Deborah Markus's Blog

Me: okay, got a lot to do today

Me: Glad I planned ahead and actually made breakfast last night!

Me: Now I can just sit down and eat, no prep needed.

Me: And of course nothing goes better with a cup of overnight oats than my drug of choice: the advice columns!

Me: Always nice to see I’m not the only hot mess in the world!

Me: I loved that column the other day, where Monicker brought the hammer down.

Advice columnist: That is not my name.

Me: I know, but I don’t want to get sued or yelled at or anything.

Advice columnist: You don’t want to get yelled at, so you have a snarky blog.

Me: Point taken. But I’m not always snarky.

Me: And so far, everybody’s been really nice.

Me: Let’s get back to that awesome recent column I mentioned, shall we?

Middle-aged white lady: Dear Monicker – My husband said something totally racist about my son’s new girlfriend. What should I do?

Monicker: Leave him.

Me: AW YEAH SAY IT MONICKER

Monicker: (sighs)

Me: Anyway. Back to the present.

Person writing in today: Dear Monicker – My sister-in-law always talks too much at family gatherings. I’m pretty sure she’s probably a good person I guess maybe, but every conversation is about her her her. It’s at the point where my formerly close-knit family doesn’t get together much because, well, her her her. What should I do? Sincerely, Silent In Seattle

Monicker: (gives sensible advice about letting sister-in-law know that she is not a problem but some of her behavior is)

Me: Well done, Monicker!

Monicker: …are you going to stop calling me that?

Me: Nope!

Me: Well, there are only three advice columns that I like to read in this paper.

Me: And I’m not even halfway finished with this delightful oatmeal.

Me: And gawd knows I’m not ready to read the actual news just yet.

Me: …time for the comments section!

My kiddo, every time I mention this terrible habit of mine: Why would you do that?

Kiddo: Have you not heard that actual literal saying about NEVER READ THE COMMENTS???

Me: I know, but sometimes they’re actually really good.

Me: And sometimes when I’m all indignant about either the person writing in or the advice they were given, it’s good to see someone else say “seriously come ON.”

Me: Plus this way I can play my favorite game.

Me: And the name of the game is, “How many comments does it take before someone suggests that the problem-person is autistic?”

Me: (gets out my handy-dandy twelve-sided die)

Me: (yes I’m autistic and yes I think D&D is kind of cool)

Me: (pretend to be surprised)

Me: Ten??? With a question like this? Easy!

Me (scanning comments rapidly): Uh-oh. Getting close, here.

Comment 9: “My husband is autistic, and this is exactly how he acts!”

Me: Yes! I win!

Me: …yay.

Me: Well, at least this person is actually married to someone autistic.

Me: Usually it’s some yo-yo saying, “I’ll bet that weirdo they’re writing about is on the spectrum.”

Me: I’m really starting to hate that phrase, by the way.

Me: It sounds clinical, so all the civilians think they become geniuses as soon as they say it.

Me: Plus whatever they just said can’t possibly be offensive now!

Me: “If I say ‘on the spectrum,’ no one can get mad at me just because I never talk about autism unless I’m suggesting it’s why some people are weird and annoying.”

Me: “Plus hello yes I am scientist now.”

Me: Here’s a thought – leave autism out of it!

Me: In this context, it has nothing to do with how you should respond to the situation!

Me: The question wasn’t from someone seeking a diagnosis, or wondering if someone they know should seek one.

Me: People never write in to talk about autism unless they’re bragging about being hero parents.

Me: In this case, whether the person’s autistic or not has ZERO impact on what you should do!

Me: Which, for the record, is to take a breath, don’t get angry, and start speaking up, calmly but firmly.

Me: “Excuse me – I wasn’t finished talking.”

Me: “Sorry – I wanted to hear the end of Jackie’s story.”

Me: Repeat as necessary.

Me: That’s it!

Me: No autism required!

Me: Same kind of thing with probably ninety percent of the situations people describe in letters to the advice columnist. The person writing in needs help with some phrasing, or they need a reality check, or both.

