What Theo… a homeless, autistic… surviving the streets since cracking up in grad school… taught me about the American Education system, Part 1 of 4…
Season 3, Episode 6. Press to play, clck on three dots to download.
I had every advantage. Yup. Everything. EVERYTHING our biased society favors.
Race. Gender. High-achieving, professional parents. “Gifted” IQ. Education. Decent looks. Heterosexual presentation… back then… mostly…
But here’s the thing…. the very reason RED alerts shoulda been going off. Across everybody’s child-protective screen. Quick pause, my friends. I’m Johnny Profane, and you’re tuned into AutisticAF Out Loud. Today, we’re diving into the highs and lows of autistic joy in education. Ever wonder how the chalk dust smells or the flickering fluorescent lights feel for an autistic kid in a bustling modern schoolroom? This is Part 1 of a series that you won’t want to miss. So, hit that free subscribe button and let’s get back to it.
Cuz with every privilege handed me… I failed to thrive.
BIG freakin’ time. Longest job… two years. Outta dozens of jobs in 45 years working…
Not what ya call a productive citizen. But… I do have a knack for telling… certain stories.
So I’m here to explore a whole ‘nother continent of the intersectional map… The continent of Invisible Disabilities. I’m your ambassador from the countries of articulate autism, selective mutism, gifted kids, PTSD, couple of others…
Our citizens of color, our enbys, our intellectually challenged citizens… I can’t really tell their stories.
But here’s my story. Cuz it’s the only one I know.
And I’ve heard and read and written and podcasted enough… I’ve come to believe something. Deeply.
All we autistics share something basic. Fundamental. So every ONE of our stories strikes a universal chord… In our community.
I got three short stories.
Put em together? Somehow… they tell one BIG story. Like Aristotle’s beginning, middle, and… end.
My beginning? In Part 1 I want to give you the experience of autistic joy. Cuz that’s the bedrock of everything for autistic folks. And I want you to really get… in your gut.. what the power of your educational leadership could unleash…
If we find a way to fan those flames… Without setting fire to the classroom.
Okay, the middle, Part 2. The conflict. A bit about why my personal learning style… didn’t work for me in the system. AND… how I hope for better for today’s neurodiverse kids.
Then, there’s Part 3. The bitter end… A day in the real life of my high school. Some good. Most bad.
So that’s the storyboard. But you’ve seen Pulp Fiction. You know it’s more fun if I tell you outta order… say Beginning. End. Then the Middle… making you connect the dots…
Enough. Here we go…
So. I’m at the Shalom Center in Bloomington, Indiana. College town. Trees. Cute shops. Parking meters to discourage the riffraff…
I’m in line for a free breakfast. Looking down the long queue toward the steam table.
“Damn all the instant oatmeal’s gone…” I mumble out loud. A lot. “That shit settles my ulcer…”
See, I just got off the ancient bus Genesis Project works as a shuttle. They used to run a warming shelter for the homeless. We hang out there & sleep on cots in a large tent. 8pm to 6am. March to November.
The rest of the day, we’re on the street… I usually hang at the library… internet. But they kick you out if you’re caught napping. Meditating, too… Wow, that was embarrassing.
But right now… the library’s about a 6-block walk, breakfast, and a public shower away…
The next guy in line looks like he just woke up… in the early 70s. Army fatigues. Knit dread cap over scraggly gray hair… Thin guy. Musta heard me cuss out the oatmeal.
“Yeah. Depends on donations.” He doesn’t look at me… directly. Little bird glances. At my face. My hands. “The good stuff comes and goes.”
“Yeah. Sounds like, ya know… life.” Okay. I was a wannabe class clown. But it did help me survive 2nd grade.
The white Rasta warrior peers into my eyes… real fast. Then goes hazy a moment… like he’s lost inside. Then… cracks the goofiest grin I’d ever seen on the streets.
“You’re okay.” He shuffles down the line. I shuffle behind him.
“You too.”
