Disaboom problemchildbride Blog

Asperger's and Autism: Acceptance, Not Cure.

problemchildbride — Fri, 23 Nov 2007 20:18:00 GMT

I was listening to the BBC stream today of yesterday's Thought For The Day on their Today program. It was about Asperger's syndrome and whether or not we should consider it as a disability at all. It's read by a mother of a boy with Asperger's syndrome. Her son, a computer programmer doesn't want to be "cured". He is perfectly happy the way he is and says his Asperger's gives him an edge in his field of work.

Follow the link - it should take you to the November 22nd episode. Click on the 7.30-8.00am segment, and when the real player window pops up move the wee time cursor along to about 17.10 minutes. This is the start of the Thought For The Day part. It's a very interesting way to spend 5 minutes and started me on an internet quest for education about the Autism Pride movement. I hadn't even known there was such a thing but it makes a lot of sense and has some pretty heavyweight advocates in the field.

For example, Simon Baron-Cohen (cousin to Sacha Baron-Cohen of Borat and Ali G fame) , director of the National Autism Research Centre in Britain, despite his years studying them, doesn't seek to cure autism spectrum diseases. He believes they are caused by a failure to develop a "theory of mind" in infancy but that this difference needn't always be classed as a disability, especially in high functioning individuals and those with no mental retardation or particular speech difficulties. In some ways, goes the argument, people with Asperger's are freed up from the normal thought processes, which can obstruct the logic of thought and work, to which their neurotypical peers are prey.

Indeed, there is a case that Einstein might have had Asperger's Syndrome, and where would the world be if Einstein had been "cured"? His failure to talk until age 3, his contant repetition of words and phrases as a childhis apparent "slowness" and poor performance in school had his school-masters convinced he was of below-average intelligence. And yet, and yet, what he would go on to do...! His word is practically synonymous with genius, and he was able to function very well in the world despite requiring long periods of solitude. Newton is theorized to have had Asperger's too. There are arguments both for and against these posthumous diagnoses. Check them out. It's a fascinating debate that can only shed light on the complexity of the human condition.

If you are interested you can read more about the Autism Acceptance movement here and here .

Friday Zoo - Check It Out!

problemchildbride — Fri, 16 Nov 2007 00:51:00 GMT

I thought I'd have a Friday zoo just for the fun of it and because Wednesdays zoos close most of their concession stands. Light snacks and beverages will be available throughout this post. 'Cos it's a Thursday, see.

First up, a sprinkling of jokes:

A 4-year-old goes with his daddy to see a litter of kittens. On returning home, all excited, he tells his mother that there were 3 boy and 2 girl kittens. "How do you know?" asks his mammy. "Daddy picked them up and looked underneath," replies the boy. "I think it's printed on the bottom."

A father was reading Bible stories to his daughter. he read "The man named Lot was told to take his wife and flee out of the city but his wife looked back and was turned to salt." The little girl asks "What happened to the flea?"

A little girl walks into a pet shop and asks in the sweetest little lisp: "Excuthe me, mithter, do you keep wittle wabbits?"

The shopkeeper gets down on his knees, so that he's on her level, and asks: "Do you want a wittle white wabby or a soft and fuwwy bwack wabby or maybe one like that cute wittle bwown wabby over there?"

The little girl puts her hands on her knees, leans forward and says in a quiet voice: "I don't fink my pyfon really giveths a thit."

Every night this cat wanders off and at exactly 8am each morning it waits for its owner to collect in her car at a exactly the same place. Most peculiar.

This one is just hilarious. Go see animals talking like their owners. The cat one is my favorite.

Then go see Sammy the Seagull, a Scottish herring gull who's been pinching bags of Cheese Doritos from a newsagent in Aberdeen over the past few weeks. The perp casually strolls in through the door, pretending like he's just any other honest seagull out doing his groceries. Then, when he thinks the coast is clear, he strikes. Bold as brass he's off but he doesn't even try to flee the crime-scene and proceeds to eat is swag right on the pavement in front of the shop.

In Flanders Fields

problemchildbride — Tue, 13 Nov 2007 04:17:00 GMT

I can do no better today than to reproduce this:

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow.

Lover, and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

John McCrae

I watched the queen lay a wreath of poppies on the Cenotaph in London yesterday. In the past I've sometimes been moved to tears by this ceremony but this year, more than anything else, I was angry. Because we don't learn, do we? Here we are again at war - in two wars actually, with the administration rumbling about a third against Iran. Again, old men are sending young people off to die, while pretending they know what the hell it is they're doing. They don't know what they're doing.

