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January 31, 2026
Hatred
Posted in Uncategorized tagged Autism, Disability, Media, Neurodiversity at 7:22 pm by chavisory
Some time ago now, a handful of other friends and bloggers and I founded We Are Like Your Child, a group blog in which we wrote realistically and non-tragically about our challenges as autistic and disabled people both as children and adults, and about our coping mechanisms, adaptations, and creative problem-solving. This was in response to absolutely chronic accusations that neurodiversity advocates avoided talking about these issues in order not to tarnish our “positive” messaging about autism and avoid stigma, having heard from many parents that they genuinely wanted places where we’d talk more about daily realities and challenges, and we ourselves feeling frustrated at how many of the higher-profile books about finding success as an autistic person which had come out at the time still emphasized success according to neurotypical and non-disabled standards.
The title was an overt reference to a frequent refrain from autism warrior parents and curebies to autistic self-advocates at the time:
“You’re not like my child.”
We had a relatively small following compared to outlets like The Thinking Person’s Guide to Autism, Diary of a Mom, or Parenting Autistic Children With Love and Acceptance, but feedback was generally good—parents who read it tended to say it was a useful resource for them, which was what we’d hoped for. It also made it convenient to just respond with a link every time we saw someone in a comment thread going “Isn’t there a place for this?” There were other personal blogs, too, older than ours, by both non-autistic parents (and occasionally autistic ones) and autistic people where the focus was not about painting autism as all sugar and spice but about not propagating hatred and dehumanization and where autistic adults did not necessarily feel obligated to expose their or their children’s most intimate challenges to the world as a condition of writing about autism at all. It was very much not that this writing didn’t exist, although the WALYC writers did commit to being a little bit more vulnerable, in the service of our stated purpose, than we tended to be on our personal blogs.
I do think the social media environment has changed in the last 10-15 years, and not all for the better, especially given the rise of ultra-short form and video-based platforms, to the point that even I find a great deal of the autism-related content that’s readily available to be shallow and far too highly sanitized to be relatable. I sympathize, on one level, with protests that a lot of the autism influencer content out there right now doesn’t have anything to do with their children’s actual lives. Most of it doesn’t really have anything to do with mine.
And so, in comment threads in which autistic people are, once again, trying to refute the central premise of “I love my child but I hate his autism,” or pleading with parents not to use hateful language about autism because of the consequences that view has had for autistic people, and once again the reply will be “But can’t we acknowledge that not everything about autism is ideal all of the time…?” It’s not all your fault, but I do wonder whether you’ve looked beyond the social media algorithms and read a book or a blog by an autistic self-advocate, because there is actually not a shortage of writing in the world about how difficult and frustrating autism can be.
Or is it that what you really want is someplace that will not just be unvarnished, but will validate you in your hatred of autism, where you won’t be seriously challenged to question and examine those feelings and their impacts on you and your child?
And I started wondering something else, which is maybe related to still widespread misconceptions about what neurodiversity means, that it is about making autism out not to be a disability but a personal quirk, that it’s fine for low-support needs or “level 1” autistic people, but autistic people like your child, or the children you teach, or the children you know, need a cure, but… Do you think that we work so hard to warn you away from hatred of autism because we don’t have any experience of that hatred?
Well, we do.
I can’t speak so much for the autistic people a generation or so younger than me at this point, but among my own generation, probably most of us have hated autism. We have hated being autistic. We have hated ourselves. We have hated being the way we are.
At one point in time, I talked to other people most days who hated their autism.
It’s because we do know what hatred of autism is like, not because we don’t, that we beg you not to go down that road. To stop and turn back if you already have. Because we have been there. We do know what’s at the other end.
(The author of the piece linked above would go on to die by suicide.)
There was even a moment in which I thought, “Well, we should write something.” That we should get a few people to write about the experience of hatred of autism, plainly and openly and sincerely like we did on We Are Like Your Child. (There was a period of time in which the autistic community responded to almost any issue that exploded into the social media sphere with a flashblog.)