I like homeless folks. I never understood social status anyways, maybe cuz I’m autistic. Most homeless don’t pay any attention either. Bob Dylan wrote about the street, “When ya ain’t got nothin’, you got nothin’ to lose.” Homeless know EVERYONE’s just a pink slip away from nothin’ to lose.
Me and Rasta end up at the same round lunch table… wobbling awkwardly back in the corner. Wrapped in vinyl floors and cement walls. Cold. Like a crypt.
“I’m Johnny,” I reach out my hand. “Been on the street a coupla weeks.”
He disappears inside. Comes back with another smile. “My name is Theo. I have been on the streets off and on since grad school.”
As I remember, he’d set off to be a psych researcher. Cracked up before his orals. We had a lot in common. We swapped grad school war stories a while… This was way more fun than dodging crabby librarians. So we hung.
We got into what a blast it is just to discover new shit. Any new shit. Academic or not. ANY shit. If it was cool…
“You know… I never wanted to teach.” He blurts out… in the middle of my best story. Then he looks away. “Or run a department. Just research. Use my brain. But the weird thing…?”
A man of few words. And many pauses… […]
“I have jobs sometimes. For awhile. But I don’t like the ones where I use my brain. I like the repetitive ones. I like factories. Janitor. I can think… I’m in a different place…”
And there it was. Two homeless.
Both crazy, more than likely. Both “failures,” demonstrably. Certainly neurodivergent. He knew it. I didn’t yet…
But here we were, strangers. Talking joy. Openly. Unashamedly. First time in our lives. In a homeless center.
It was a strange moment for me… A shock of recognition. But it took 4 years before I permitted it to sink in.
I’m coming back to Theo and the Shalom Center in a bit.
But first… you need to hear this flashback… if you want to get autistic joy… have a genuine a-ha moment.
And take a moment to think whether you want to smother that autistic spark. Or fan those flames…
So, Screen TItle: #AutisticJoy
“What are you doing…?” My former mother’s voice was sharp…
I’m spreadeagled on the backyard grass, face down.
“I’ve called you three times.” She’s annoyed. “WHAT are you doing…?”
I don’t know it in Second Grade… But I have difficulties shifting attention when I’m focused…
So, I try to… replay the last few moments. Listening to… then interpreting… anything she mighta said while I’m in my focus bubble…
I’m 7. “Rewinding the tape” is already automatic for me. A never-ending attempt to comprehend what’s going on…? Any time I’m around… well, people.
Checking for my verbal mistakes. Missed social cues. Guessing if they meant what they said… or were just mocking me…
Anyway… I’m still in the grass… sorting it out. Choosing words carefully to avoid trouble. Clearing my throat. Moving my sleeping tongue. Loosening my jaw. Just about ready to speak…
“HEY! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!”
“Umm… Nothing…?” Close as I come to lying… at that age.
I’ve been in the backyard an hour or so. Gloriously alone.
See… Johnson City had this great hobby shop. All kinds of cool “science toys.” And I’d saved up my 50-cent allowance for weeks to buy what the red-and-yellow package promised…
A “Real, hand-held, glass magnifying glass — with ALL-METAL handle!!”
I was squinting through it… entranced. Examining grass leaves, dew drops, and…
Ants.
Dozens of ants. One after another. Antennae. Mandibles. Eyes… Guiltily burning off the occasional leg with focused sunlight…
Endless fascination… No time. No place. No words…
I was in the flow…
“Okay. Whatever you’re doing…” I wait for her command that will end my timeless bliss… “Stop… doing it. It’s time for lunch.”
I sigh. Roll over.
And. Trudge. In.
Hardly sounds like abuse, right…..??
Ya know? Autistic joy is hard to explain. Like, to pretty much, ANY non-autistic person.
Imagine that last, delicious dream you’re enjoying… as you drowse… in a warm snuggly bed… on a lazy Saturday morning… when you don’t have to get up…
Then, out of nowhere, someone screams, “GET UP!”