War is unspeakable but not unspeakable enough because we keep fighting them: I wish war was taboo, not to be countenanced as an option at all until all other avenues are thoroughly, thoroughly exhausted. I wish we could hold in our hearts the abominations of past wars, the current war, and think of future wars as abominations too, never to be entered into. I wish our leaders, the people who sent our troops out to die in Afghanistan and Iraq, had had some insight into what war is really like. I wish the President read. I wish he'd read Wilfred Owen, Rupert Brooke, Siegfried Sassoon and John McCrae. Hell, I just wish he read the papers. Or even a pamphlet explaining the difference between a Sunni and a Shia Muslim. I wish he read something other than his tight little cabal cooked up for him. I wish there was a way out of this mess.

I tried to make my kids observe 2 minutes silence today in honor of war's victims and their families. They couldn't quite manage the full 2 - they're 5 - and don't really get it yet - lucky them. But I know fine well that when they come of age, war will still be making fools and liars of mankind, who always vow never again until the next time.

Is there such a thing as a just war? Many people argue WWII was justified. I don't know how to work these things out. How do you go about measuring the gain against the terrible losses? I'd like to think there are just wars and sacrifices mean something, but I can't see how this one is at all. I can't see that Iraq is anything but incompetent, poorly conceived, badly planned and a failure. And how because of Iraq, our campaign in Afghanistan is a shambles too.

This is just the view of a civilian. I would love to hear the viewpoints of others, even if they are completely different. The least we can do when our soldiers are dying is to talk about it. Many, many will be coming back with terrible injuries and some may wind up here at Disaboom. I'd love to hear the opinions of a person who has been fighting for us over there. Is it worth it?

If there are any soldiers or veterans reading this, I want to add my voice to the many in praise and support of you and with enormous gratitude for your sacrifices. Thank-you.

How To Make A Bar/Restaurant On A Budget More Disabled Friendly? Suggestions?

problemchildbride — Thu, 08 Nov 2007 17:59:00 GMT

We're 3 weeks into a new bar/restaurant venture that requires some extensive remodeling to the building. By this time next week, with any luck, our bathrooms should be wheelchair accessible. But, as I've been reading more and more on Disaboom, I've realized that I have never looked at the bar from the point of view of a disabled person.

Well last night I did and I realized what a nightmare it would be for anyone in a wheelchair. Our doorways are heavy and narrow; it'd be damned near impossible to navigate the narrow aisles between tables and chairs outside on the patio; and then there's the bar itself: what does a person in a wheelchair do if they want to sit up at the bar?

I don't know, and I realized the reason I don't know is because I've never seen it attempted or requested. In fact, I can't recall seeing anyone in a wheelchair in all the 4 years I have been going to this restaurant. We're in a small town but I know there are disabled people here - I've seen wheelchairs at festivals and fairs, but I never see any out at night.

I begin to understand a little of the "invisibility" of disability and the paltry availability of places for people to go to of an evening because, folks, it's not just us. A few establishments around town have wheelchair ramps but there the nod to the disabled ends. Once inside these shops and restaurants there is often just no room to move in a wheelchair. I can count on one hand the number of handicapped accessible bathrooms, and we consider ourselves a progressive, compassionate town!

I realize I am reporting this as news, all astonished and sputtering and stuff, but it is probably not news for many of you. I can't believe I have had my head up my own bum so long that I have never even considered this before. I'm thoroughly ashamed of this and to that end I want to make our bar as disabled-friendly as we can. Our limitations are to do with the age of the building - it's old and hasn't been very well maintained - plus we are on a budget. In addition there are probably a million little annoyances in a bar or eatery that can only be fully appreciated from a wheelchair point-of-view, so that's why I'm turning it over to you for your advice.

I am really appalled at how shabbily the disabled in our community are served and how I have completely overlooked it myself. I've always like to think of myself as a considerate, fairly tuned-in person but it's become clear to me in this past wee while that I've got work to do on that score.

So, guys and gals, what are your suggestions? What should we do to be more welcoming to disabled customers? What makes your blood boil when you're in an establishment? I really want to do this so all and any suggestions are welcome. What should we do right away? What should we work on in the long term?

Cheers.

How I Came To The USA, Part 1

problemchildbride — Fri, 02 Nov 2007 22:15:00 GMT

Being a fur’ner in a strange land, people sometimes ask me “How did you wind up here?”

Here is how it happened:

My parents sold me at the age of 12 for a John Deere tractor, a pair of nylons and a bottle of Jack Daniels. Weaving drunkenly off down the road, my parents turned and yelled “Take care, young’un, and be sure always to be kind! Yeeehaaa, this rig rocks, Seonaig*! Next stop, Ullapool!” They honked their horn as they turned the bend in the road and that was the last I ever saw of them.

