Category Archives: presume competence

How we Communicate – A Podcast

Posted on May 24, 2016 by | 43 comments

*This was an assignment for English Composition to create a podcast about something you care about.  This is mine after many revisions and incorporating notes from my teacher.  A written transcript of the podcast is below, but if you can, listen first!

 

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Emma – 2016  Photograph by Pete Thompson

This voice?  The one that you’re hearing read these words?  Yeah, that one.  It isn’t my voice.  It’s my mom’s.  You’re probably wondering why a teenage girl would want her mom to read what she’s written.  In my case, it’s because I can’t read what I write out loud.  There’s not a direct line between my brain and my mouth.  It’s more like an elaborate maze.  I can’t speak so people understand what I mean.  If asked a question, my mouth says things that do not answer the question.  My brain doesn’t think in words the way most people’s do.  Names of things and people get handed to me instead of the words that would make sense to the person questioning me.  Sometimes I blurt out whole sentences from another time in my life.  (Emma’s voice) “I bounce a balloon to Emma.  I bounce it back to me.”  They may be images that remind me of the person I’m with or where I am, or words I’ve heard spoken by others, things that get caught in my mind, or unrelated scripts, but that convey the exact emotion I’m feeling.  (Emma’s voice) “No more ice skating.  Ice skating’s gone.”  In any case, what I manage to say usually baffles the people I am speaking to, causing them to misunderstand me.  Not being able to speak what’s in my heart so that others are able to understand can be challenging, but I can type things that I cannot reliably say.  There are computer generated voices that say the letters as I type them and sound like this – (Computerized young girl’s voice) “I am your friendly computerized female voice.  I sound like I’m maybe five years old.”  (Another computerized young girl’s voice) “Or I can sound like this and pretend I’m British.  But yeah, it’s just not me.”  Or I can sound like this.  Okay it’s not my voice, but with some direction, Mom sounds better than a computer.

Imagine for a minute that you can’t talk to people in any way that makes sense to them or you.  Imagine if every time you opened your mouth to speak other words tumbled out.  If you are like me, you might get used to not answering people’s questions or being able to stay on topic.  So what would you do?  How would you interact with people?  Would you ignore their questions?  Pretend you didn’t hear them?  How would you express yourself?  Maybe you would try to connect with scripts you’ve memorized, things you’ve heard other people say in similar situations or maybe you’d find non-word based ways to communicate.  That’s what I do.

(Sound of footsteps, people talking and the subway)

Sound is everywhere.  I don’t have a filtering system marking one particular sound as more important than another.  Can you understand what I’m saying right now?  Mom had to raise the volume of her voice so that you could hear it above all the other noise.  My brain doesn’t do that.  It hears all sounds equally and does not discriminate.  But some people’s voices are not as dramatic to my ear as the honking of a horn.  I love the sound of honking horns.  (Horns honking and traffic noise)  Favoring some sounds dilutes others, but music has the best sounds of all.  (Body Knows Best – Anya Marina)

Music is my first language.  It is a friend who loves me unconditionally.  It’s there when I need it and does not shed a tear if ignored for some time.  Music is a positive force as it stands by my side.  I like hearing the same melodies repeated and did so even when I was very young.  It’s been a comfort to me as long as I can remember.  Music grounds me and plays a huge role in seeking my creativity as it allows me to perform as I choose to.  It’s a way to communicate; it gives me hope, tells me I am not alone and inspires me to create.  Though people respond differently to music, I believe there are always emotions involved. Music has the ability to transform my fearsome thoughts laden with anxiety and stress.  (Music fades out)  It calms me and this has been the case throughout my life.  When singing lyrics I stumble and have trouble articulating the words, (Lose Yourself – Eminem) but I can remember the sounds I hear and recreate them with my voice.  When I sing I am not apart from, but instead am part of.

Music can be both private and public, but it needs to be loud.  (Music gets louder) No one composes music in a whisper.  My body needs to feel the beat so that I can be consumed by it.  (Volume increases steadily and then fades)  When that happens I become part of the music, like another instrument or an extension of it.  I jump and dance and move.  My arms swing or are raised up and my head bops, my whole body keeps time to the beat.  I’m transported to another reality and it is in this alternate reality that I am most happy and comfortable.

At home my need for high volume can cause problems because the members of my family have differing sensory needs that come in direct conflict with mine.  (Heartless – Kanye West) My older brother has to have music as background, while I perform alongside, so it makes sense for mine to be public and his to be private.

(Emma’s brother)  “Yeah I think it’s totally fair that you’re able to use the living room.  It’s not like you play bad music or anything.  If you played music I didn’t really like, I’ll just shut the door and go in my room and hang out.”

My mom and dad both work at home and need quiet in order to concentrate.  I am told to wear headphones, which encumber my movement and dilute my experience.  My family has worked out a solution that allows me to commandeer the living room in the evening.  For several hours I am blissfully able to indulge my love of loud music and dancing while my brother stays in his room or hangs out with my parents in theirs.

Until about a year ago I didn’t know the joy of creating music.  Until then I was an audience member, but not a participant.  My parents encouraged my love of music and hired teachers to help me expand my interests.  Guitar is beautiful to listen to, but it is difficult for my fingers to recreate the sounds flowing through my mind.  Piano is also hard and requires dedication and lots of practice, but I think it’s a better fit for me.  Singing is easy and my lack of inhibitions, great sense of tone and ability to mimic sounds I hear makes it the best choice of all.   Eliot is my piano teacher and Karen is my singing coach.  Eliot came first.

(Eliot) “Emma has a great ear.  She can learn to sing new melodies really quickly and accurately.  Recently she’s been listening to the car horns outside and sings their exact pitch.  Emma is a fun, expressive and creative singer/performer.  She brings a lot of life, passion and feel to the material.”

Karen came next.

(Karen) “Emma has really great pitch control.  She knows exactly how the melodies go whether she knows the words or not and she makes it a real point to study each specific thing that happens in the song and can honor each thing in the song by movement and she can also emulate the sound really well as far as consonants and vowels.”  

