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Disabled or Differently Abled?

November 2, 2012 By

Today is Day 2 of the National Health Blog Posting Month challenge, and one of the suggested prompts invites writers to address the weirdest aspect of their health. As a health advocate for my son George, who has autism, I am often struck by how odd this condition is compared with many other developmental disabilities.

One of the things that makes it different is the reluctance of many people, both within and outside of the autism community, to use the word “disabled”. Parents of children with Down Syndrome or cerebral palsy are allowed to refer to their kids as “disabled”, but I always have people trying to force me to use the term “differently abled”.

Yes, there are many things that George can do. He can read fluently, he was doing multiplication in his head long before anyone formally taught it to him, he has superb problem solving skills, and he knows his way around a computer better than I do. But when he comes home from school, he cannot tell me what his day was like. I have to keep a firm hold of him when we are out on family walks because he does not understand the danger of running out into the traffic. He does not know how to play with other kids. He will only take a shower if someone is in the shower with him, and at nine, he still needs hand-on-hand assistance and extensive prompting to accomplish the task of brushing his teeth.

To me, the term “differently abled” implies that George can do anything other kids his age can do, but in different ways. But that is not the case. There are things that George simply cannot do for himself – basic daily living skills that other kids master by the time they’re six. In my book, George is developmentally disabled.

And so what if he is? I am immensely proud of George. I adore his sweet, loving nature and I admire his absolute determination to accomplish his goals. Even though he is still so young, he shows a steel core of tenacity. This is not a kid who gives up. I feel absolutely no shame or embarrassment about the fact that he has a disability.

So why not tell it like it is? Why should there be a need to couch it in pretty language? Are these well-meaning attempts to avoid use of the word “disabled” not undermining our attempts to ensure acceptance and inclusion for people with all kinds of disabilities?

What are your thoughts? Are we heading into territory where the word “disability” cannot be used? Would you or do you use that word with reference to your own special needs child?

 

Filed Under: autism, Disability, National Health Blog Post Month, WEGO Health Tagged With: , , , ,
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Open Letter to Ann Coulter

October 23, 2012 By

Dear Ann Coulter,

Before I get to the point of this letter, I want to get some preliminaries out of the way.

I don’t agree with your political views, and I don’t like the way you present them. I find you to be offensive and abrasive, and generally disrespectful to your fellow man – even those who check the same name you do in the ballot box.

This is not about politics, though. While I have been kind-of following the US presidential campaign, I don’t have a stake in it. I do not live in the United States, and the outcome of the election will not affect me in my day to life. I am just a Canadian mom muddling through life as best I can, striving for the happiness and wellbeing of the two children I have had the honour of bringing into this world.

I have many of the typical modern-day mom challenges. My boys keep me busy, I spend too much time commuting so that I can work full-time to provide for my family, and my husband and I can barely squeak in any time for ourselves.

In some ways, though, I am not really typical, because both of my children need some extra help. My younger son is struggling with reading and writing. My older son has autism. They are both highly intelligent, you understand, but they have their challenges.

Ann, my older son – the one with autism – does not have any friends. He has been invited to exactly one birthday party in his whole life. He does not know how to play with other children, and when he comes home from school, he is not able to tell me what his day was like. He is different from other kids, and it is obvious.

But do you know what? Not once has any child said a mean word to my son. I realize that as he approaches his teenage years things may become more difficult for him, but until now, he has never experienced anything but tolerance, acceptance and kindness from other children.

No, the nastiness – the looks, the snide comments, the sniggers – have come from adults. It has been the so-called grown-ups who have shepherded their children to the other side of the playground. It has been the grown-ups who have smirked in the face of my son’s public meltdowns and told me that my child “needs a good hiding”. The grown-ups have been the ones to stare rudely at my son’s stimming while their own children have acted as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening.

Ann, the one time I heard someone refer to my child as a retard, guess who it was?

Yep, you got it in one. It was an ADULT. Someone who really should have known better.