And then I thought, no. This is not yours. This is something you do not get to demand from us. The vast majority of our available writing is already laced with the consequences of hatred of autism, and the self-hate that we had systematically instilled growing up.
And this time, that’s all we really need you to know about this.
Yes, you do have a right to your feelings. Many of them are quite understandable in light of what the widespread, pervasive cultural narratives about disability and autism still are.
But I actually don’t think it’s too much to ask, given precisely that history, that you find a way to work through them that doesn’t have soul-destroying and deadly consequences for autistic people, including for children like yours.
January 20, 2026
Morning snow
Posted in Uncategorized tagged NYC, Photography at 6:15 pm by chavisory
From our snow storm earlier this weekend. I didn’t have much time before work but I managed to get out for a brief walk in the park.
January 13, 2026
“Cognitive rigidity” and autistic people’s sense of justice
Posted in Uncategorized tagged Autism, Disability, Neurodiversity at 6:48 pm by chavisory
In the wake of the publication of his 2015 book NeuroTribes, author Steve Silberman frequently and memorably referred to a “strong sense of justice” as being so commonly noted among autistic people that it was “practically diagnostic.” In the years since, this observation (in which Silberman was not alone, but among its more prominent proponents) has transmuted into a conception of “justice sensitivity” as an inherent feature of autism itself, or as an innate character trait of autistic people.
I think there’s a lot to criticize in this idea of “justice sensitivity” as an inherent feature of autism rather than just common among autistic people, from the risks of portraying people of any neurology as inherently more moral, to the implication that autistic people are immune to prejudice or racism or incapable of acting unjustly ourselves.
However, I’m also becoming concerned with the narrative taking hold among some of the autistic community that says that autistic justice sensitivity is entirely a fabrication, or that it’s actually nothing more than a manifestation of our cognitive rigidity.
While I think it’s obviously a mistake to frame it as an essential feature or neurological trait of autism, I don’t think it’s either of those things, either, and in writing it off completely, I think we’re making the mistake of considering autistic people only collections of autistic traits, of neurological deficits, and not as people, who have personal histories, experiences, memories, characters, temperaments, values, feelings, or even the capacity for awareness of wrong done to ourselves and others.
I don’t believe “justice sensitivity” is an inherent trait of autism; I also don’t believe that it’s just our cognitive “rigidity.”
I think it’s one possible set of responses to our environments and experiences that we as humans are capable of having, one way in which our personal values can develop in response to our own histories and experiences and the way they interact with our predisposition to certain cognitive traits, personalities, and temperaments.
You know, like real people’s do.
And I suspect it’s one that we may be somewhat more likely to have than non-autistic people or people without some kind of history of marginalization, because of the ways our experiences differ from theirs from our earliest childhoods, and the interaction of these experiences with traits that are documented aspects of autism.
We’re subjected to absolutely rampant injustice compared to non-autistic children. We’re subjected to lower standards in healthcare and medical research. We can be deprived of our basic needs on the whim of an authority figure much more easily than non-autistic or non-disabled people can be. We’re often disbelieved about our most basic needs, our abilities and inabilities, our discomfort, our physical pain—to the point that one research study on pain reactivity in autistic vs. non-autistic children cautioned in its conclusion that “Clinical care practice and hypotheses regarding underlying mechanisms need to assume that children with autism are sensitive to pain.”
It has been considered perfectly acceptable to electric-shock autistic children into behavioral compliance within my adult lifetime, and while cities and states in the U.S. progressively ban conversion therapy on LGBTQ+ minors as ineffective and unacceptably damaging, effectively the same therapy developed by the same people is still considered the “gold standard” for treatment of autistic children.