(Gimme Resurrection – Anya Marina) Karen and I have great fun together.  I feel at ease in her presence, which is important when you are learning new things and trying to be creative.

Eliot and Karen have taught me to be patient with myself.  From them I have learned how hard it is to become masterful and yet I’ve decided it’s better to love the process of learning as much as the final product.  Communicating isn’t just talking, it’s developing a connection with another.  Music connects us all.  I wrote these lyrics and composed this melody, so this voice?  Yeah, this one’s mine.

Emma sings Over and Coming
Eliot Krimsky on keyboard

The girl’s going in the bed
the girl is going inside
the girl is going outside.

Who is this girl I see?
Who is that girl I see?
Watch careful-ee-ee-ey
Listen to me-ee-ee

Over and coming and over and coming,
over and coming and over and coming

Go, go, go,
go, go, go,
go, go, go, go

Go, go, go,
go, go, go,
go, go, go, go

Find a way
to seize the day
Dare to be the leading girl!

The girl walks out the door
the girl walks in the door
the girl is a teenager.

I am the girl you see,
I am this girl you see,
Do you believe in me?
Please do believe in me.

I’m ready to fly if you let me,
I’ll go
Turn up the music and
just don’t say no.

Starting and going and starting and going
starting and going and starting and going
Starting and going

Do, do, do, do, do, do….

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Posted in anxiety, Autism, autistic, Autistic Blogs, Autistic communication, Blogs By Autistics, body/mind disconnect, communication, conversation, disability, Echolalia, inclusion, language, music, neurodiversity, perseverative speech, presume competence, reading, reading & writing, saying one thing meaning another, scripting, self-advocacy, sensory issues, special needs, Speech, typing, typing to communicate, unreliable speaker

Learning to Believe

Posted on March 12, 2015 by | 18 comments

Needing time to learn, understanding concepts and refining techniques are all done on separate timelines.  Best to approach each with curiosity and patience, with a large dose of belief in the other person.

Ticking clocks of expectation become toxic.  Learning to believe is the homework for all educators.  Belief in another’s humanity, respecting different learning styles and compassion for all makes a great teacher and student.

Having a wonderful teacher is life changing.

chalkboard-copy

18 Comments

Posted in autistic, presume competence, RPM

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Presuming Competence – Revised

Posted on July 21, 2014 by | 19 comments

Over the past few years I’ve written about presuming competence as I have come to understand it, ‘here,’ ‘here,’ ‘here,’ and ‘here‘.  Over the years my definition continues to shift or, perhaps more accurately I should say, my ability to practice presuming competence continues to shift.  I still grapple with whether I am going far enough when I  presume competence, though the simplest definition, is also the best one, which is that we presume all human beings are capable of learning if given the right supports and accommodations.  But many want to know what that means for a specific person they know or are working with.  What are those supports and accommodations?

There are a couple of universal things I have found extremely helpful.  (I’m hoping others will add what they’ve found universally helpful as well as specifics that may be particular to just one or two.)  The first is being respectful of the person and speaking to them as one would speak to any human being regardless of whether they use spoken language or not.  It may take some getting used to, because unlike someone who uses spoken language easily, you may not get a spoken reply, or you may get a spoken response that you cannot make sense of.  Either way, I have found, speaking to my daughter (and I’m now talking about before we knew all that she knows and before she was typing with us) as I would any person her age, was critical.  Explaining to her what was going on, what was going to happen next, what we would do if something we expected to happen didn’t, and including her in any and all conversations that were taking place in her presence, has been key.

In situations where a meeting is occurring, as might happen during an IEP meeting at school or with a team of therapists or with a doctor and nurse, I have found the single best thing I can do is include her in the conversation.  (I have made many mistakes over the years, so please do not interpret this as my suggesting I do all of this perfectly without ever stumbling along the way.)  So, for example, when we arrive at the place we are having the meeting, I will speak to her as I would anyone her age.  I will ask if she’s comfortable in a particular chair or if she’d prefer sitting in a different one, perhaps away from direct light, or one that might have a cushion.  Today I always sit to her right so that I can hold her keyboard for her as she types.  I make sure she knows why we are all gathered.

If others begin to speak about her (as they almost always do and will) I will then politely remind them that she is right here and has no issues with her hearing.  Emma wrote during one such meeting, “My hearing is excellent.”  These days I hold the keyboard for her to write questions she may have or to add whatever she might like.  As Emma now types with us daily and is more used to this, she will often initiate a question or comment without me asking her if she wants to add something.   But in the past, if the people at the meeting continued to speak about her as though she weren’t present or seemed completely confused by my insistence on including her, (which many undoubtedly will)  I might then say something about how hurtful and disrespectful it is to be spoken of in this way and that I’d appreciate it if they would rephrase their language.

If the talk becomes an endless list of deficits I would ask them to identify her many talents and assets and point out that constant criticism is unhelpful and destroys self-confidence and self-esteem.  If they are silent (as has happened to us in the past) and seem incapable of naming any assets, I would give them a few opportunities to learn and do better, but at a certain point, professionals should be held accountable for what they are doing and how they are behaving.  If after several opportunities, they continue to disregard my daughter and seem incapable of treating her with respect and seem convinced that she cannot understand, they do not deserve to be paid for their “services”.

Another helpful tool is a yes/no laminated card.  I used to carry one or several around with me and would ask Emma to verify any yes or no question, because she often says “yes,” but means “no”.  I found that what she pointed to with the laminated card, was almost always correct, while the spoken answer wasn’t as much.  I have since seen iPhone and iPad apps that people use, which are almost exactly the same as the laminated card I once used.  A friend of mine holds up her index fingers from each hand and says, “yes” and gestures with the one index finger, or “no” and then gestures with the other index finger.  I remember being shocked that this simple method could produce accurate answers and yet it did.  Obviously if there are profound physical issues, this may not be possible, so the laminated card might work better as one can position it so that a large range of physical movement will not be required.