Someone who freely uses words like “retard” without any care for how it might hurt other people.

Someone like you.

Do you know what connotations that word has for a special needs mom like me? Do you realize that you are tossing out a term designed to hurt and ostracize children like my son? Do you have any idea that this word is exactly what is stopping my son and thousands of others like him from being accepted as a valuable part of society?

Do you even care?

I’d like you to take a moment to look at the picture at the top of this letter. Really look at it. Look into the eyes of that sweet, innocent child, and then tell me if you feel good about being so insulting to him and doing your part to damage his chances of acceptance and happiness.

If you must trash-talk the presidential candidates, please do so without using words that are offensive and divisive.

Thank you.
Just another mom

Filed Under: Acceptance, autism, Insensitivity, Politics Tagged With: , , , , , , , ,
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Dear George

August 28, 2012 By

For the last week, I have been participating in the WEGO Health “Advocating for Another” challenge. Life got in the way of blogging over the last few days, so I am a day behind.

Yesterday’s prompt: When I was your age… – Write a letter to your child/ren starting off the with the phrase “When I was your age…” share a story of your own with them.

Dearest George,

When I was your age, I was very much like you. I had the same shyness, the same difficulty with speech, the same awkwardness around people I didn’t know. Learning was difficult for me until someone realized that I was smart but couldn’t learn in the same way as other people.

The world was a different place then, when I was an eight-year-old girl. In the late 1970’s, there was no Internet, so my parents couldn’t Google my symptoms. While diagnoses like autism existed, they were not very common, and not easy to come by unless the doctors knew exactly what they were looking for.

Throughout my childhood, I was sent for tests and assessments, but the most my parents were ever told was that I had “learning disabilities”. No-one was really sure what that even meant.

Like you, I loved books. I remember the summer I learned how to read. It was as if a door to a whole new world had opened to me. My newfound love of reading was both a relief and a source of worry to my parents. On the one hand, I could read, and this is something that everyone wants for their children. But on the other hand, the more I delved into the world of books, the more I withdrew from the world I lived in.

In spite of my rough beginnings, I turned out OK. I graduated high school, got myself a university degree and some post-graduate qualifications. I have a reasonable career, and most important of all, I have my family. You, your dad, and your brother.

You see, even though teachers and doctors didn’t really know what to do with kids like me, I was lucky enough to be part of a loving, supportive family.

My dad was always there for me to talk to, anytime I needed. He was my kindred spirit in many ways, sharing my love of reading, and later, my enthusiasm for running. He was like my rock of support, something that would never waver in the harshest of storms.

My brother and I fought like cat and dog, but in the end, we would have moved the earth for each other. God help anyone who hurt my brother’s little sister.

And my mom, your granny – she was a pillar of strength and support for me. She never doubted that I was capable of succeeding in life, and she helped steer me in the right direction. She worked tirelessly with me, making sure I was doing my homework, reading with me, being my advocate at school.

I often had conflicts with all of the members of my family. There were times when I wanted to run far, far away.

But there was never a time when I doubted that my family loved me and were there for me. When things got stormy, I always knew that the storm would pass and everything would be OK.

This is what my hope is for you. Parents and kids argue. Brothers fight. All of that is part of life. But I hope you know that no matter what, you are loved more than you could possibly know.

Please know that we are here for you, and always will be. I hope that can be at least half the mother to you that my mother was to me.

I love you always,

Mommy

(Photo from Kirsten Doyle’s archive of childhood pictures)

 

Filed Under: autism, Childhood, family, Learning Disability, parenting, WEGO Health Tagged With: , , , , , , ,
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There is No-one Alive Who is Youer than You

August 27, 2012 By

Although I am a bit behind on my prompts, I am participating in the WEGO Health “Advocating for Another” carnival, in which I describe our lives as an autism family.

