We've Been Here All Along: Autistics Over 35 Speak Out in Poetry and Prose

Rachel Inc. Cohen-Rottenberg

Description

This new anthology showcases the work of autistic writers throughout the United States, Canada, the United Kingdom, and Australia.

Sujets

• Autism Spectrum Disorders
• Sociologie, société et politique
• Psychopathology
• Psychology

Informations

• Publié par: eBookIt.com
• Date de parution: 21 février 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9780984138845
• Langue: English

Extrait

WE’VE Been Here All ALong
Autistics Over 35 Speak Out in Poetry and Prose
 
Edited and Compiled by
Rachel B. Cohen-Rottenberg
 


Published by Rachel B. Cohen-Rottenberg
Brattleboro, VT
[e-mail]
 
© 2012 Rachel B. Cohen-Rottenberg
 
 
Published in eBook format by Rachel B. Cohen-Rottenberg
Converted by http://www.eBookIt.com
 
ISBN-13: 978-0-9841-3884-5
 
All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without written permission from the author.
 
Cover and book design by Rachel B. Cohen-Rottenberg
 
Dedication
To my great-aunt Sarah
October 1, 1908 - March 16, 1934

 
 

Introduction
Books, websites, and the popular media often portray autism as a condition of childhood, rendering autistic adults nearly invisible. And when the concomitant message is that autism was nearly unknown in past generations, those of us who grew up undiagnosed can feel doubly marginalized.
In this volume of poetry and prose, autistic adults break through our invisibility and reflect upon our lives, our memories of childhood, and our present-day experiences. We give birth to our voices, to our struggles, and to our life stories.
We have always been here. Remember us.
Rachel Cohen-Rottenberg
September, 2012
Clay
Clay has been a sailor who never went to sea, a parts clerk, a truck driver, a service station owner, and a belated college student. He was a “weed-abater” (cutting, stacking, and burning weeds along the All-American Canal), a service station attendant, a “leadman” at a motor home factory, a house painter, a building maintenance worker at a rather exclusive country club, and a salad and sandwich maker at a high-falutin’ restaurant. He has finished pianos and waited counters, spent several years converting an old printing factory into an urban shopping mall, and worked for 16 years as a home health aide. Whatever he did, it was to put the finishing touches on something. He is now retired.

My Love Affair with Words
Kindergarten was a half-day affair. I’d spend the morning watching the brand-new TV my father had gotten us the Christmas before, totally enthralled by such old-time greats as Kate Smith, Johnny Ray, Pinky Lee, and Les Paul and Mary Ford. I know that many people will say that TV is a huge waste of time, the opiate of the masses. To me, it was simply great, because I finally had someone (okay, something) that would talk to me, and I was avidly seeking to increase my vocabulary.
See, I had this love affair with words.
There was this weird thing I would do whenever I heard a word that was new to me. I would withdraw from whatever was happening and repeat it about five or six times. When I was done, I knew what it meant. My sisters used to see me engaging in this ritual, and they commented on it, but I didn’t tell them what I was doing. You might think that I had figured out the meaning by the context in which the word was used. I did, but the process entailed far more than that.
One day, early on in kindergarten, Miss Potts played a game that was designed to teach us to raise our hands to ask or answer questions. She would ask, “What sound does a duck make?” Someone would raise his hand to say, “They say, quack .”
“Very good. Now, what sound does a cow make?”
“They say, moo .”
“All right. Now, what sound does a horse make?”
The other kids didn’t seem to know, but I had learned it from reading Donald Duck comics, so I said, “Horses say, neigh .”
Miss Potts stopped moment, a smile on her face, and replied, “They say nay ? Then they should run for Parliament!”
This rejoinder brought a chuckle from the kids and a slow burn to my ears. I was about to say, “N-e-i-g-h! Look it up!” But she had said “Parliament,” and I had to withdraw to process the word. It took only about 10 seconds or less to come up with “form of government in England and its colonies,” but by then, she had gone on to pigs.
Now, I had learned the song The Mademoiselle from Armentieres , Parlez-Vous , so it was not hard to make the connection from “parlez” to “talking establishment,” but I had gone somewhere inside to access the information.
A couple of years later, when I had internalized the rules of English grammar and spelling, I was also able to know the correct spelling of words I had only heard. It wasn’t that I automatically knew how to spell something like “perspicacious.” I couldn’t visualize the word, but I would start writing it and, if I made a mistake, I would recognize it and know how to fix it. I didn’t always win the spelling bees, but I got perfect scores on spelling tests. I also somehow understood the words’ etymologies, whether they had derived from French, Old High German, Old English, Latin, or Greek. I was surprised when I came across the simple word “tattoo.” I got nothing at all, but that was because the word was completely unrelated to any language base with which I was familiar. I also don’t understand the etymology of any technological jargon, or of anything specific to science or math at all.
I never talked with anyone about these skills, but I recall wondering about them while walking to school. I came up with the theory that I must have lived before, probably as an English professor, and had retained the vocabulary. Every time I heard a new word, it was as though a bell had gone off. While processing the word, there was a feeling of becoming reacquainted with an old friend.
My friend Frank didn’t believe me. He called it “magical thinking,” because he couldn’t find an explanation in his strictly logical world. By then, I had realized that it was a savant skill. I know that there is absolutely no way to prove it now, but if this savant skill had been recognized when I five or ten years old, life might have unfolded quite differently.
 