Yes/No

Yes/No

 

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Posted in Autism, communication, presume competence

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A Father’s Powerful & Extremely Personal Thoughts on Parenting

Posted on July 11, 2014 by | 45 comments

*This was what my wonderful husband, Richard, wrote as a comment on my post the other day.  I asked him if I could make it a post all on its own.  He gave me permission…

“Pain is inevitable, suffering is optional.”

There are plenty of difficulties in life. Parenting is hard, but “childering” is harder. Parents usually have some experience in navigating the complex social expectations of the world. Children must gain that experience with each passing day, hopefully with the guidance, support and unconditional love of parents who put their children’s needs ahead of their own.

But there are a lot of parents who aren’t like that. Mine for example. I was taught from birth that my obedience and subservience were more important than my own needs and desires, or personal considerations. When I didn’t do what I was told to do, or didn’t do it fast enough with a “good attitude” I was yelled at. Punished. Spanked. Slapped in the face. Called awful names. Verbally abused. Degraded. Humiliated. And that happened nearly every day of my life until I left home at the age of eighteen.

My parents constantly reminded me how difficult I was to cope with. How hard I made life for them. If I would only try harder, work harder, move faster, then their lives would be so much better. Their lives.

Me? I didn’t really matter.

I waited a long time before becoming a parent. For years I swore I would never have children, perhaps because I was afraid I might behave like my own parents. And no child deserved that. When I met Ariane, something shifted monumentally in me, and I was suddenly eager to be a dad. I was 40 years old. Maybe I was finally emotionally mature enough to handle the enormous responsibility of parenting. I was ready to put someone else’s needs ahead of my own. Because for me, that’s what parenting is about. Service. My children don’t exist to fulfill my expectations, or make me happy. They exist in order to experience life and fulfill their destinies.

It is indeed hard to be a parent. I empathize and sympathize with all the parents who feel overwhelmed, who don’t have the resources or support to cope well with these tremendous responsibilities. I know life is hard for you. But trust me, no matter how hard you think you have it, your children have it harder. They sense your frustration, your discontent, your fear and panic, your anger and rage, your sadness and depression and hopelessness.

And quite likely, they feel themselves to be responsible. Maybe they are even told they are responsible. They feel guilt and shame. They try harder to make you happy. To not be so upset with them. Because they have learned–deep, deep inside–that they are “the problem.”

I’m talking about all children here, not just autistic children. For autistic children, multiply that angst level by a thousand. If you are autistic, you live in a world where so many people are telling you that you are broken, that you need to be fixed, that you need to be trained, conditioned to “act normal.” If you like to spin around over and over, or bounce, or rock back and forth, you are given the message, sometimes spoken, sometimes not, that this is “wrong.” And therefore, by extension, there is “something wrong with you.”

If you are non-speaking, or have difficulty with speaking, or with other physical issues, life is even harder, because you are being told that there is something REALLY “wrong” with you. Meanwhile, you’re trying to live in a world of “talkers” that constantly underestimate your intelligence and capabilities, who treat you like babies, who give you dirty looks, or tease you, or bully you.

You are put to “work” when you’re only two or three years old, or as soon as it has been decided that something is “wrong” with you. Early Intervention is required, in order that you be “fixed” and/or “rescued.” This is not optional for you. It is mandatory. You have no choice in the matter. And if you can’t speak, you can’t even complain. So it begins. The endless conditioning. The continuous demand to stop being who you are and “fit in.”

And nearly the entire world of medicine and science and education is conspiring to maintain the status quo of the deficit model. Autism isn’t defined by all its wondrous capabilities, but by what is seen as lacking. Autism Speaks continuously fuels the bonfire of “wrongness” with every dollar they spend.

And it has to stop. It is wrong. It is life-killing and soul-killing. And if you, as a parent, can’t see that this is the reality your children are living with every second of every day, you need to open your eyes and ears and heart.

I so wish it hadn’t taken me so long to wake up. I so wish that I could erase all the damage I did to Emma, like subjecting her to the torture of ABA when she was only two years old. But I can’t change the past. I can’t take it back. What I can do, is speak the truth of what I’ve learned to whomever is willing to listen.

My Beautiful Husband and Daughter

Richard and Emma – 2011

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Asking Emma

Posted on May 8, 2014 by | 22 comments

Imagine for a moment if you had an idea.  It was an idea that was in keeping with a conversation taking place by others in the same room as you, but when you opened your mouth to share your thought, instead of using words that would convey what you were thinking you said something that sounded like, “Peacock!”  Not only did you say “Peacock!” but your voice was loud, some would suggest you were shouting, even though you hadn’t meant to shout, even though you weren’t thinking of a peacock, that was the sound that came from your mouth.

Now imagine that, in addition to this, you smiled and maybe laughed too.  Maybe you laughed because as you said what sounded like “peacock” you were also hit with a memory of a time that was funny, or maybe saying those two syllables made you happy, maybe the act of saying them made you laugh, or maybe you laughed, but nothing struck you as funny, the laughter was merely a response to anxiety or maybe it wasn’t any of these things.  Maybe the laughter just escaped from your mouth, unbidden.

Whatever the “truth”is about why the person suddenly shouts what sounds like “peacock!” and then laughs, while others are having a conversation about global warming or are discussing their concerns with a project they’re working on or are talking to each other about what to have for dinner, they are unlikely to assume the peacock shouter is listening to their conversation, much less that they have anything relevant to add.  In fact, the people having the conversation may regard this outburst as an intrusion, or an unwelcome distraction.  Or maybe they don’t, instead they stop their conversation and smile, or laugh and say something like, “is that funny?”  “Are you thinking of something funny?” or “Oh!  Do you like peacocks?” and when all of this is met with silence or some other utterance unrelated to both peacocks and the conversation they were having, they continue  with what they were saying to the other person.