Today’s prompt (OK, yesterday’s prompt): Quote, End Quote. Post – Let someone else’s wise words inspire you. Find a quote that moves you in some way then free-write about it. Don’t stop writing for 15-20 mins. Now post!

Dr. Seuss was a wise man. He had so many profound things to say that one could be forgiven for thinking he was a philosopher disguised as a children’s storybook writer. I am raising my children to live by the words of Dr. Seuss, because he really did have sound advice for every occasion.

A couple of years ago, I came to the uncomfortable realization that I had fallen into the habit of inadvertently defining my son by virtue of his autism. It was always the first thing I told anyone.

When asked about my family, I would volunteer the information that I was married with two boys. “My older son has autism,” I would say, as if my audience just had to know that about George.

The truth is that I have been so determined to be open about my son’s autism in order to knock on the head any notion that there should be a stigma attached to it. But I started wondering if perhaps I was doing my son a disservice by labeling him from the outset, and thereby creating an instant perception that was based on his diagnosis, and not on who he is as a person.

So I decided to change my approach. While I will never, ever make any effort to hide the fact of George’s autism, I no longer make a point of stating it up front. Because George is not just a boy with autism. He is a boy, a beautiful person with individuality and many great qualities, and he has the right for people to get to know him as such.

The subject of autism always comes up, and it never takes very long. I am always happy to talk about autism and the challenges of special needs parenting, but now it is something that arises naturally in the course of conversation. I no longer treat it as the central element to my son’s existence.

I want George to grow up knowing that he is loved and valued because of the person he is. There is no-one in the world like him, and every day I thank my lucky stars that I’m the one who gets to be his mother.

(Photo credit: Brendan-c. This picture has a creative commons attribution license.)

Filed Under: Acceptance, autism, Dr. Seuss, Individuality Tagged With: , , , , , , , ,
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Challenges of Special Needs Parenting

August 23, 2012 By

This week, I am participating in the WEGO Health “Advocating for Another” carnival. Each day, there is a prompt that I answer in the form of a blog post. Although only George has the autism diagnosis, we also recognize the challenges faced by his little brother. All of my posts here this week are dedicated to him.

Today’s prompt: Challenge accepted! Parenting isn’t all sunshine and ice cream – it’s hard. Write a post that delves into 3 challenges that you face as a parent.

Me and my boys, September 2010

“That must be so hard.”

That is a common response when people find out that my son has autism. And they are right. It is hard, but not necessarily in the ways one might expect. Because as parents, we all do what we have to do. We all want the same things for our children, whether they have special needs or not. We try to keep our children safe, and for me, that sometimes means physically restraining my son to stop him from banging his head on the hardwood floor. We try to make sure they are reaching whatever potential they are capable of, and for our family, that entails intensive behavioural intervention, speech therapy, individual education plans, and navigating the special education system.

These things are challenging, and at times, heartbreaking. But I am so busy just doing what needs to be done that I don’t really give a lot of thought to the hardship factor of it all. At the end of the day, the reward is far greater than the challenge. We get the smiles, the hugs, the occasional leaps of progress that make it all worthwhile.

As full of bravado as I might sound, though, I am only human, and there are things about this whole special needs parenting gig that I wish I could be better at.

Managing the sibling connection

I often worry that James got a rough deal, being the brother of a kid with autism. So many things happen that, if I were in James’ shoes, I would be downright mad about. James, for instance, gets more timeouts than George, not only because he is more aware of what his behaviour should be like, but because George doesn’t really get discipline. I can explain to James until I’m blue in the face that the best way to punish George for bad behaviour is to simply ignore it, but how can a six-year-old be expected to understand that?

Then there are the times when James has to patiently stand by waiting for attention while I am dealing with one of George’s meltdowns. Those meltdowns, which involve George screaming in frustration and trying to bang his head on things, must be so frightening for James to see and hear. And yet this little kid waits patiently for whatever he needs, be it a cup of milk, or the answer to a question, or simply a comforting hug.

