A Language All Our Own

Three days each week, I see another autistic kid at lunch. He's one year older than me, and very smart with languages. He and I have never sat at the same table or had a conversation anyone else could hear, but we are good friends.

We hum.

It took me a couple of weeks to understand his hums, at first. I assumed they were just a stim, as were my occasional hums. But then I got to thinking: I don't say thank you or you're welcome. I hum them. Thank you is a proper doorbell-ringing third, and you're welcome starts on the lower of the two notes.

My friend has a far more complex language than I had ever dreamed was possible.

He uses only a handful of pitches, with slurs and pulls to form terms and phrases. I studied his ways for a good two weeks before attempting to introduce myself.

I was met with very good reception.

"Hi, I'm Ari," was my first sentence. He froze, glancing at my face as I watched him in my peripheral vision.

We haven't stopped talking since.

The first day was a very good day. We got to know one another. He was lonely, and I explained that my friends weren't really "friends," as they had the habit of turning on me and becoming horrible bullies. I suggested that we be friends, proper ones at that. He froze again, a habit I've found is his way of acknowledging a thought while processing it. Finally, he agreed.

Last Friday gave us a very crowded lunch with few available seats, a situation not previously encountered, as it was the first Friday of the quarter. His normal table wasn't available for him to sit at. His low-pitched humming signified trouble. The teachers offered to have him sit somewhere else, but he held up a single index finger. As he walked towards me, I tapped the otherwise empty table I was at. Again, the finger was presented. He had seen what appeared to be an empty table in the middle of the room, and after ensuring that no one's bags were underneath, he sat there. I knew to trust him.

Each day, I eat quickly before going to the bathroom. If I'm already done eating when he arrives, he'll call for me using my hum name. I'll respond with a quick greeting, followed by "One moment!" in our humming language.

Today had two significant events. Another autistic boy was walking through the cafeteria, and my good friend's back was turned, so he didn't know who was behind him. But I hummed to both of them, and my friend rocked quietly in greeting after realizing who it was from my sounds. Secondly, there was a bee. I like bees, but my friend doesn't. He saw my curious glances upwards as it flew overhead, and told the assistant principal, who opened a window. (The bee was not harmed in the process.)

My friend and I can read one another like books...or maybe audiobooks.

I have a world that's all my own.

I have a genius mind.

I have no way of showing such,

Except for my own kind.

The Dictionary

My words appear to come easily when I speak, easily enough to always talk. Anyone who knows me knows that that is false.

Writing is my primary form of communication.

Even in school, I will write down anything I need to say. Nothing escapes my lips until it has already gone through my hands. By the time I get home, my hands are sore from how much my pencil has written.

When I am at home, I have a slightly more relaxed stance. I know that I don't have to watch my wording as strictly as in school, so I will use what I call my "dictionary:" my mental list of words I am confident I can pronounce and use in the correct context. This is one of my biggest secrets, and at times I call it my Magnussen library, after the man with the photographic memory in BBC Sherlock.

Over time, the dictionary's size has increased and decreased. It has two main sections, words and phrases being the conversational one. These sheets are like the phone book: you don't realize they're torn until they've fallen out. The back of the book has everything I have memorized, including poems, music, and facts. Each page is the highest quality vellum near the end, with countless items inked in with neat calligraphy.

Three-quarters of the book is memorized items.

One-quarter, no more than 200 pages of a trade paperback, is conversational material.

When I write, however, I use a separate dictionary. This one doesn't have long pieces of text waiting to be recited. This has a five hundred page, 11x8.5 inch dictionary of words and short phrases. It is something I could never say out loud. I have to be cautious to use simpler words if I ever intend on verbalizing what is on the page. Those kinds of things take me far longer to write. They require proofreading, something I very rarely do with anything else. I haven't proofread a single blog post, for that matter; I find it to be unnecessary.

Back when I first started writing stories, I had a single goal: teach myself to control words better. My life has become incredibly easy since then.

Writing is my life.

My attic gives me many things.

My attic gives me thoughts.

My attic gives me stories, too;

Of those it gives me lots.

P.S. I am in the final editing stage for my first novel, not Negative Infinity but another altogether. It is a dystopian with some fantasy elements, and it is the first of a trilogy. Raleigh will be published at some point this summer, and I will update you on the details once I know for sure.

The Paper Bracelet Project

Last year, some of my friends who knew I was autistic asked me what it was like. I found it extremely hard to verbalize, so I came up with an alternative.

I gave them paper bracelets.

They're not just flat pieces of paper. They're twisted strips of paper, two inches by eleven inches, with little kinks and rips. You tape it together around your wrist.

It's a tiny little thing, but they started to understand what a slight sensitivity to touch was. My teachers described it as "noticeable," and could not ignore the way it poked them every time they moved their wrist. Most people wore it on their non-dominant hand so it wouldn't rip further, but I aim to change that this year. The participants will just have to use more tape each time it comes off.

I spent ten minutes at the beginning of my writing class yesterday explaining about the Autism Speaks situation. My teacher needed a good deal of clarification, but I'm slowly converting NTs to the side of the autistic community. Everyone in school is supposed to "light it up blue," as they have done in years past. I'm asking my friends if they can do this little thing for me instead.

One day.

One bracelet.

One more person I've educated about the actual situation.

My work is never complete, however. I will probably request that I be allowed to speak in front of the school next year, using quotes from the many autistics who support the boycott. I will hopefully be able to make enough paper bracelets for everyone in my school, about five hundred people including teachers. If I can use two notebooks each year for this, my money will be well spent. (Besides, my mom is the one who'll be paying for the notebooks, most likely.)

Go ahead and share this post. Just say an autistic girl from New England figured out how to show touch sensitivity to her friends.

My brain makes light seem blinding.

My brain makes me feel deaf.

My brain has never filtered,

So my senses get an F.

#StopCombatingMe: A Trekkie's View

Some people say Star Trek can't happen. I say otherwise.

Khan.

Trekkies know that name. I love that name. It proves that yes, there is an eternal eugenics war. We just haven't started genetically engineering human beings yet.

Or have we?

Because of Congress, eugenics are a prominent topic in modern times. Why would you want to stop the people who go to MIT or work at NASA? Oh, that's right. You are like me. You've followed my train of thought. Those people working at NASA have the best chance to steal a spacecraft.

We're rebelling.

The superhuman Augments of Khan's time: NTs who want to get rid of the Autistics. Autistics who were raised to think that they were no good unless they blended in also fit in that category. The Augments who led the nations into war against one another: Autistics when the speechless among us learned to communicate in their own way. The NTs refused to believe. So now, Autistics who were taught to fit in aren't fitting in anymore in protest. We know our kind, and they are just as incredible as those of us at MIT and NASA.

Too bad, Congress. We don't want a cure. You either accept us as we are, or you realize that we won't hesitate to steal the SS Botany Bay when the Mars missions start.

Stop combating us, and the horrible wars of Star Trek won't have to happen.

I must ask you--spread the good news.

I must beg you--go and tell.

I must admit I'm special,

But that could be you as well.

(My first flashblog @ wordsofautism.blogspot.com!)