NT, the idea that this metaphorical, bodily telepresence is often a forced thing — and the ways in which autistics are made to feel that this telepresent identity is “right” or “necessary” or “desirable” — bothers me, and I think it warrants exploration. And a metaphor of telepresence is certainly more adequate than the stupid puzzle piece. This metaphor actually considers how others (NTs, in particular) construct autism and autistics. The telepresence metaphor doesn’t blow off autistics as profound mysteries who are short a few cognitive pieces. At least, that’s my take, anyway. 🙂

Mixed metaphors

What is it with the autism spectrum and the word umbrella? Talk about a mixed metaphor. When I think of the metaphor that is “spectrum” — that is, in literality, a band of light — the umbrella trope perplexes me. If one is under the umbrella of the autism spectrum, we usually interpret that to mean “one has a type of autism, which is a disorder with various presentations.” But I keep getting a conflicting image in my mind — as if an umbrella is shielding us from a light source? Or the light source forms an umbrella? Or…?

It’s interesting that, in addition to textually referencing ASD in the context of umbrellas, we’re also starting to graphically represent the spectrum as an umbrella:

[Link]

Per this visual representation, “of” becomes a possessive, as if the umbrella belongs to the autism spectrum (i.e., the umbrella of the autism spectrum = the autism spectrum’s umbrella). Still, I fail to see the connections between umbrellas and spectra in this visual. So, um, maybe the spectrumish umbrella should look like… this?

under the umbrella of the autism spectrum

Of course, why mix two metaphors when you can mix three?

[Link]

So — not only is the spectrum something that can be encapsulated under an umbrella, but it is encapsulated under an umbrella that comprises multi-colored puzzle pieces. I’d like to say that the creator of this metaphoric monstrosity (eep! metaphor #4) created the puzzle motif as a comment toward the horror of mixing metaphors nonsensically — that is, that the trope-joining of umbrellas and spectra is puzzling, indeed. However, the puzzle motif obviously relates to the “autism as puzzle” metaphor, a metaphor that portrays autistics as “missing a few pieces.” </gag>

Of course, why not take the spectrum-umbrella marriage a [metaphorical] step further? Why not medicalize umbrellas, just like we’ve done with physics and rainbows and wavelengths?

[Link]

According to this umbrella-spectrum model, different cloth panels of an umbrella point toward specific learning differences and difficulties, a non-rain-proof continuum that makes little children become wet and distressed.

Boy with weird hair says: And I thought umbrellas were to stop me from getting wet!
Girl with missing bottom lip says: Too late. You are wet!
Girl with string hair says: Hey! That’s not very nice!
Girl with missing bottom lip replies with: Man! I always seem to say things wrong…

Perhaps if this clinical umbrella-spectrum were visually designed to be missing a puzzle piece or two, this trope-fest would make more sense? </sarcasm>

This mixed-metaphor, umbrella-spectrum rant isn’t limited to random images that I unearthed on the interwebs. People are writing books about the autism spectrum umbrella:

[Link]

This visual makes me even more confused. Which part is the visual representation of “spectrum”? Which part is autism? And what’s the metaphorical significance of the umbrella, of the huge doomsday wave? Is autism the doomsday wave? Or is the wave the spectrum that is autism — as in, a pun on the physics understanding of wavelength? And maybe autistics are like unique little wave crests, all crashing down onto helpless NT umbrellas? Or maybe autism is the umbrella, which is also a spectrum, which is also a challenge, and the wave is a challenge too, and it’s about to drown out the helpless, challenged, little autistic girl on the beach? Or maybe the author ran out of title ideas.

More umbrellas, more autism, more rain:

[Link]

Erm. This image strikes me as everything that… isn’t… lovely. I found this on autismparents.net, which linked to an article concerning the finances of families with autism. Apparently, money falls under the umbrella that is the autism spectrum?

In the context of the original article, autism is represented as a money-hungry entity. (So, in addition to stealing children’s souls, autism likes to rob parents of their hard-earned incomes? This image would make Jenny McCarthy proud.) Another metaphor: saving money for a rainy day. Here, the rainy day has come, but the autism spectrum umbrella thing-a-majig has taken the money, so it can’t really be used on a rainy day.

Why must tropes be so complicated? Autism makes a lot more sense to me when I think of it as neurodivergence that presents with a wide variety of embodied/enminded manifestations — makes a lot more sense than thinking of autism as an umbrella owned by a spectrum that may be physics-related but may also involve large quantities of water in the form of rain and/or tsunamis that also happen to like mooching credit cards and/or drenching and drowning children.

Yeah. I think that my explanation is more concise. And more accurate.

Autism SpeaksU Initiative

Ugh.