We have feelings. We have empathy. “Strong pattern recognition” might be an oversimplification, but there is documentation of patterns of perceptual functioning in autistic people that are enhanced compared to those of non-autistic people in some respects, and other research has suggested we display more moral consistency across contexts, including in response to strangers and even when costly to ourselves. We’re also often noted for having longer and more detailed early memories, so we may well remember these experiences more vividly and with more specificity on average.
I also wonder about whether we might be less susceptible to just-world fallacies than non-autistic and non-disabled people on average. We have more reason to know that people in positions of social power or authority can do terrible things to you for no real reason than most people do.
Why would it be even a little bit surprising, given all this, that we might be particularly easily sensitized to witnessing injustice against others, on average?
I hate seeing other people mistreated just for being who they are, or just because someone else decided they could, because I know how that feels. I have since I was a tiny child. It is physically painful. I’m not capable of looking at rank injustice or abuse and just going “That’s fine,” or “That’s got nothing to do with me.”
This probably has to do with my experiences as an autistic person, as well as other things about me as a human in a complex interplay of reactions over time.
Almost just like a real person.
It’s not even like justice sensitivity only occurs among autistic people. Why does anyone become a civil rights activist, anyway? Lots of non-autistic people have looked at the injustice of the world and decided they could not simply tolerate it, whether they’re directly impacted or not. Why does anyone decide to work with or on behalf of a group of people they themselves don’t belong to? Why does anyone dedicate their life, or even give it, for the cause of justice?
Is it just their rigidity when a non-autistic person does it? Or is it a complex response to personal experiences, early perceptions of the world, having witnessed injury against someone they cared about, religious or spiritual convictions, the influence of role models, and other factors that all contribute to the formation of deep feelings about what justice requires?
I think there’s a serious danger in deciding that justice sensitivity in autistic people is “just our rigidity” of shoring up still-rampant prejudices that almost anything autistic people do is just a mechanistic imitation of non-autistic capabilities. (Non-autistic people have actual strengths, for instance, while we have splinter skills.) Where it’s fake whenever we do it. We could never genuinely identify with real people experiencing injustice. We don’t have real thoughts or feelings, because nothing that happens to us matters. We’re just walking embodiments of autistic deficits, after all, not conscious, complicated beings being affected by the things that happen to us in complex ways over time.
(///sarcasm)
I think we should critique the idea of autistic people as possessing some kind of essential superiority in moral perception, and that this is a topic that deserves more critical study; I think it could reveal a lot about autistic vs. non-autistic experiences of empathy, identification with those we perceive as different from ourselves, marginalization, ethical consistency, unpredictability, and social hierarchy. I’m curious about how culturally bound this phenomenon may be.
But there’s a real danger in setting up a standard in which autistic people’s powerful moral perceptions or identification with others can never be seen as meaningful or genuine, in which even our objection to our own dehumanization and mistreatment can never be considered credible, because that’s “just our rigidity.”
January 7, 2026
Sound tracks
Posted in Uncategorized tagged Culture, Media, Movies, Music, Quotes at 2:02 am by chavisory
For the start of the new year, I decided to put a dent in my long movie watch list while I still have my evenings free, and started off with Rabbit Trap, an intimate little folk horror starring Dev Patel from just last year, followed by Touch the Sound, a 2004 documentary about Deaf percussionist Evelyn Glennie… and I can’t get over the resonance of these two passages about what it means to have a physical relationship with sound:
“Everything will be let go, in the same way that all your music will disappear, but yet no sound is lost. They live on, but what happens to them, I actually don’t know. It’s the equivalent of a life.”
-Evelyn Glennie, Touch the Sound
*
“What happens when a sound dies? Where does it go?”
“I don’t think a sound is ever alive to begin with. It’s the vibration of an event. The invisible shadow of an energy exchange. Sound is memory. carved into the air. It’s a ghost. Just a scared, lost creature, desperate for somewhere to hide, if only for a moment, before it fades away. And when you hear a sound, you become its home. your body is the house that it haunts.”