Weeping silently, I turned and looked into the cold, fish-like eyes of my new life, but not before looking into the cold, fish-like eyes of my new “owner”. Her name was Mrs. Billingsgate, like the market, and she ran a boarding house “for those wot weren’t welcome elsewhere”. For this was Near London and they talk like that Near London.

We left Near London straight away. Mrs. Billingsgate (how I would come to hate that name!) drove and I rode with her spotty son Roland on the back of a wooden cart and, through my woe, was almost oblivious to the anachronism of this as Toyota Avenses and Nissan Micros sped past us on the highway, spooking the cart-horse, Ted, who passed away from nervousness soon after that trip. I wept for Ted because he was my only friend in those early days in London.

At length we arrived at the boarding house which was in a dark, gloomy lane (it’s the gloomy lane on London’s famous “Take The Gloomy Lane Tour!” tour for which the bus-drivers demand extra compensation on account of the screamings and stabbings and wailings and, unexpectedly, the cluckings.) Ted, (God bless that horse!) parallel-parked our cart skillfully between two similar carts despite being lashed all the while by the boy, Roland (a more odious youth, I have yet to encounter).

I alit from the cart, clutching my thin woolen shawl around my shoulders as the settling London fog was making the air nippier than a bowlful of teething pirrhanas. As we had travelled straight from the island that morning, I was still wearing our traditional garb of a long, plain but becoming dress with crinolene petticoats, thin-woolen shawl and a biannac (a kind of headscarf that speaks Gaelic). I also had my Nike trainers on because when I heard we were ” just going to take a wee trip down South” I decided I wasn’t going to let these London kids think we don’t know about fashion in the Hebrides. Upon lifting my skirts to avoid a puddle, Roland spied my Nikes and his piggy little eyes shone greedily in his scone-like face. Later, he would steal them for money to support his absinthe habit.

I looked up at the grey, lowering building in which I was to be indentured as a scullery maid, patting Ted’s nose absently, and an iciness took its unforgiving grip on my soul and squeezed.

“‘Ere, watch aht, young miss, that’s moy naahose you’re squeezing”, said Ted, sounding not unlike Dick Van Dyke’s cheerful sweep, Bert.

I doubted my ears, but they were still there, and then my sanity, but I didn’t know where that was and I thought it might be squishy to go poking for it. So I thought the only sensible thing to do was to reply politely, as I had been taught always to do. (My parents may have sold their own daughter into a life of servitude but they were lovely really; quite irreproachable people - when not on the mainland, which, after all, is known to temporarily turn even the most stoic of island heads - in possession of impeccable manners, and there were always paper doilies at teatime. I’ve never held my sale against them.)

“Oh, I do beg your pardon!”, I said.

“Don’t worry, ” said the inestimable Ted (may choirs of unicorns neigh him to his rest!) “I expect it was the iciness gripping your soul and squeezing. Best run along now, dearie. Roland’s in a rum mood, tonight and I’m already terribly nervous from that big-rig back at the M25.”

Roland whipped and yeehaed Ted round a corner and I was alone in the street. I could have run then. Don’t think I haven’t replayed that moment over and over in my mind. But I still had hope at that point, contrary to my every instinct, that I might find some small measure of kindness in my new life with the Billingsgates.

“Well gerra move on, you dozy bint!” cried Mrs. Billingsgate from the gate. “There’s supper to fetch for 22 ‘ungry men and you ain’t no use to man nor beast gawping out there.”

I went in.

I’m sorry. I’m going to have to finish this another time. I can’t go on right now. Too awfully moving and difficult, you know, revisiting these dark chapters... I'll just put a Part 1 in the header, are we cool with that?

*Seonaig - faintly amusing regional Highland name.

Tinkering, I'm Against It. Swearing, Not So Much.

problemchildbride — Tue, 23 Oct 2007 21:16:00 GMT

"Phthoo!!"... "Ratfink!"... "Darn tootin' thing!" ... "Gee whillikering barnacles on a stinky-bummed son of a donkey!"

I've been fiddling with my blog - feedburner, reddit and so forth - something only ever to be undertaken advisedly. I am no good at this back-room blog tinkering and in truth, I haven't really being uttering the mildnesses above at all. In the real honest to goodness of things, my language has been a bit more expressive, a bit more along the lines of :

"Why you %^&ing wee piece of insolent code, you! Where did you @#$$ing go, you %^&-%^&I^&, *&^%-eating, $%^&-
plucking, @$$$^-enjoying son of a rejoinder?? Come here, ya wee..."

And so on.