I try to make it up to James in other ways. I try to talk to him about George’s autism and what it means. There is no doubt in my mind that James adores his brother, and for the most part he seems to be happy. But I cannot help wondering just how well I am doing this parenting thing. How good a job am I doing of balancing the oft-conflicting needs of my two boys?

Managing the marital connection

When George was first diagnosed with autism just over five years ago, my doctor gave me a startling statistic. About 80% of couples who have children with special needs or chronic illnesses break up. I think that is unspeakably sad. I mean, when someone’s life is turned upside down by the reality of there being something wrong with their child, a strong spousal partnership could bring such comfort and take away that feeling of being all alone. But instead of coming closer together, many couples are ripped apart by their grief.

My husband and I both went through a process of grieving when we first discovered that George had autism. We had put together a beautiful picture of what our family life was going to be like, and in one swoop that picture was destroyed. At the time, we had no way of knowing that we would ultimately build a new picture – one very different to the original, but no less beautiful. All we knew was that we were crushed under the weight of what was going on.

Things got rough for us, but we survived. Together. We have our moments where things aren’t so great, but in the end we are partners, and we are in this together.

It can be so hard, though, to find the time and energy for one another. We are both working so hard to create the best possible lives for our boys, that sometimes we drift a little. At those times, we have to make the effort to drift towards each other.

Managing my own needs

I don’t claim to be anything special. I’m just a regular mom who happens to have a child with autism. I have a full-time job a one-hour commute away from home, I help out with my husband’s business, and I raise my kids. I cook, I clean, and I do laundry. I make sure the bills get paid and I try to get to bed at a reasonable hour each night.

I stay sane by running, and by writing. Occasionally, I even write stuff that makes sense. I love to write because it gives me a voice. I love to run because it provides a physical release from the stress, and because it gives me time to myself, to clear my head.

Here’s the thing, though: I am only one person, and no matter how well I manage my time, there are only 24 hours in one day. And when I start running out of time to do everything that needs to be done, the first thing to go is the stuff that I do for myself. Gaps start to appear in my blog. I submit archive pieces to the ezine I write for. I curtail training runs, or even – Lord forbid – cut them out altogether.

It’s as if my lowest priority in my life is myself. And I wonder if that is OK. Could those bills not be paid tomorrow instead of today? Will the world end if the laundry doesn’t get done right away? Does it matter that, once in a while, I’m grabbing something convenient from the freezer just so I can spend time taking care of myself?

I don’t know the answers. But I do think I do a reasonable job as a parent, and I am having the time of my life seeing my kids grow up.

(Photo credit: Holly Bannerman)

Filed Under: autism, Autism Diagnosis, Brothers, Challenges, family, Marriage, Self-Care, WEGO Health Tagged With: , , , , , , , , ,
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These Are A Few Of My Favourite Things

August 22, 2012 By

This week I am participating in the WEGO Health “Advocating for Another” carnival. Over the next few days, I will be answering blog prompts to talk about our life as an autism family. All of the posts on my blog this week are dedicated to my son James, in recognition for what an amazing brother he is.

Today’s prompt: A few of my favourite things – Write 5-10 of your favourite things about your loved one. Celebrate their uniqueness and be sure to tell us why those are your favourite things.

I make a big deal of the fact that my boys are great brothers to one another, and that is something that means a lot to me. I try to encourage a positive relationship between them in whatever ways I can. Today, though, I want to celebrate them as individuals.

 

A few of my favourite things about James

1. He is snuggly. When he is sleepy, or simply wants a cuddle, he climbs into my lap and his body relaxes completely against mine. At those moments, he is like my very own teddy bear, all softness and warmth. No matter how bad I might be feeling on any particular day, those snuggles bring a smile to my face. Because how could that not make me feel better?

2. He has a natural sense of empathy that goes beyond his own family. He truly cares about what is going on with other people, and he has an uncanny ability to walk a mile in someone else’s shoes. This is one of the things that makes being around him such a magical experience.