Me: Either way, they just need to figure out a way to get their own support needs met without harming anyone else.

Me: It’s not helpful to start jabbering about oh those wacky autistic people what WILL they do next.

Me: And seriously. You can’t blame autism every time someone’s a pain in the ass. We’re barely two percent of the population.

Me: Even given the fact that those numbers are undoubtedly low thanks to how difficult it can be to get a diagnosis, there just aren’t enough of us to go around. I mean, talk about your labor shortages.

Coordinator (visibly perspiring): Okay, we’re going to need someone to run over to Long Island. This woman just wrote in complaining that her boyfriend seems distant sometimes, so she thinks he “might be on the spectrum.”

Autistic population: (GROAN)

Coordinator: Come on, people. Griping doesn’t get the work done. Who’s free? Colin? Can you cover this?

Colin: I was occasionally-distant boyfriend last time!

Me: Enough is enough. You neurotypicals and other non-autistic people are going to have to grapple with the fact that – brace yourself – if you had your collective act together, the advice columns would be monthly rather than daily.

Me: And even then, they’d be hurting for material. Carolyn Hax and Amy Dickinson and Miss Manners would be running around spreading gossip and throwing shade and encouraging terrible behavior in a desperate attempt to drum up business.

Me: For reals. Stop hauling out the A-word every time someone is shy, or doesn’t talk enough, or talks too much, or doesn’t want to go out with you, or does want to go out with you, or doesn’t share their deepest feelings, or over-shares at every opportunity.

Me: It’s not accurate, and it isn’t fair.

Me: If you never talk about autistic people’s good qualities, you don’t get to only haul out the idea of autism when you think someone’s annoying. That’s the rule now. Sorry.

Me: I am scientist, and I have spoken.

Me: (jogging Sunday morning)

Me: (almost home)

Me: (can’t wait for breakfast)

Me: (pancakes pancakes pancakes)

Me: (aw yeah)

Me: (and they’re that overnight-oat kind)

Me: (so they’re practically already made)

Me: (I just have to get home and fry those bad boys)

Me: (hungry hungry want them pancakes)

Me: …hang on what’s this now?

Bundle of feathers perched on the edge of the grassy median just ahead of me: hi

Me: Whoa!

Me: Who’re you, buddy?

Feathers: hi

Me: omigosh are you a Cooper’s hawk?

Me: ‘Cause you look like a Cooper’s hawk.

Me: Except for the way you’re sitting which no offense makes you look more like a kiwi.

Me: The bird, not the fruit.

Hawk: hi

Me: Okay, it’s pretty weird that you’re just sitting there.

Me: I mean, I’m really not far from you at all.

Me: I’m not going to get too close for everybody’s sake, but still.

Me: I’d be happy to hang out with you all day, but you really shouldn’t be okay with this.

Crow: DIVE-BOMB

Me: Or that!

Hawk: hi

Me: Okay, either you’re next-level Buddhist or something’s really off here.

Another crow: DIVE-BOMB

First crow: WHY’S HE JUST SITTING THERE

Second crow: DON’T KNOW THAT WAS SOME OF MY BEST DIVING

First crow: YEAH IT WAS YOU LOOKED GREAT

Me: Okay, this is not how hawks are supposed to act.

Crows: TELL HIM THAT

Me: I’m trying!

Hawk: hi

Me: (edges a little closer)

Hawk: hi

Me: (edges a lot closer)

Me: (is like maybe ten feet from the hawk now)

Hawk: hi

First crow: OKAY THIS IS GETTING CREEPY

Second crow: YEAH WHATEVER’S WRONG WITH THAT GUY I DO NOT WANT TO CATCH IT

First crow: I’M OUT OF HERE

Second crow: SAME

Car: (drives by)

Car: (gets within four feet of hawk)

Hawk: hi

Me: Okay something’s gotta be wrong here.

Me: Some of your front feathers look a little weird and ruffly. Are you hurt? Did you get in a fight or something?

Hawk: hi

Me: Geez Louise. What should I do?