Richard is good about saying to me, “we should ask Emma” or “Emma, what do you think?” or “Let’s find out if Emma has anything to add” or just turning to Emma and saying, “Hey Em, we’re talking about _____.”  Including Emma in our conversations is not something we regularly did.  It’s not that we never did, it just wasn’t something we regularly did.  Including Emma in conversations was not something we once considered doing, not because we didn’t want to, but because it didn’t occur to us that she was listening and understanding, much less had something she might like to add.  This is where her being able to write her thoughts has changed everything.

Once we began presuming her competent we began including her, but as she didn’t have a way to express herself, the – “do you have something you want to add? or so what do you think?” questions were not asked of her.  But once she began writing, all bets were off.  Suddenly and quite dramatically her words propelled me to reconsider even more what I’d once thought.  All of my assumptions, all those misunderstandings, I now view differently.  Now when Emma shouts, “peacock” I do not assume she is interested in talking about the colorful bird.  She may be, but she may not be.  But and this is a big but, I’m able to ask her and she is able to reply.

Emma has written often that the words that come out of her mouth do not always reflect her thoughts.  I used to think that whatever she said out loud, was indicative of what she was capable of and, in addition, was what she intended to say.  My misunderstanding of what was going on for her made for a great many misunderstandings.  Had Emma not found a way to communicate, had she not found a way to write what she knows, thinks and feels, many people would not question that her spoken language is representative of her mind.  They would not be able to believe that she has the complex and brilliantly observant mind that she has.  For most people this is a very difficult concept to fully grasp.  It has taken me daily exposure to such a mind to begin to stop making incorrect assumptions about not just my daughter, but all people I meet who do not speak or whose language is not an accurate reflection of their thoughts.

Emma

Emma

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Posted in Autism, communication, Parenting, presume competence

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Dare to Hope

Posted on May 1, 2014 by | 35 comments

Trigger Warning:  Parental despair

Five years ago I was in a bad, bad place.  Life felt unbearable.  The future loomed ahead shrouded in fear.  I could not imagine a life that was not bleak and filled with pain.  There were times when I could not bear the thought of another day.  There were times when I felt it was all too much.  People would make kind suggestions, but none of their words made sense to me.  I was sinking and saw no light.  I thought it was because of my specific circumstances.  I thought it was because I was the parent of a child who, I was told, couldn’t and didn’t understand most of what was said to her.  I was told she couldn’t comprehend this world.  I was told concepts like less and more, time, currency were beyond her ability to grasp.  I was told she was in her own world.  Despite all the years of therapy, there was no hope of her being mainstreamed, she did not make the sorts of leaps forward that other people’s children  had.

I blamed myself, I blamed my husband, I blamed the environment, I blamed my father, I blamed…  There were so many things to blame, but all it did was leave me bereft, empty, and in the middle of the night I would lie awake and cry.  I cried for myself, but I also cried for my child.  I loved my child.  I ached for my child and what seemed to be her inevitable future.  Along with the ache for what might have been, but was not, was the sad, dark, bleak despair that seeped into every aspect of my being.  I had fantasies of “heading north”.  I would smile weakly at my husband and joke, as I gathered my wallet and keys for a quick trip to buy milk at the grocery store, “I may not be back.”  Richard would grin and maybe we would even chuckle, but there was a part of me that wasn’t laughing.  There was a part of me that meant it.  I wanted to leave all that pain behind me.

There are those reading this who will cringe at this description.  There are those who will judge me and what I once felt.  There are those who will point out how self involved all of this sounds.  They will say, but how could you not see that what you were feeling was affecting your child?  There are parents who have children just like mine who never felt what I’ve described, who will not be able to understand or relate, who will read my words and shake their heads in horror.  I understand those responses too, because now, I catch myself feeling those feelings too.

My daughter has defied everyone’s expectations, including ours.  She is writing now.

She is writing such incredible words.  Sometimes a sentence may take her five minutes to construct.  I would cheerfully sit for thirty minutes or however long it takes for her to express herself.  Parents hear about my daughter and they say, “Ah, but my child isn’t like that.”  And so I ask, “How do you know?”  Parents say, “I know my kid.  He/she isn’t able to understand.”  I once believed that too.  And so again I ask, “How do you know?”  Parents say, “I know my child better than anyone.”  I once said this as well.  I thought I knew.  I believed what others told me.  She would laugh and then run full force into a cement wall, using her head as a batting ram.  We would get the dreaded phone calls from her school.  All those doctors, therapists and teachers, all those IEPs where she was described as unable, incapable – “Emma is unable to decipher simple text.”  “She does not know the value of a penny.”   “We will continue to work on sight words.”

Today my daughter is enlightening me.  If you want to know more, read “How We Got Here“.  Just the other day Emma wrote, in response to an incident at school, “You must remember how stressful it is not being able to tell anyone my silent screams of disconnection.”  Her school is now trying to learn RPM so that she can write with them too.

I cried when she wrote that.  I cried because I didn’t know until recently.  I cried for all the years when she had no way of telling us.  I cried for all the times I didn’t believe.  I cried for all the children who are just like her, right now, who cannot tell anyone about their silent screams.  I cried for every single parent who has ever felt the way I once did.  I cried for every single child of those parents and for all the times I heard about a child who was writing to communicate, just as my daughter is now, and how I didn’t believe she would be one of them.  I cried for all the times I heard about an Autistic child or adult and consoled myself by saying, “they are an anomaly.”  I didn’t dare hope that one day my daughter might be writing the things she now writes.  I didn’t dare hope, it hurt too much.

To the parents who feel overwhelmed with fear and despair  – I was once just like you.  Had I found a secret online group of parents feeling and talking the way I once did, I would have joined in an instant.  I’m grateful now that I didn’t find such a group because there’s another way.  I found another way, but not before making many, many more mistakes.  This blog documents a number of the mistakes I’ve made over the years, but not all of them.

If there’s one thing I want to say, it’s please, dare to hope.  Without that we are all lost.

*As always, I asked Emma for her permission to publish this post.