3. He has a great imagination. His mind travels to places that would be beyond my wildest dreams. He creates stories about dragons and princesses, about magic toucans on faraway worlds, about unicorns that glitter and shimmer in the dark and fly to the tops of mountains. If you ever want to escape for a while, all you have to do is ask James to tell you a story.

4. He likes running. This interest may or may not stay with him, but for now, I am really enjoying the fact that he likes to go out for little jogs with me. Running was an interest that I shared with my dad, and to be able to share it with my son as well is tremendously special. It is a lot of fun, and it gives us a bit of time together, just the two of us.

5. He is passionate about what he believes in. OK, sometimes the passion comes across as a drama queen kind of attitude that drives me insane, but I love that James speaks his mind. I love the fact that he has strong opinions and a willingness to express them.

A few of my favourite things about George

1. Many people think that children with autism are not capable of affection, but George definitely is. He has a heart full of love and an endless supply of hugs for those dear to his heart. He is tall and gangly, but he is still just about able to clamber onto my lap for a hug. When he outgrows that ability, I will be truly sad.

2. He is a very funny kid. He finds humour in the oddest places and is so enthusiastic about it that we cannot help finding it absolutely hilarious. The humour is handily packaged with the most infectious laugh you ever heard. Once George gets going with his laughter, that’s it. You may as well cancel whatever plans you had because you’ll be too busy rolling around on the floor.

3. He’s a technogeek. Some people just have a knack for figuring out how things work, and George is one of them. When he was about five, I was trying to get the DVD player to work. George watched me wrestle with the thing for a while, and then he clicked his tongue impatiently, elbowed me out of the way, and pressed one button to get the movie going. It is useful to have a built-in tech support person.

4. He is determined. George has definitely inherited a stubborn streak that is in both me and in his dad. If he wants something, he will find a way to get it. There is no problem that he gives up on, and he can be very resourceful in how he goes about finding a solution. Sometimes this is not great from a parent’s point of view, but I love the fact that George just does not give up. On anything.

5. He has a fantastic memory. He only has to go somewhere once in order to know its location, what there is en route, and how long it should take to get there. It can be a little awkward when we’re trying to get from Point A to Point B and George knows where every single donut shop in between is, but if we’re ever in doubt we can just ask him for directions. Who needs a GPS when you have a child with autism in the car?

(Photo credit: Kirsten Doyle)

Filed Under: autism, Brothers, Determination, Empathy, Humour, Imagination, Laughter, Love, Memory, Passion, running, Technology, WEGO Health Tagged With: , , , , , , ,
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A Portrait of Two Brothers

August 21, 2012 By

For the next week, I will be participating in the WEGO Health “Advocating for Another” blog carnival. As I talk about the joys and challenges of raising a child with autism, I also recognize the contributions – of which there are so many – of my younger son James. All of the posts that I publish here this week are dedicated to him.

Today’s prompt: Portrait Post – Write a descriptive portrait of your child/ren. Share qualities that make them, them – and include an image!

They lie curled up together on the bed, their identical-coloured curls tangled together on a single pillow bedecked in a Thomas the Train pillowcase. The larger of the two boys has his arm thrown casually but protectively over his little brother. These boys are both amazing individuals in their own right, but at times like this, it seems that one would not be complete without the other.

Although only one of the children has a diagnosis, I am an advocate for both of them.

On the left is George, almost nine years old. He is tall for his age: one of those long lanky kids who somehow manages to stay skinny despite eating startling quantities of food. He bears a strong physical resemblance to me: our noses are the same shape, our eyes are the same shade of blue, and when we’re tired, both of our left eyes droop ever so slightly in the corner.

George has autism. He has profound delays in speech and social communication, and he gets anxious – almost panicky – when an established routine is deviated from. He has trouble regulating his emotions, and will bang his head in frustration when he is unable to make us understand what it is that’s bothering him. There are times when I look into his eyes and see the depth of his frustration, his sadness, his desperation to communicate in ways that he is not able to. It’s as if he wishes he could emerge from his world, even if just for a moment.