Me: I can’t tell from here if you’re hurt. And I can’t get any closer than this.

Me: But I can’t just go home.

Pancakes: WHERE AAAAAAARE YOU

Me: Not now!

Hawk: hi

Me: …okay, time to call for backup.

Me: (calls non-emergency number)

Nice calm female voice: Santa Monica dispatch!

Me: um yeah hi okay there’s a Cooper’s hawk right here and I think it might be hurt it’s not moving and I’ve been taking pictures and videos and stuff for like ten minutes now and I’m barely ten feet away from it and wild birds aren’t usually into that kind of thing

Dispatch: …I’m sorry?

Me: (oh gawd I hate phone calls)

Me: What I just said, only more succinctly this time.

Dispatch: …okay, there’s a what?

Me: A hawk. A Cooper’s hawk.

Me: We get a lot of them in this neighborhood.

Me: They have to kind of sneak around, given how territorial the crows get.

Me: But they mostly eat squirrels and we have a LOT of squirrels around here so I guess it’s worth the fight.

Me: This one’s still pretty young, given the coloration on its front and the –

Dispatch: Okay, it’s a hawk. Got it.

Me: (damn you, hyperverbalism)

Dispatch: And where are you?

Me: (peers around)

Me: (manages to read street signs without glasses)

Me: (passes geographical information along)

Dispatch: Okay, Animal Control isn’t open today, but I can tell a Humane Society vehicle what’s going on. Not sure when they’ll be able to get there.

Me: That’s great. Thank you.

Me: (thinks about what happened the last time a Sunday jog turned into hey who’s that cool animal sitting in the middle of the road)

Me: (realizes odds are against pet adoption being the outcome this time)

Me: (keeps fingers crossed)

Me: (looks down to hang up phone)

Me: (for literally less than a second)

Me: (looks up again)

Me: (hawk is GONE)

Me: (IT WAS THERE THE WHOLE TIME I WAS ON THE PHONE)

Me: (LIKE I’M GLAD IT’S OKAY BUT SERIOUSLY IT COULDN’T HAVE FLOWN AWAY THREE SECONDS AGO?)

Me: Well, that was a morning.

Me: …oh, gawd, I have to call them back.

Me: I DON’T WANNA

Me: I HATE TALKING ON THE PHONE

Me: I ALWAYS EITHER CLAM UP FOR A HUNDRED YEARS OR SAY THE WHOLE ENCYCLOPEDIA BRITTANICA

Me: Plus I will literally physically die of embarrassment if I have to tell that woman oopsy doopsy never mind hawk be fine.

Me: And those pancakes aren’t going to make themselves!

Me: I mean they mostly are but I do have to put them in the pan!

Me: So I’ll just go home and pretend this never happened.

Basic Courtesy: WHAT

Morality: DID

Ethics: YOU

My Conscience: SAY

Me: Gah!

Me: geez way to gang up on someone who was just trying to be nice to a hawk

Me: okay okay I’ll call them back

Me: (calls Dispatch back)

Me: (does not die of embarrassment)

Dispatch: (is totally cool with this new information)

Me (hanging up): Whew!

Me: (jogs rest of way home)

Me: Hey – wait till you hear what I just did.

Spouse: Cool!

Me: But first I’m making pancakes.

Me: (notices that several recent posts have been about animals, either literally or metaphorically)

Me: (has zero problems with this)

I mentioned in a previous post that I’ve been hearing a bit about autistic burnout. It’s been hard to find more than anecdotal information about it, because there aren’t any big studies or even that many small ones.

But the information I was able to dig up really startled me.

It turns out – and I know this is shocking but brace yourself and hear my whole thing and don’t be embarrassed if you have to look up any of the words I use here – autistic people sometimes get physically and emotionally exhausted. Especially if they’re working in an environment where they aren’t allowed to take breaks. Especially especially if they feel pressured to present as upbeat and engaged every minute of every work day.

Weird, right?