-Darcy Davenport, Rabbit Trap
(Side note, but you might enjoy Rabbit Trap if you also liked Dev Patel’s other movie The Green Knight, or horror movie The Strings from a few years ago.)
December 24, 2025
Last dusk
Posted in Uncategorized tagged NYC, Photography at 12:30 am by chavisory
From my last evening walk in NYC for the year, right after the snowfall a few days ago.
December 17, 2025
Paging Dr. Mohan
Posted in Uncategorized tagged Autism, Culture, Lost, Media, Neurodiversity, Television, The Pitt at 11:59 pm by chavisory
HBO’s The Pitt is one of those shows that I think both demands and deserves a viewer’s full attention, not put on as background noise for folding laundry. And yet this past week I put it on in the background to rewatch while I folded laundry, and even so, find myself appreciating certain characterizations more deeply than I did on my first watch.
Most of the conversation around neurodivergent representation in the show has centered on Dr. Mel King—kind, even-tempered, and compassionate, but also blunt, literal-minded, and easily overloaded by conflict and chaos. She has an autistic sister who lives in a residential facility nearby, and who she speaks of often, leading many viewers to overlook that Mel herself is fairly obviously autistic. I could say a lot about why audiences fail to recognize autistic characters when they don’t conform to two-dimensional stereotypes or openly identify themselves as such in extremely circumscribed and clinical terms, but I think it’s one of the major ways in which the “autistic character as teaching tool” era of representation has failed.
And I think she’s great—possibly even the best-written intentionally autistic character since Holly Gibney of another HBO production, The Outsider.
(I maintain that among the best-written autistic characters ever on television was LOST’s abrasive, unexpectedly lovable con-man Sawyer, although I’m quite certain that was fully unintentional.)
I particularly appreciate that she’s allowed to be very noticeably autistic, and not just fully competent, but genuinely good with people—that the creators did not lean into the trope of autistic people as lacking empathy.
It’s very rare, and very enjoyable. She represents a staggering leap forward in the writing and representation of autistic characters on television.
But the deeper into this rewatch I get, the more I feel the character actually most important to me is Dr. Samira Mohan.
The very first character trait we’re given with which to associate Dr. Mohan, in the first act of the first episode, is that she’s too slow. She tells Dr. Robby that she knows other doctors call her “Slow-Mo,” that it hurt her feelings until she learned to embrace it. She doesn’t see enough patients per hour. She listens to entire life histories. She costs the hospital time and money. She has the highest patient satisfaction score of anyone in the ER.
Dr. Robby is on her case about it constantly; we don’t hear him compliment her work to her until the 12th episode: “Mohan’s on fire,” he exclaims in the adrenaline rush of the aftermath of a mass shooting.
I also work in a profession that values alacrity, though actual matters of life and death are thankfully very rare (though not non-existent), and which necessitates near-constant multitasking. I feel too slow for what’s going on in the room a lot. And I know it isn’t even necessarily true! The work gets done; the show goes on. I’ve developed a lot of strategies and efficiencies in my work flow. I know I’m not even unique in feeling this way, though I do occasionally feel uniquely targeted for it. In the course of a rehearsal process a couple of years ago, our director had gone to the general manager and production manager with a concern that my multitasking ability wasn’t up to snuff. Notwithstanding that it wasn’t true—not only was I doing a stellar job, I was being appropriately supported by an ASM who knew me well—it is a bigger challenge for me and something I’ve always had to work harder at than most people.
“Slow is smooth and smooth is fast,” said our fight choreographer for the same production (for whom I was constantly fighting with the director to get sufficient rehearsal time). I wrote that down on a Post-It note that I still keep stuck in my planner.
In a stage management community meeting about upcoming rule changes around overtime pay in some of our contracts, the question arose as to how claims for OT would be regarded if a stage manager were perceived as simply taking too long at things. Attempting to assure us that all stage managers have strengths and weaknesses and that’s just the cost of doing business, the presenter said “So for instance, someone who’s neurodivergent might take longer to write reports, because that’s what their weakness is.”