Watch:
Wretches and Jabberers
Mark Utter’s I am in here

Read:
Ido Kedar’s book:  Ido in Autismland
Non-speaking Autistic blogs, many of which can be found on The Resources Page on this blog.

Emma getting ready to write

Emma getting ready to write

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What We Would Have Done Differently

Posted on February 27, 2014 by | 40 comments

What We Would Have Done Differently Had We Known What We Know Now is the longer version of the above title for this post.

Someone left a comment on a post I wrote about a year and a half ago – Want to Know About Autism?  Ask An Autistic.  In the comment they asked a number of questions and because they are questions others have also asked, I’m writing a post devoted solely to answering them.

“What would you have done with Emma if you had not fought your seven year war? How would you have spent that time with her knowing what you know now? What do you think would have been of most benefit to Emma when she was still too young to type? How would you have gone about learning assuming competence?”

“What would you have done with Emma if you had not fought your seven year war?”

The “seven-year war” they are referring to is one I describe in that post detailing all the things I did upon receiving my daughter’s diagnosis.  To contemplate what we would have done differently had we known what we know now is both exhilarating and painful, but I’m going to give it my best shot…

The short answer is – we would have done everything differently.  The longer answer is vast, so vast I don’t know that I can do it justice in just a few paragraphs, but I will try…

Once we were given her diagnosis I would not have done any of the therapies suggested other than occupational therapy.  I know this will strike many as radical, even negligent, but I am speaking very specifically about my daughter.  Right from the beginning, knowing what I know now, would have changed all of my thinking, reactions and response to my daughter.  All those years spent trying to “help” her were years marked by fear, distress and worry.

I know now how sensitive Emma is to other people’s emotions, how she picks up on all of that easily and how distressing it can be for her.  So there are things I would have done that actually have nothing to do with Emma, but that would have helped me be a better parent to her.  Reducing my fear and constant worry would have been helpful to all of us.  In order to do that I would have had to ignore pretty much everything I was being told about autism and what that meant for my child.  The information we were given in 2004, the year Emma was diagnosed, was presented as fact.  And, as it turns out, it was incorrect.  I cannot think of a single thing we were told that did not prove later to be wrong.  Think about that for a second…  Every single thing we were told was incorrect.  Everything.  (Richard, correct me if I’m mistaken about this.)

A quick aside –  this is where, the way our society is structured has done none of us any favors.  If we lived in a truly inclusive society where autism was not denigrated, but was considered just another neurology, no better or worse than non-autistic neurology, where there was no judgement placed on either neurology, but more was treated as fact, where everyone came into contact with both neurologies on any given day in a variety of settings, “autism” would not be viewed with the fear and worry and even terror that it currently is.  When I say “inclusive” I am using that word literally and not code for “tolerating” or “understanding” or even “accepting.”  I mean a society where all neurologies are treated equal, without comparison of one, which is thought to be superior, to another considered inferior.  An inclusive society would mean “accommodations” would be embedded into our daily lives seamlessly and without fanfare, just as the many accommodations non-autistic people enjoy without even noticing them, do.

I would not have sought out the advice of the slew of doctors and specialists we carted her off to.  I would have surrounded her with music, singing, dancing, lots and lots of movement, gymnastics, swimming, trampolines, trapeze, art, literature, poetry (much of this we actually did do.)  Had Soma begun her center at the time of Emma’s diagnosis, I would have begun learning RPM and implemented Soma‘s suggestions for very young children right away.   Beginning with isolating the index finger to point independently and moving on to presenting written choices, for everything and anything – “do you want some M-I-L-K or do you prefer J-U-I-C-E?”  Writing each letter, while saying the letters out loud as I did so.  Encouraging her to point to the two choices I wrote.

There were many things, looking back, that we did right, things we did for both our children, such as getting her on skis when she was just three years old, horseback riding, lots of hiking, carrying her in a back pack, Emma loved being carried in a Kelty pack so she was able to view the world at the same height as me.  We took the children to the theatre, puppet shows, kids concerts, and traveled on airplanes when they were both babies.  I began brushing their teeth the minute that first tooth came in, I cannot tell you how grateful I am that I did that.  I began flossing their teeth the instant a neighboring tooth appeared.  I read to the children and provided both of them with lots and lots of books.  We exposed our children to art and literature; these are all things I would not have changed.

“How would you have gone about learning assuming competence?”

Presuming competence is ongoing.  It’s a practice, a mind set and it requires a leap of faith.  Or at least this is how I have come to view it.  Presuming competence is less about an idea and more about doing.  It’s an action, one I must be constantly mindful of and vigilant about doing moment to moment.  My past thinking is so ingrained, changing that thinking is something I must work hard at all the time.  First I must become aware that I have ingrained thinking that is not presuming in my child’s competence, second, I must accept that my ingrained thinking is unhelpful and hurts my child, and third slowly, slowly work to do, and  think about, things differently.

I’ve written about presuming competence ‘here‘, ‘here‘, ‘here‘ and ‘here,’ but I will just add that this is very much something I continually struggle to do better.  To peel back the layers and layers of misinformation and assumptions that get in the way of being completely present in a way that is nonjudgmental and most helpful to my daughter so that she can flourish is not easy, but it is the single best thing I have strived to do.  It requires actively ignoring the more common thinking about autism and what that neurology means.  It means actively questioning everything I am told by people who present themselves as experts.  It means listening, really listening to my daughter.  It means sitting with the discomfort that I have done so much of this wrong.  It means forgiving myself for my mistakes.  This is the path I find myself on at present.

And truthfully it is Emma who is leading the way, my job is to follow, listen, learn and cheer her on.

Emma ~ January 29th, 2014

Emma ~ January 29th, 2014

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“A Letter To the World” ~ By Emma

Posted on February 17, 2014 by | 23 comments

                     “A Letter To The World”

“I want to tell you that I am capable.  Daring massively, eager to prove my intelligence, I will work tirelessly so that Autistic children younger than me won’t be doubted the way I am.

