Reporting to you from the neurofringe.
She’s not wrong
An autistic* communication professor. Isn’t that an oxymoron? Why should anyone read an autistic person’s advice about communication? These are fair questions, but how much can you learn about complex skills from someone to whom they come naturally? Ask someone with perfect pitch how they stay in tune while singing: “I don’t know, I just do it.” They can’t explain it because they’ve never had to hand-crank an engine that for them has always been fuel-injected.
I got a PhD in communication because I wanted to know how to do it, and a doctoral minor in social and developmental psychology because I wanted to understand people. It’s been 32 years since I started grad school and I’m still not sure I’ve mastered any of it. I remain amazed at what people are willing to assume about one another without asking. I remain amazed at the power of confirmation bias in determining our judgments about each other and the world. But I keep slogging on because, as much as I fantasize about finding my own Walden Pond and saying to hell with people, there are current and future neurodivergent people out there whose communication mishaps might be easier to survive than mine for having read about my trials and errors.
I am also the parent of three teenagers, two of whom were diagnosed with autism at age 2. This is not an “autism mom” blog because I don’t see myself as a hero or martyr for doing what the law requires of me (i.e., raising my children without abuse). I adore my kids but I warn you that I will sometimes tell stories about them, with their permission, because while kids in general are funny, autistic kids are freaking hilarious.
If you’re autistic, have ADHD, stutter, or are neurodivergent in any way that affects communication and relationships, OR if you suspect that you might be, this blog is especially for you. But I hope it’s helpful for neuromajority** folks too, especially those who want to understand and be understood by the people in their lives.
*I use identity-first language (autistic person) rather than person-first language (person with autism) because autism is my genetic neurological arrangement; without it, I am not a person at all. If you use person-first language because you were taught that it’s respectful, that’s fine by me. I know linguistic habits are hard to change and I appreciate your goodwill.
**I use the term neuromajority for a few reasons. First, the term “neurotypical” bothers me because not being autistic doesn’t mean you’re neurologically typical. Second, referencing the majority is a reminder that the built environment is normed to accommodate the greatest possible number of people–or the most privileged, in the case of gender–which means that those on the fringes are necessarily left out. This applies not only to neurodiversity but to intersecting categories like race, class, disability, and so on.