There are times, though, when his world is a wonderful place. He can see patterns where the rest of don’t even know one exists. He sees beauty in numbers: he is comforted by their consistency and their power, and he has always outperformed typical kids of his age in math. If there’s a problem to be solved, he will solve it, albeit by a somewhat unconventional method. He has a quirky sense of humour along with the most infectious laugh you ever heard. When George laughs, the whole world really does laugh with him.

And he has the most beautiful, pure heart that is just bursting with love. I treasure the moments when he says in his sweet lyrical voice, “Go give Mommy a hug”, and then clambers onto my lap, drapes his gangly arms around my neck and buries his face in my hair.

On the right of the bed is James, who is six going on twenty-seven. He came flying into the world like a cannonball one cold Christmas afternoon, and he hasn’t stopped since. He is a bundle of dynamite who zings his way around life with a seemingly endless supply of energy. His face is bright and vibrant, brought to life by shiny blue eyes that view the world with wonder and curiosity.

It is hard for him, being the sibling of a child with autism. Things happen that he perceives to be unfair, but in spite of this, his love for his brother does not waver. He tells me that he loves George more than he loves me – and I am completely fine with that. When George is having a meltdown, James treats him with concern and compassion. Many times, he will be the first one to know what George is trying to say and what he needs. We sometimes see George seeking out the comfort of his brother – comfort that James is always ready to give.

James shows wisdom and empathy beyond his years. But when he wakes in the morning and sleepily climbs into my lap, his little body melts against mine and I am reminded that he is just a baby. He may be a little brother with a big brother’s role, but he needs to be nurtured, cared for, protected. We need to be make sure that as he grows up, his role as George’s brother is balanced by his identity as James, as an individual with his own hopes and dreams.

I worry about the future for both of my boys. They will each have their challenges to deal with, and their battles to fight.

But now, as they lie sleeping, they don’t have a care in the world. And that’s just the way it should be.

(Photo credit: Kirsten Doyle)

Filed Under: Advocating for Another, autism, Brothers, Children, family, life, WEGO Health Tagged With: , , , , , , , , ,
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He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother

August 18, 2012 By

When I tell people that I have a child with autism, their immediate focus tends to be on what that must be like for me as a parent. Very few people have expressed any kind of compassion for my younger son – the neurotypical sibling. It’s not that people don’t care, they just don’t think about the challenges of the autism sibling until I bring up the subject. The truth is that the siblings can so easily be overlooked when, in a sense, they are special needs children themselves because of the roles they find themselves in.

I am calling this “James Week” on my blog. All of the posts that I publish here for the next seven days are dedicated to James, in honour of how utterly fantastic he is. I am so proud to be his mom.

Yesterday afternoon, George was crying. He was crying because he’d gotten into trouble – actual, real trouble that involved serious consequences. This is a big deal because it happens so rarely. We scold him, of course, and we don’t let him get away with stuff like headbutting his little brother. But thereal trouble – the kind that results in timeouts and the removal of computer privileges – we save for times when he has done something that could seriously compromise his safety or someone else’s.

Like the time he climbed a ladder onto the roof a few weeks ago. Or the time he hit his brother on the head with the business end of a garden hoe.

Yesterday’s transgression happened after we had all been sitting on the front steps of the house, drinking tea and enjoying the lovely weather. James was kicking a soccer ball around on the driveway, and George was tossing plastic ball into the air and then hitting it with a baseball bat, in a surprisingly coordinated way. When it was time to go in and start thinking about dinner, George got upset because he wanted to continue playing. We know that transitions can be rough for him, so we patiently spoke to him and tried to get him to yield the baseball bat.