“Plea-ing to the world, I ask that those who are not able to restrain their doubts, at least not mute voices like mine.

“Deciding stupidity bolsters egos while crushing lives with angry words disguised as kindness.

“They say hope is cruel for the hopeless, but maybe they are the cruel ones.”

Emma wrote this in response to my question, “What do you want to learn about?” (I gave her a number of choices ranging from people like Joan of Arc and Eleanor Roosevelt to geography, history, literature, creative writing or current affairs) “…or would you like to talk about something else?”  Emma wrote, “I want to talk about autism.”  When I asked her what, specifically, she wanted to discuss, she wrote the above letter.

*For all who would like to share Emma’s words with your friends and followers – we ask that you quote a sentence or two with a link back to this blog, and not all her words.  Thank you so much for your support, encouragement and enthusiasm.

Emma ~ 2014

Emma ~ 2014

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“Feeling knowledge…”

Posted on December 2, 2013 by | 28 comments

“Feeling knowledge is reality understood.”

This is what Emma wrote over the weekend.   Yeah.  I’ve been unraveling that one  ever since she wrote it…  At this point there are a couple of things I have come to realize:  First – if I can just keep up with her, I’m doing really well.  Second –  presuming competence is a vast concept and is much more about me and my limitations than it is about the person I’m applying this idea to.  And third – the amount we do not know about autism far surpasses that which we do.

“Feeling knowledge is reality understood.”

EmContemplatesNature copy

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Emma’s Letter

Posted on November 20, 2013 by | 14 comments

Yesterday Soma (for more about Soma, RPM and the Halo Center please click on this link) spoke with Emma about ethanol, fuel and bio fuel, what happens to plants and animals when their bodies decompose, green house gasses, carbon dioxide, fossil fuels, how all of this can affect the economy, and finally Soma asked, “Suppose you are giving a speech at the UN.  What kind of speech would you give?”

Emma gave me permission to quote the speech she then wrote.

“Dear World,

Heat is important, but the world also needs snow.  We must think about the future and use fossil fuel wisely.

Personally, I like car rides, but I am going to walk more.  Walking is good for the heart.”

After we returned to our hotel, I told Em about her Grandpa who had to use a wheelchair when he could no longer walk.  We talked about other ways of getting around and how public transportation, particularly some of New York City’s older subway stations are inaccessible to those who use wheelchairs.  We discussed “green cities” and what that means.  We went to a website to look at photos of “15 Green Cities” and it turns out Austin, Texas is listed as the 15th.

I am too tired and do not have enough time to write more about our first day, and, as always, I need time to process all that has happened and is continuing to happen.

Every day I am being shown that what I believe it means to “presume competence” does not go nearly far enough.  Every. Single. Day.

S&E

 

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My Resistance to Practice

Posted on October 24, 2013 by | 24 comments

I’ve been struggling, feeling very emotional in a “bad” sort of way.  You know how when you’re weepy all the time for seemingly no good reason?  Those times when you keep crying every time you hear sad music, and all music strikes you as sad, even really upbeat music, or when someone looks at you with a stern face, or uses a harsh tone, or if you read something sad, and everything you read seems really sad, and you keep having to wipe tears from your face and hope you remembered to bring tissues with you, but you never do?  Yeah, sort of like that.

*Sigh*  It’s been a tough few weeks.  I have felt off-balance because I have been expecting myself to be able to do what I’ve seen a number of people do with my daughter, but that I have not been able to do.  I returned from our trip to Texas and thought, after only a couple of sessions with my daughter, I’d be able to start asking her open-ended questions, just as I’d seen Soma Mukhopadhyay do.  (Despite the fact that Soma advised me NOT to ask any open-ended questions in the beginning.)  *Define beginning, I kept thinking.  I HAVE begun.  Surely now after the second or third day home I am beyond “beginning”!  This thinking is akin to seeing a master jeweler create a beautiful ring and expecting that I should be able to create that same ring without having spent years practicing the craft as a bench jeweler, or hearing a Rachmaninoff piano concerto played at Carnegie Hall and then going home and thinking after a couple of piano lessons that I would be able to replicate that piano concerto.  The point is, Soma is a master at RPM (rapid prompting method).  She’s been doing RPM for close to two decades, first with her son Tito and later with hundreds of Autistic people.

But I so wanted to have the kind of conversations with my daughter that I saw her having with Soma.  It was like catching a little glimpse of paradise, but not being able to find the bridge to actually get there.  I kept trying to leap.  I kept trying to find a short cut.  And as I did this, each day, my distress grew.  I felt frustrated and then angry and then beaten down.  All because I was expecting myself to be able to do something without any practice.  So when my suffering reached an all time high, when the occasional weeping, became more than occasional and my son, upon seeing me asked, “why are you always crying?” I realized I had to get help.  I did what years of recovery from addiction has taught me – I reached out to another human being.  I contacted someone I only know through the internet, but who has been working with her son for a number of years now.

She gave me wonderful tips.  She sent me videos to watch.  She listened to my distress.  She told me it took months of practice and as I read everything she sent me, I kept thinking both how grateful I was to her for being so kind and generous in sharing her experience with me, but also was reminded that I need to practice and I need to start at the beginning.  Everything takes practice.  My expectations of myself were causing me tremendous pain.  They were unrealistic.  It isn’t that I can’t do this method with my child, it’s that I can, but I need to practice.  And as I realized this, as I thought more about this, I saw the parallels to presuming competence in my child.  I have written about what “presume competence” means, but in all the posts I’ve written on the topic there is one piece of this that I have neglected to mention and that is, presuming that we can and will be able to learn with appropriate accommodations and enough practice.  I forgot to include myself in presuming competence.  I need that presumption too.  I need to remember that I can and do learn if I’m given instruction and give myself the opportunity and time to practice.

