Yes, You Are Talking About Me

This post is a contribution to Blogging Against Disablism Day. I'm sure there are as many definitions of what is variously called ableism or disablism as there are blogs, so I'll start with my own definition, which is that it's a prejudice against people who are seen as being less capable in society. I use the word "seen" because what we are dealing with is often an assumption, rather than a fact. A "disabled" person isn't necessarily any less able to communicate, or work, or learn, or take care of himself or herself than anyone else is; the question is whether or not the social environment is flexible enough to accommodate the person's needs.

This disparity between the prejudice and the reality often leads to a situation where bigots try to justify their prejudices by claiming that anyone who is competent enough to criticize them isn't really disabled and should just shut up. (We all know who they are—Lenny Schafer's crowd, those who attack Michelle Dawson for not posting her diagnosis on the Web, etc.) This is what I have to say to those bigots:

Yes, you are talking about me when your hate sites proclaim that society must act now to eradicate the horrible plague of autism. Don't even waste your breath trying to convince me that it's none of my business because I have a job and I'm not on disability. You don't think your bigotry affects me? You don't think my life has been changed by your relentless campaign to turn autistic people into the lepers of the 21st century?

I can't even blog for autistic rights under my own goddamn name because there's no way of knowing if someone from my company might read my writing and decide that they need to cleanse the workplace of tragically impaired mental defectives.

You don't think I have a right to say anything when you declare that the world would be so much better if people like me didn't exist? When your so-called charities raise funds to develop a prenatal test to exterminate autistics by the millions? Not my business because there aren't (yet) any jackbooted storm troopers knocking on my door in the middle of the night to drag me off to the concentration camp?

You're wrong. You're so wrong. You're dead wrong.

And there's one more thing I have to say to the curebie parents: Most of you are autistic, too. You just haven't realized it yet because you have a job and you're not on disability. So, the next time you launch into a perseverative monologue on the horrors of autism, take a good look in the mirror.