In the end, he yelled, “FINE!”, threw the baseball bat down on the ground, stormed into the house and slammed the front door. In other words, he acted like a typical almost-nine-year-old bratty kid who wasn’t getting his own way.

Which is great, and normally something that would have me jumping for joy.

The problem was that he flipped the lock on the front door, so none of the rest of us could get in.

Oh dear. My autistic son – my upset autistic son – was unattended in a locked house. That is a frightening prospect: we were more worried about his safety than anything else. We did eventually talk George into unlocking the door, and then, to use common parenting parlance, we read him the riot act. He was given a timeout, which he hates, and then he had to wait for an hour before he was allowed to use his computer.

He cried as if the world was about to end. Tears of absolute desolation flowed from him as he lay on the couch. He looked utterly heartbroken.

Well, this was no good. We had wanted to discipline him, not make him miserable. I lay down on the couch beside him and told him I loved him. I tried to comfort him, but he would not be comforted. I started thinking that this might be one of those times where you just have to let the kid cry it out of his system.  But it turned out that he simply needed something else.

He got off the couch and ran into James’ room, where James was lying quietly on his bed waiting for the storm to pass. George got onto the bed beside James and gently tugged at James’ arm. James responded by looping his arm over George, and the boys lay there hugging each other.

And just like that, George was calm, as if someone had flicked a switch. Which in some way, James clearly had.

I instinctively knew that I needed to back away and let the brothers have some time alone.

As I quietly left the room, I heard James softly say to George, “I would do anything for you, George.”

(Photo credit: Kirsten Doyle)

Filed Under: autism, Brothers, family, parenting Tagged With: , , , , , ,
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What Autism Parents Have Patched Together, Let No Media Man Put Asunder

July 23, 2012 By

I am angry.

I’m not talking about mild aggravation here. I am scream-in-frustration spit-in-someone’s-eye angry. I would like to take the object of my anger, lock him into a room with me, and give him a stern what-the-bleep-are-you-thinking talking to.

Deep breath… soothing thoughts…

Allow me to explain.

As an autism parent, I spend the better part of my life fighting for stuff. Six years ago, I fought for the assessment that led to George’s diagnosis. Then I fought for services. Every year I fight for funding to pay for respite workers. I fight for educational accommodations and opportunities for my son.

I fight for awareness.

Most of all, because I want my son to have the opportunity to live a happy, healthy, productive life, I fight for acceptance. I try to encourage people to look past the more challenging aspects of autism to see my child for who he is: a beautiful human being, full of love and bursting with potential.

From time to time I see baby steps of progress. Someone might leave a comment on my blog saying that they have a greater understanding because of my writing. Or I might see comprehension dawn in someone’s eyes when I offer an explanation for a grocery store meltdown. Those moments of progress are so gratifying, because they give me hope for my son’s future.

And then, along comes MSNBC host Joe Scarborough, stating that the man responsible for the Colorado movie theatre shooting was “probably on the autism scale.”

Thanks, Joe. Way to promote acceptance for people with autism. Telling the world that a kid with autism could potentially grow up to be a mass murderer really helps our cause.

What astounds me is that Joe Scarborough is the father of a child with Aspergers. Having parented a child on the spectrum, hasn’t he had to have the same fights as other autism parents? Has he not had to beg for funding, or services, or the rewording of a point in an IEP? Has he not dealt with the stares of unsympathetic strangers or the ostracism of his child?

Has he not worried about whether his son will be accepted by the society in which he has to live?

Joe Scarborough’s statement about the Aurora shooter is not based on anything but dangerous speculation. It is my hope that most people will have the sense to dismiss what he said as groundless nonsense. It is my fear that he has planted new seeds of baseless stereotyping that will serve to further isolate the kids we are trying so hard to integrate.

People really need to think before they speak. Especially people with any kind of public voice.

(Photo credit: Fifth World Art. This picture has a creative commons attribution license.)

Filed Under: Acceptance, autism, Colorado shooter, stereotyping Tagged With: , , , , , ,
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