I had the proper instruction, but I haven’t been practicing long enough to get the results I wanted.  So last night I wrote up a lesson plan, just as Soma had instructed during a previous four-day intensive workshop I took last spring.  I made sure I followed her format of how to create a lesson plan.  I made sure I began with choices and spelling key words.  I even tried to embody her lovely, sing-song, calm, kind voice.  I laid aside any expectations of what would or should happen.  And you know what?  It was a great session.  I made a couple of mistakes, I had to refer to my notes often.  I had to make some adjustments.  I forgot a couple of key things, but I jotted down some comments to myself so I can remember to revise accordingly for our next session this afternoon and more importantly, we were both more relaxed than we have been since we returned home.

Practice.  I hate the idea of having to practice.  I want to go from never having done something, to immediate fluency.  But once I begin practicing and let go of that desire and those expectations for immediate fluency, practicing can be incredibly enjoyable.

To Sue:  This post is for you.  Thank you.

Em practices jumping on her pogo stick.  New all time record?   127.

Joy copy

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Having to Prove Competence

Posted on October 15, 2013 by | 30 comments

I have always feared being put somewhere against my will.  Sequestered, hospitalized, institutionalized, these are abject fears I have had since I was very young.  The idea that others would have control over what I did, where I went, what I ate, who I saw…  these are more than just fears, they are like nightmares, too horrible to contemplate.  My greatest fear when I went to see a therapist in my early twenties was that I would be put away somewhere, so sure was I that if my secrets were revealed I would be thought too damaged to live among my peers.  I made my therapist promise that if I told him what was on my mind he would never allow me to be admitted to a mental hospital.  It was after he assured me, swore he would honor my requests that I was able to finally begin telling the truth.

On Homeland (the Showtime series beginning its second season) there is a scene with the main character being committed to a mental institution, forced to take medication, her speech garbled and slowed, her facial expressions a slow motion blur of terror, rage and pain, her eyes wild, like a caged animal, while her intelligence burns bright.  The well-meaning staff speak to her as though she were a child, incapable of reason, they tell her to calm down.  They tell her to take deep breaths and count to ten.  They doubt her ability to make decisions, they speak to her in voices cloaked in a calm-like veneer, their irritation still bleeds out, their condescension is palpable, their dislike for this person who is inconveniencing them is still vividly apparent.

And I thought of all the people we have met who are like those well-meaning nurses and staff.  They do not view those who are neurologically different as equals, not really.  They believe they have proof of this.  They do not believe, even though they may say otherwise, that people who cannot speak or who do so intermittently  are competent, capable of insightful thoughts, or have anything of importance to say.  They alternate between ignoring the person, to speaking to them as though they were still a toddler.  They are visibly uncomfortable.  These are the people who have concluded that because someone cannot verbalize what they think candidly and with ease, they must not have anything of importance to say.  Thankfully most of the people we meet who are like this have not devoted their lives to working with this population.

But now and then I meet someone who has.  They believe they are doing a good thing, a noble thing.  They believe they are helping.  They believe that the people they are trying to help are living happier lives as a result.  They believe this with all their heart.  They give words, as though gifts, in grammatically correct sentences, believing people can be trained to say things and do things that will be understood by the majority of the population.  They think that if they can force someone to stop moving their hands or legs or twirling bits of string that the person will be better for it.  They do not consider that this may be detrimental, that these actions are necessary to their concentration, that they will actually learn more and be able to concentrate better if they are allowed to do these things that are seen as unusual.

As I watched Claire Danes in the role of Carrie Mathison, I felt that old familiar terror  I used to feel when I imagined if people knew me they would believe I needed to be put away somewhere and locked up.  I was reminded of all my old fears that who and what I was, was broken and needed to be fixed and that I was not like others who seemed so pulled together, so calm and happy.  On the show, Homeland, the more Carrie tries to convince the staff that she is fine and calm, the more out of control she appears.  Having to prove oneself as competent is a difficult, if not impossible thing to accomplish, if those you are trying to prove to, already have made up their minds to disbelieve.

Em types with Pascal

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Presuming Competence & Expectations

Posted on August 28, 2013 by | 22 comments

Presuming competence is not code for – my kid is a genius and capable of super human abilities.  (Though some may be, it’s not a given.)  One of the things I continue to struggle with is the idea of presuming competence.  Often I don’t go far enough and other times I go too far without meaning to.  I have made assumptions about my daughter’s ability or inability that are incorrect, or at least have been incorrect in that moment.  Whether I expect her to be able to do something that she cannot, or at least cannot do today, but may well be able to do at some point in the future or whether I do not expect her to do something that, it turns out, she is more than capable of, I am treating her as though I know one way or the other.  But the truth is, I don’t know and neither do a great many of the people who come into contact with her.

The best thing I know to do is to remain in the moment with an open mind.  Easy, right?  Yet I don’t think it’s easy at all.  I find staying present very, very difficult, which is why in Buddhism they call it a “practice”.   It takes practice to stay in the present.  It takes practice to remain solidly rooted in this moment without drifting off into some future scenario of what might happen, what should happen, what I want to have happen, what I fear will happen and then all the things I do to control all of that so everything I want will occur the way I want it to, in the time frame I want.  I’m exhausted just writing about this!

My daughter continues to astonish and amaze, just as my son does.  As both my children mature and come into their own, they do and say things on a daily basis that I find utterly delightful and incredible.  But that delight is tempered by expectations.  I know this, yet find it extremely difficult to keep my expectations in check.  My expectations often cause disappointment. I don’t like feeling disappointed, so I try to turn the volume down on my expectations, but if I keep my expectations in check then am I still presuming competence?  I can go around and around with all of this endlessly.  The only conclusion I have come to is that I’m not going to always get it right, but I’m going to do my best to stay aware, stay present and open to whatever happens without preconceived ideas of what should or shouldn’t happen and while I’m doing all of that, I’m going to remember to breathe.

Breathing is good.