Autism Speaks has launched a series of college/university chapters, a program that started at the beginning of the 2008-2009 school year. My university, Ohio State, is currently in the process of forming its own chapter. Over the past month, three people have tried to “recruit” me for it. My unabashed disgust for Autism Speaks notwithstanding, I think I’ve been tactful and rhetorically “appropriate” in my conversations with these people — conversations in which I’ve tried to communicate why Autism Speaks is a harmful organization. Unfortunately, my appeals have not been persuasive thus far.

In December, an NT grad student in the autistic group I belong to forwarded me a notice from the Autism Speaks faculty advisor. My grad student friend knows of my disdain for Autism Speaks and suggested I write the faculty advisor, or possibly consider joining the group to provide balance. I opted for letter-writing, of course, because in no way do I want to be affiliated with Autism Speaks. In my letter, I explained neurodiversity and Autism Speaks’ problematic foci on cure and prevention. The faculty advisor, in response, said that although she empathized with my position, the group would maintain the vision of Autism Speaks.

In the faculty advisor’s “defense,” I’m fairly certain that she was well-meaning in her statement and that she has nothing but so-called “good intentions” concerning her involvement with Autism Speaks. I think that many people involved with this organization, as harmfully misdirected as it is, have good intentions despite their woeful ignorance. However, the moment I saw the word empathize in her letter, something in me snapped. Obviously, she was not empathizing with me, and her remark came across as quite patronizing.

I’ve reached the point in life — in my growth as a person who has accepted and embraced being autistic — where the “good intentions” excuse just doesn’t cut it for me any more. If a bunch of autistic people are telling an organization that their group’s vision is hurtful, harmful, and unrepresentative, and they just keep chugging along obliviously, how does that make them well-intentioned? Or empathetic for that manner?

Empathy is such a charged, loaded word in autism discourse. By popular autism definitions, I am pathologically (and negatively) unempathetic. The inverse of this statement, if we herald the lovely NT/autistic binary that so many people love to herald, is that NTs are normatively (and positively) empathetic. Hence, the assumption is as follows: I can’t understand their minds or motives, but they can clearly understand mine, and, moreover, they’re so in tune with me that they understand my mind and motives better than I do. Empathy becomes the ultimate bodily displacement: the dominant discourse-wielders fit better in my shoes than I do.

In my graduate class on digital literacies, we’ve been exploring various research methods, one of which is discourse analysis. Our professor assigned us a book chapter by Thomas Huckin, “Critical Discourse Analysis and the Discourse of Condescension.” I’ve found myself employing his method of analysis on most everything I’ve read for the past five days — especially conversations concerning Autism Speaks’ role at my university. In his piece, Huckin shares correspondence between himself and a Utah state senator. Huckin wrote a letter in protest of the legislature’s plan to cut the higher education budget in order to fund highway construction (164). In response, the state senator used a sickeningly and politely patronizing tone, a tone Huckin defines as being discursively condescending:

“…the discourse of condescension has three main characteristics: First, it contains nothing overtly critical or negative, and often proffers insincere praise; second, it assumes a difference in status and worth between speaker and listener (cf. Goffman on ‘alignment’); and third, this assumed difference is disputed by the listener.” (167)

In the spirit of Huckin, I’d claim that the response I received — as well as Autism Speaks’ general behavior as an organization — is mired within a discourse of condescension. For example, in response to my embrace of a social approach toward disability, as well as the list of problems associated with Autism Speaks’ “vision,” the advisor wrote:

Thank you for your kindly worded letter.

[#1: polite praise of my original letter]

I am very familiar with this stance and I completely empathize with your perspective. However, this group will maintain the same standards and vision as that of Autism Speaks.

[#2: The power differentials are firmly rooted in an appeal to empathy. As described above, within the context of autism discourse, claims toward empathy invoke a rhetorical power play. She knows that, as an autistic, I am supposedly “mindblind,” and that, as a neurotypical, she supposedly has mental ESP. By invoking empathy, she dons discursive condescension and places her perspective regarding autism on a pedestal far above mine: she supposedly has the cognitive capacity to understand what it’s like to be an autistic person who is continually told that she’s an empty shell who’s unworthy of existence, and, because she supposedly understands what it’s like to be thought of as a mindblind, burdensome human being, she can segue into the “however” clause and uphold Autism Speaks’ combative ideology.]

The letter goes on from here: she continued by saying that Autism Speaks was “moved” by the October 2008 campus walk, and she also expressed her desire for greater community involvement and “working together” with other campus autism groups. However, #3 arises in that I, as the recipient of this letter, dispute our postulated difference in “worth” as “functioning” humans — she asserts a hierarchy of empathetic worthiness; I don’t. In this letter, the writer employs rhetorical tools common to (neuro)typical autism discourse, and she employs those tools to make light of her opposition’s opinions and experiences.