The New York Times article I found makes it clear that burnout presents differently in autistic people. But everything it said about what leads to burnout makes me wonder if maybe neurotypicals should be taking better care of everyone.

Because it’s not as if autistic people suffering from burnout are responding utterly randomly to things that shouldn’t be a problem to anyone. It’s not like we come into a meeting room, screech “OH GOD WHY ARE THERE SO MANY RECTANGLES,” and then hide in a broom closet for 19 hours straight.

We need enough sleep. We need enough time away from work – really away. We need downtime. We need regular breaks.

And yes, okay, we need to stop having to apologize for being who and what we are. We’re carrying the additional stress of having to present as neurotypical even on a perfectly “good” day at work. Definitely. No question.

But let’s talk about that other stuff for a minute. Let’s take a look at the first person that Times article talks about.

Tyla Grant gets so exhausted sometimes that she has a hard time functioning. There’s a picture of her sitting out in a beautiful patch of nature, clearly trying to get her autistic act together. “It’s important for autistic people to find ways to rest and recharge when facing burnout,” the small print next to this photo explains earnestly.

As opposed to neurotypical people, who never face burnout and if they ever did they should just power through until they feel better.

Come on. I just Googled “getting back to nature to avoid stress and burnout” and was instantly rewarded with an article from just a few months ago about how spending just 10 minutes a day in a natural setting can reduce stress and “improve mood, focus, and physiological markers like blood pressure and heart rate.” This article is aimed toward people who may be dealing with financial insecurity and/or working too much. Because apparently those can be stressful even for neurotypical people. Like, to the point where even THEY can face burnout!

What???

Tyla Grant is described as holding down a full-time job in advertising, creating content regularly for a podcast, YouTube channel and Instagram, AND attempting to start a nonprofit.

Why is the fact that she gets emotionally fried sometimes being treated as proof that sometimes autistic people face burnout and need to take care of themselves?

Shouldn’t anyone who’s basically working three jobs be cautioned to practice proper self-care and keep an eye out for signs of incipient burnout?

Here’s another New York Times article – this one about how people should proudly and unapologetically go ahead and take a nap at work. It’s good for you, dad gum it. You need enough rest. You could burn out if you get too tired!

Here’s an article from Forbes about the benefits of meditating at work. Which sounds a lot to me as if they’re saying maybe all workers should take a regular break from being expected to talk and meet one another’s eyes, and should even – what the what! – be offered a nice quiet safe place to go and mentally get away from it all.

Here’s another Forbes article. This one’s about how really – no, really! – people should take little breaks during the day even if they’re at work. “Employees who believe that they must work 24/7 to achieve a good standing in the workplace have the wrong idea,” this article insists. “And unfortunately, employees often gain this idea through employers’ attitudes.”

I’m not saying that the support needs of autistic people shouldn’t be written about, focused on, or given some compassion.

I’m saying that in this particular context, our support needs are very basic human needs.

When I was a kid, I read something about how mules are smarter than horses because if you ask a mule to do too much, it will flat-out refuse. A horse can be worked nearly to death if its human isn’t careful.

I was longing for a horse at the time (okay, I still am), so it was hard to accept any criticism of my then-favorite animal. But even I could see that mules had the right idea.

I looked it up just now and guess what? Horses are great. Of course they are. They’re beautiful and magical and I want to go pet one right now and braid its cute tail.

But horses really aren’t as intelligent as mules.

Mules have better memories, better common-sense, and a better sense of self-preservation than horses do. That so-called stubbornness of theirs manifests itself when they won’t do something potentially harmful, which seems less like stubborn and more like smart.

And as this delightful article points out, if a mule doesn’t see the point of doing something, it won’t do it.

I think I want a mule now.

I’m pretty sure I want to be one.

And I’m positive that we’d all be better off if we acted more like mules than horses.

Pretty isn’t everything.

The day before the first day

Me (texting): hey listen as long as you’re picking up crickets can you check out how expensive dry dog food is? I read that crows sometimes like kibble if it isn’t too big.

Spouse: Sure.