To be fair, it's not the wee piece of code's fault; it's me. I'm a bit dim at all this. For the past few days I've been tinkering over there on the sidebar, look. (Go on look! I'll wait. I'm not saying it's impressive or anything) Well, acksherly, for the past few days I've been looking into tinkering and only today have I actually engaged in the actual doing of any bona fide tinkering. As it were. Or as it weren't, as it happens.

As I've been sitting here, ferociously pounding on my keyboard in a way that's causing all the little crumbs underneath to ping out and imperil mine and the cat's eyes, the air around me has turned a gentle shade of blue and outside, passing sailors and dock-workers have gathered wide-eyed and open-jawed to pick up some hints on the finer nuances of foul language. I opened the window half an hour ago and shouted to them all to go and fiddle with their sidebars and that would cause a torrent of brand-new expletive wonder to spring from their throats as naturally as gurgles from a baby; song from a bird; as smoothly as lies from a politician. A few of them, thinking I was advising personal recreation, have been looking about their anatomy for something that could be called a side-bar. Bless them.

But, I read, it is not at all bad and indeed in some ways quite good for you to launch a yacht of cursing out onto the Sweary Seas. Consider this and this and this too! It turns out that swearing's practically an occupational therapy! It raises a lot of interesting questions too - is there a difference between men and women swearing? What's good swearing and what's bad? What do you think?

Meanwhile, back in the bowels of my blog, the tinkering grimly continues.

$%^%!

Why, Howdy!

problemchildbride — Fri, 19 Oct 2007 18:47:00 GMT

Hello Disaboom!

Now you say hello, forgetting for a minute your questions about who in the world wide webbynet I am and why you should greet me with anything other than dark suspicions and sidelong glances. This is the internet after all, home to weirdos of every stripe and tartan. (I'm the latter).

As it happens I'm lovely. You'll just have to take my word on that. I hail (and rain and sleet and generally precipitate) from the Isle of Lewis in the Outer Hebrides of Scotland.

Look, here's the thing. I lied. I'm not really all that lovely. I'm more one of your staggeringly ordinary types. You might say dull. I'd weep of course for a time, if you said that - was their ever, after all, a more damning social label than dull? - but then I'd lie to myself in the usual human way and be convinced you meant it affectionately.

But here is what I've discovered I love to do: I love to write crap, utter crap. In fact the crappier the better, and I like to do it online and yak to anyone who gives a tinker's curse who wants to yak back. Whether it be lighthearted, serious, lyrical or other people's legs, I like to wax them all. I think the internet revolution is one of the most extraordinary and empowering developments in the history of human communications and, used wisely, it holds the promise of fostering friendship, understanding, discussion and learning among all different types of people. Even people like me! That is what excites me daily. We're still cresting the revolution right now, of course, but I feel I'm having my own wee revolutions all the time: when I meet amazing people I could never have otherwise met; when a well thought-out argument changes my mind, or even doesn't; when ordinary people in respectful, reasoned discussion quietly but powerfully show up the shouting heads on the 24-hour news channels for the blunt-minded blow-hards they really are; when I get a far better idea of real people's lives ex suus os than any dramatization I've seen: for me all of these things redeem the human condition from being as crass and base as the news often suggests it is.

This is my newest venture in blogging but I started the online part of my existence a while back as a lonely housewife and mother who had just moved to a new town and was at home all day with twin babies. I craved adult conversation. There were days when blogging stopped me climbing the walls and swinging from the light fixtures shrieking like a baboon with a popsicle up its bum until the authorities came to take me away.

I'm not physically disabled. I don't understand many of the restrictions and frustrations a lot of you deal with every day but I know something of disability through being bipolar. I know a little about stigma and despair through just being human: my mother, also bipolar, grew up on a very strictly religious island where people didn't even say the word cancer out loud, far less talk about "madness". She was sent away at 16 to a horrible Victorian mental hospital on the mainland with stigma and despair piled on her back.

I know a bit about chronic conditions and hope. My dad, after years of hospital wards and daily dialysis, received a kidney transplant 8 years ago. It changed his life. The average transplant only lasts 10 to 15 years so he is living on borrowed time, but, hell, aren't we all? Life is so fickle and fragile, it can snap our minds or snuff us out or break our bodies any time it likes but as long as it doesn't cow us or silence us we'll be OK and I reckon that's what Disaboom is all about.

But apart from all of that, basically I've got a big gob and I just like to yak to other people.

Right that's a ridiculous amount about me. What about you? Won't somebody say hello? I'm new. I don't know anybody here yet. It's kind of lonely - in fact I just saw a tumbleweed roll by.

Hello?