You’re so startled, for a second. You don’t know where you are, what you’re doing, the time of day, the season…
Now… imagine that…
Every. Damn. Day. Many, many, MANY times a day…
Torture. Right…..??!
Being startled out of the flow? It’s like that.
Whether you’re a kid. Or.. an adult.
Ya, dig?
That’s as close as I can come to explaining Autistic Joy.
That same joy you see on the face of an autistic kid dancing endlessly… unashamed… in a sprinkler… in the sun…
Lost to the world. But found… in himself.
If I had to guess, this is precisely what Being in the Moment, in the Now… mean.
I think That’s where I spent most of my time as a kid.
When I wasn’t reacting to family, schoolmates, parents, teachers… the few humans I let into my life back then.
Gradually as I aged, these blissful moments became fewer and fewer. Further and further and further apart. Nearly gone…
First, I was forced into a school system…
That I was clearly NOT wired for. Rigid. Lockstep. Regimented. Regulated. Scheduled.
BORING. With no Free Time… To be me. Autistic me.
Later, of course, it got MUCH worse. Jobs, relationships, finances… Life in modern Adult America?
I had a stress-induced stroke at 30.
Then nearly 3 decades in the therapeutic system. I worked with maybe a dozen pros. They couldn’t sort out what was mental disability, what was trauma… what was bad attitude.
Neither can I.
All I know is, as a kid… I was either happy exploring… Or I was being forced to don my “personality”… to me, arbitrary vocabulary, facial expressions, body language, polite responses, and social lies… that most humans demand.
Just so it’s easier for them to predict how I’ll behave… So THEY can feel comfortable… around me.
Most humans project a personality automatically.
But, for me? It was like being dragged out of my comfy pajamas, and forced into the most cumbersome, restrictive, awkward, embarrassing, winter coat, earmuffs, muffler, heavy snow boots, and mittens your mother ever stuffed you into to get on that kindergarten bus… So I got two choices. Dancing in joy… or shackled in chains. You choose.
And I’m not the only autistic who felt that way about childhood.
From age 2 on, I clearly remember long waking periods without any verbal thought.
Just perceiving, in awe and wonder…
EVERYTHING.
Until I had to interact with humans. Any humans. Even those I was required… to “love.”
But when the “personality” switched on? The joy collapsed.
Not into pain…
Collapsing into an all-absorbing effort… intellectualizing every word… gesture… tone of voice… of my own… and then interpreting all those of each and every human I was with…
And THEN carefully weighing… precisely… the right word, tone of voice, facial expression, and body attitude to project… all at the same time…
To avoid being in trouble.
Plus even at a young age, I had a growing sense of the need to protect others… From me.
Every. Single. Second…
Because I was different. “Arrogant.” Hurt people without understanding…
Because I was… Bad.
So when this autist entered school… I brought two things.
The capacity for bliss. And the fear of shame.
Over the years… the flow, the bliss got lost. The shame? Hung around like a fart in a closed classroom.
I’ve written about how I worked to regain autistic joy. Much of it common sense… rest, nutrition, reducing social contact & sensory stimulation, relaxation techniques…
But the thing that’s important to this story… is how I’ve rewired my thinking on my “special interests.” A medical term that stinks of sickness. Some autists are trying different language, like “specializations.”
They’re not a forbidden pleasure. A shameful quirk. Something I “waste time on” when there’s nothing more important to do…
They are my guiding passions. My gateways to Bliss, Transcendence, Oneness…
My reason for Being….
My job.
One last quick pause. This is just a taste of the educational rollercoaster many of us autistics ride. If you’re digging this, hit subscribe to hear all 4 parts.
As I’m on the mend, your subscription is my medicine. Feeling generous? Think about monthly support. Want to contribute more? Monthly support is a click away.
Hang on now, here comes the big finish…
That Spring day on the lawn in Johnson City… I saw Infinity in a burnt-off ant leg.
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