Tim Gilbert
Tim Gilbert was born in 1964, in southern Ohio. He describes himself as a socially awkward child who preferred pursuing his special intense interests (roller coasters, house plans, and music) to typical childhood activities. As an adult, he taught high school English in the public school system for 19 years before becoming the school’s gifted intervention specialist. He was diagnosed with Asperger’s Syndrome in mid-life. He is happily married and has two sons, one of whom is also diagnosed with Asperger’s.

The Trouble with Sports
As my first-grade year was coming to a close, the flyers announcing the 1972 Little League season were distributed. Should I give it a try? Why not? My father had, in fact, played professional baseball in the 1950s, so I hesitantly said, “Yes.”
Most of us boys in the first grade were seven years old, and we were placed in what was called the minor league. There were four teams: Reds, Pirates, Tigers, and Yankees. I am not sure how teams were selected, but I landed on the Yankees team coached by big-framed Butch. Butch had had a lot of experience coaching Little League, and he knew how to run a team. And he knew how to maintain respect.
After he had tested our fielding skills by batting the ball to each of us in turn, I was selected for the outfield. The outfield was where you went if you were lousy at catching the ball since, at this young age, very few players could hit balls that far. That was fine by me, for I had better things to do in that lonely outfield. Turning around I could watch airplanes take off from the adjacent runway of the regional airport.
“Turn around, Tim!” was an imperative I heard on many occasions. But I didn’t care. I was busy counting airplanes and watching the magical aerodynamic lift of those Cessnas and Piper Cubs. Then there was that incredible roaring growl of the engine as a newly airborne plane struggled to climb toward the clouds. That was fun. But not the baseball game. It was not fun. It could be hell.
Trying to swing the bat at the correct moment as the ball zoomed over the plate, and making sure the bat was swinging horizontally through the correct altitude of the vertical plane, and trying to keep my eye on the ball at the same time as making sure my bat was where it was supposed to be was difficult and…“Strike One!” How could that be strike one? I hadn’t even swung the bat.
“Just watch the ball,” Dad always said, and swing …“Strike Two!” Okay, that didn’t work either. More than once, at this critical moment, I would look toward the lawn chairs down the first base line where Mom and Dad were sitting. Dad would give me that raised eyebrow with a half smile and a look of “Remember what I told you. You can do it!” I would watch the pitcher launch the ball at what seemed like 200 miles per hour, and hear my bat softly and slowly swish over the plate one second after the ball had smacked the catcher’s mitt.
“Strike Three. You’re out!”
I can’t begin to tell you how many times I heard that exclamation behind home plate. Then there was that long walk back to the worn-out bench where my teammates were anxiously awaiting their turns to hit a line drive toward second base. I, on the other hand, quickly earned my way into the ranks of the “Easy Out Club.” For some reason, I just could not seem to hit that ball, although Dad had worked with me a lot.
Sometimes, I got by with luck. By not swinging at the ball, I might get walked — especially by the not-so-skilled kids who threw pitches that even I perceived to be a ball. Those were my glory moments at the plate. After hearing the heavenly “Ball Four,” I made plenty of home plate umpires and catchers run for cover as I abruptly launched my bat in the air. Where it landed was anybody’s guess. But it didn’t matter. I was safe on first base.
All was well for the moment — but then the next batter took the plate, and the confusion began.
Should I lead off first base in anticipation of second? If I did lead off, how would I know when I was supposed to steal second? How was I to know whether I was supposed to step back on first? How was I to know…?
This was not