“I’m neurodivergent,” I commented, “and I take longer to write reports because I’m good at them, not because I’m not.” I could take less time to write less useful rehearsal reports and make more mistakes, but sometimes good work just takes the time that it takes.
Am I actually too slow, I’ve often wondered in a fast-paced process, or should there just be three of me here?
I’ve also always felt slower than my fellow stage managers as far as my career progression. I suffer constantly from trouble keeping good ASMs around, because I’ll get one show with a stellar assistant before their opportunities for career advancement quickly eclipse my own. Partly I know that I’m weak at networking, but I’ve also had to turn down offers of work because I simply couldn’t pivot fast enough to a new production without a break.
I’ve often felt that the time I take to listen to someone or to understand a problem is perceived as passivity or lack of urgency.
And I don’t get the impression that Mohan is autistic, or deliberately coded as neurodivergent in any particular way, in contrast to Dr. King—and that’s actually important to me, too, and says a lot about the kinds of representation we can and should be able to expect. Because autistic people aren’t experiential black boxes, fundamentally and irreparably incomprehensible and uncomprehending of the experiences we share in common with our non-autistic fellow humans.
Well-written autistic characters like Mel King are important and necessary. They also shouldn’t be the only way we can ever see ourselves in others.
I know there are higher-stakes story lines afoot this coming season, but I’m excited to see what’s in store for Dr. Mohan—whether she’ll decide that maybe emergency medicine actually isn’t for her, or find her niche in the ER with a case that demands her particular approach.
December 14, 2025
Peekskill
Posted in Uncategorized tagged New York, Photography at 7:27 pm by chavisory
Peekskill, New York, from a little day trip I took earlier this fall.
December 9, 2025
Neurophototherapy, art, unmasking and not masking
Posted in Uncategorized tagged Art, Autism, Books, Culture, Neurodiversity at 2:22 pm by chavisory
I’ve never really identified with the narrative around masking and unmasking in the autistic community. When I was just starting to encounter autistic writing seriously considering the possibility, and then the probability, that I was autistic, the community was more likely to talk about “passing” or “camouflaging,” terms which implied to me more ambiguity, more negotiation with an environment or with a social context, than mechanistically pretending to be non-autistic by relentlessly suppressing autistic traits in favor of constructing a neurotypical persona in the way I tend to hear younger and more recently diagnosed people describe now.
We often tell parents that autism isn’t a shell surrounding a “normal” child. There’s no non-autistic child hiding under an autistic mask.
In my case, there’s no authentic, autistic me hiding under a neurotypical mask. “Masking,” the way it seems to mostly be meant now, is not something I’ve ever had the bandwidth to do.
But I’ve enjoyed artist Sonia Boué’s work for a long time, and finally got around to reading Neurophototherapy: Playfully Unmasking with Photography and Collage this weekend.
One of the ideas Boué presents in the book that I found particularly resonant, though perhaps not entirely in the way she intended, is that of “working with safe things.”
I love collage art, and I struggle with it, in much the same way that many of us do with our sticker collections and actually putting stickers on things, with using up, cutting or gluing all the beautiful images and little scraps of things I find and save. I feel like if something doesn’t turn out the way I hoped it would, I’ve destroyed it.
It had never quite occurred to me to just use the color copier sitting beside me on my desk to make some copies to play with without risk. That not just in the emotional content but the actual materials I gave myself to work with, I could make it safe to experiment more freely.