 

A wild mushroom growing out of the side of a makeshift bridge – Colorado August, 2013Mushroom

 

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Seeing But Unable to Believe

Posted on August 1, 2013 by | 62 comments

When some people hear that my daughter is Autistic they see a beautiful blonde haired girl with no noticeable physical impairments.  They see a pre-teen who has terrific eye contact.  They see someone who is happy and playful and who laughs often and with abandon.  They see someone who loves loud music, a good party and will grab hold of a microphone if given the opportunity.  They see someone who obviously loves to perform in front of an audience.  She doesn’t fit their concept of autism so they assume the diagnosis must be wrong.  They say things like,  “But I never would have known if you hadn’t said something.”

When it becomes clear that she cannot carry on a conversation with them, but demonstrates her intelligence by typing something with lots of insights and wisdom, they see a doting mother who is supporting her daughter’s arm or holding on to the other end of a pole and they assume it is all a manipulation.  They decide it is me who is writing these things, “putting words into her mouth”.  After all my daughter cannot carry on a conversation, how could she possibly be writing such beautiful words?  Later, when I am no longer present they might say, “Poor thing, she’s deluding herself about her daughter, of course she would, how could she not?  It would be giving up all hope to do otherwise.”

“In our field, assumptions about labeled people are so deeply rooted that we tend to think they are facts.  They are not – they are only shared beliefs.” ~ Autism: Sensory-Movement Differences and Diversity by Martha R. Leary and Anne M. Donnellan

I explain that my daughter is typing these things, but needs support to do so, without that support, which is in the form of resistance, she will impulsively revert to her favorite scripts, and they think to themselves – that doesn’t make sense.  How is that possible?  She can type independently now, why don’t they just leave her alone and let her type what she wants?  If she can’t type these things independently, it must not be coming from her.  Her mom must be writing those things for her daughter.

I then talk about how my daughter is doing math, multiplication and division (in her head) without any formal training and they think – well, that simply isn’t  possible.  That can’t be.  They look to see if my daughter is somehow being manipulated, prompted, even though she is not being touched.  When I state that my daughter is reading faster than I can, they wonder – but how can she really know that for sure?  When Emma then obviously passes reading comprehension multiple choice tests, they think – well, but it’s just a coincidence, after all it IS multiple choice, that’s much easier than if she had to write an essay.  Those who do believe, assume she must be the exception.  They say things like, “But my child/the child I work with can’t possibly do that. You’re so lucky.  Your daughter is very, very special.”  They place my child into a little file in their mind.  A file entitled –  anomaly.

“When you have enough exceptions you have to start questioning the legitimacy of the rule, the assumptions, and the paradigm.” ~ Speechless by Rosemary Crossley.

I have interviewed  a great many non-speaking Autistic people and published our conversations here and on the Huffington Post.  I have an entire page on this blog devoted to Resources, the first list is of all the blogs and writings of non-speaking Autistics that I know of, but there are a great many more that I do not know about.  Even so, people will write about how those non-speakers didn’t really write their own words or, conversely, they say –  isn’t it wonderful that these individuals are so amazing and an inspiration, but they are exceptional, they are not like my non-speaking child, or the children I teach, or the children I work with or…  Perhaps they are right, but what if they are wrong?

I would rather have my daughter surrounded by people who believe her capable than around those who do not.

Ariane Zurcher, Amy Sequenzia and Ibby Grace at the ICI Conference ~ A conference dedicated to accommodating those who do not speak

Me, Amy & Ib

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The Snowball Effect

Posted on July 26, 2013 by | 20 comments

The snowball effect began with, what I now think of as, a leap of faith.  Richard and I leapt into that great abyss better known as the unknown.  It turns out this was actually not true, it would be more accurate to say we chose to neither believe nor disbelieve, but instead began to examine all we were being told.  Perhaps it’s better to say that instead of leaping into we jumped out of.  From there it was more of a hop to begin presuming competence.  However, as a commenter on this blog said, “presuming competence isn’t enough.” And knowing what we now know, I have to agree.  It’s the starting point.  It’s like that initial leaping off point, it’s just the beginning.

At the moment we are experiencing something akin to being in free fall.  It’s the feeling of discovery, limitlessness, surprise, and pure ecstasy that comes with being present without expectation or preconceived ideas about what should or will happen.  Our perspective continues to change as we move along.  Like any great adventure, the path is at times rocky, but the triumphs are exquisite.  As we move deeper into this process it becomes easier and more familiar to be solidly in the discomfort of the unknown.  There is bliss in that.  True bliss.

Last fall I wrote a post about how I was worried Emma was not comprehending a story that had been sent home in her back pack from school.  It was a simple story, perhaps 1st grade level reading with some questions that she seemed unable to answer.  In the post I write how I am trying to find ways to help her reading comprehension.  I talk about presuming competence.  What I am struck by now is not Emma’s level of supposed incomprehension, but by my own.  I reread all the comments just now and am amazed, amazed that though I thought I was presuming competence, I was only able to go so far with my presumptions and, as it turns out, wasn’t going far enough.  I could only presume as much as my limited thinking would allow me.  The idea that she was not only comprehending this story, but was so far beyond it, was not something I was capable of fully understanding, let alone considering.  I was much more stuck, as it turns out, than my daughter was.

Now jump forward to yesterday afternoon, almost nine months after I wrote the post I refer to in the above paragraph.  Emma chose to talk about adjectives.  We watched the BrainPop movie about adjectives and then she took the quiz.  I copied what Rosie had done, asked her to read the questions silently to herself while using a laminated card to direct her visually and then quickly guided her to read each of the four multiple choice answers.  She only hesitated once, on a question about a possessive adjective, but otherwise breezed through the quiz with 90% accuracy.  Not only was Emma reading faster than I was able to, but she was accurately answering the questions faster than I could read them, let alone answer them.

The snowball effect:  “The basic workings of a literal snowball effect can be illustrated by taking one’s average baseball-sized snowball and dropping it down the side of a snowy hill. As it descends it gathers more snow and whatever leaves, sticks, etc. are in its way. The snowball accumulates not only size, but speed.” ~ From the Urban Dictionary

Self Portrait

photo

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