“Throughout this book, Sonia Boué writes of Neurophototherapy as a dialogic practice, a practice of making connections – between the individual and the world, between old and current selves – and the little board book felt like an invitation to dialogue. It also recalled a past self, a pre-masking preschooler who often acted on the impulse to get very, very close to books she loved…”
Like Joanne Limburg, who writes the first of two guest essays in the book, I had nurtured early hopes of artistic talent that were eventually subsumed by the necessity of being the smart girl. For reasons both complicated and not, I felt like I needed to throw the majority of my time and energy into high level academics, and it’s not that I was “masking,” but it’s also difficult to exercise the kind of freedom and disinhibition necessary for art when an extreme amount of the cognitive disk space you have available is going to math and chemistry and AP English papers. Especially, probably, when you’re autistic and switching gears/changing activities is specifically something you have trouble with, and also that even when all of your time isn’t being taken up by homework and extracurricular activities, you’re exhausted by school.
I was also struck by Limburg’s statement “I wondered if perhaps neurophototherapy, which is a practice of unmasking to oneself, specifically required conditions of privacy in which to work.” I’ve often wondered whether elements of autistic learning and growth particularly require privacy, whether there are in fact neurodevelopmental reasons why we just don’t thrive under conditions of intense scrutiny.
And it all left me thinking that maybe we just need more ways of talking about all the ways in which autistic people get lost from ourselves, or get separated from who we were as children, or are transfigured by circumstance or necessity, that aren’t necessarily masking.
“One of the cruelest tricks our culture plays on autistic people is that it makes us strangers to ourselves,” Julia Bascom wrote in her foreword to the Loud Hands anthology. And I think that there are actually a lot of different ways that happens, and paths by which we can start to find our way back, that aren’t accounted for by the narrative of masking and unmasking.
November 3, 2025
Records I’ve owned more than once: Ten Years Together
Posted in Uncategorized tagged Culture, Media, Memory, Music at 2:11 pm by chavisory
My parents being of the generation they are, I grew up with this album in the house, of course. Peter, Paul and Mary were actually one of the first concerts I was ever taken to, when I was eight.
I bought myself a copy in college–our debate society’s hall had a turntable, donated or left behind by another alum, so a couple of us bought a few LP’s to have around from one of the record stores downtown, though I don’t actually remember if I found it at Wuxtry or Schoolkids or a sidewalk merchant’s table. I got us that one, and also the Moody Blues’ On the Threshold of a Dream.
And then of course I had to leave it behind when I moved to NYC. I hope it’s being enjoyed there still. I didn’t own a turntable for a long, long time. Money aside, there was just no space.
One year as I was getting ready to leave a friend’s Thanksgiving gathering, already the last person to leave, I noticed that she had a copy, and we put it on, and wound up talking until 3:00 in the morning.
But finally some domestic musical chairs left me with a little extra room, and I spent part of a workshop stipend on a cheap portable turntable from Barnes & Noble, when they’d decided to start carrying music again.
And told myself that whenever I next ran into a secondhand copy of this, I had to buy it.
Which I did a couple weekends ago when I took a little adventure up to Peekskill, NY, on one of my last days off before I started rehearsal for a new show. In a used book and record store called the Bruised Apple.
Yes, it really was $4.50. And it’s in almost perfect condition.
September 27, 2025
Blogging “A Ring of Endless Light”
Posted in Uncategorized tagged A Ring of Endless Light, A Wrinkle in Time, Books, Culture, Madeleine L'Engle, Media at 2:18 pm by chavisory
So in addition to blogging a Willa Cather novel in the summertime, I also try to get around to one of the books of either the Austin Family Chronicles or the second generation of the Murry-O’Keefes. I’ve been alternating between them, one of Vicky’s books for one of Poly’s, rather than reading straight through each series in succession, which has brought out some really interesting parallels between them.
I didn’t get around to this year’s book earlier in the summer the way I wanted to–The Song of the Lark was long (Cather’s longest book, as it turns out), and some other issues took up a lot of the second half of my summer (roommate upheaval, trying to organize a little independent research project that’s taken a lot of reading unto itself, taking my landlord to court)–but it’s still happening! Posts for A Ring of Endless Light will be appearing at the tag here.
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