Spouse (ten minutes later): The clerk recommended a kind that’s only $6.50 a bag. Want me to grab some?

Me: wait you told the pet store person that I’m trying to feed crows?

Spouse: Yep!

Me: yeah that’s probably not even the tenth weirdest thing they’ve heard this year

Me: sure go ahead and grab that bag of kibble

The night before the first day

Me: (covers tiny balcony table with newspaper)

Me: (solemnly puts out a big pile of unsalted peanuts in the shell)

Me: (lays out some dog kibble too)

Me (back inside the apartment): Am I the worst vegan in the world for buying dog food?

Spouse: Not THE worst, no.

Me: okay so I’m bad?

Spouse: Maybe if you were buying it for yourself…

Me: fine whatever

Spouse: Why are you putting it out tonight?

Me: I can’t go out on the balcony during the day!

Me: I might scare them!

Me: And I’ll definitely scare the songbirds!

Me: I hope the crows don’t scare the songbirds.

Me: I hope the crows show up.

The first day

Me: …huh.

The evening of the first day

Spouse: So, how’d it go?

Me: Okay, I guess.

Me: I mean I didn’t see any crows on the balcony.

Me: But I kind of steered clear just in case.

Me: I saw a few peanut shells on the ledge, so I guess they grabbed them and put them there.

Me: And the rest of the peanuts are gone!

Spouse: That’s good!

Me: Every now and then I’d see a crow fly by with something sticking out of its bill. I think they must have been swooping by and grabbing peanuts on the sly.

Spouse: Sure.

Me: They fly really quietly.

Spouse: Really?

Me: Yeah. You can barely hear a thing when they flap. They aren’t quite as quiet as owls, but pretty close. That’s probably a predator adaptation.

Spouse: Makes sense.

Me: They don’t seem to like the dog food, though. There’s still a whole bunch out there.

Spouse: Well, keep trying things out and see what works.

Me: Yeah. Okay, I guess I’d better go out there and clean the songbirds’ water dish and stuff.

Me (out on the balcony, inspecting the site under the light of an electric bulb): …oh.

Spouse: What?

Me: The crows didn’t eat quite as many peanuts as I thought.

Spouse: Oh?

Me: Nice of them to try to feed the floor, though.

Spouse: Ah.

Me: Well, I’ll keep trying…

But WILL it pay off? COULD our brave heroine become a really truly friend of the crows?

YES!

…whoops. Sorry. Spoiler.

I meant to say: stay tuned!

“Hold that thought,” I said to my spouse.

He was in the middle of a sentence, and I felt bad about cutting him off. But it would only be for a few seconds. And we were chatting rather than talking about something emotionally urgent. If this had been a serious discussion, I would have quite literally gritted my teeth, clenched my fists (behind my back so I wouldn’t look scary), and readied myself as best I could for the discomfort I was about to endure.

I’ve spent years opting to brace for impact in the face of a discomfort most people are puzzled by. Sitting there trying to look “normal” and usually failing miserably in every sense of the word.

I didn’t know I was “masking” because I didn’t know I was autistic. I just thought I had sensitive hearing.

Which was strange, since I was also the one who always needed to have the subtitles turned on while watching TV or I wouldn’t be able to follow what was going on.

Turns out that my hearing is normal-to-good if you’re going by what a simple doctor’s office test would tell you. How I perceive all those sounds coming in is where things get complicated.

The car coming down the alley next to our apartment wasn’t particularly loud. It was just overwhelming. To me, anyway.

Those of us who can hear know the misery of a sound that’s too big for comfort. It just plain hurts. That pain is a warning that we shouldn’t be okay with a certain level of noise, because it can damage our hearing. Simple.

The car in question wasn’t hurting my ears or threatening my hearing. How and why it was making me uncomfortable is a little more difficult to explain.

Something can be very uncomfortable without being painful. When a car drives down our alley, especially when it’s going very quickly, I don’t feel pain. I feel overwhelmed.

Imagine you’re sitting quietly at your table at home, reading and enjoying a cup or glass of your favorite beverage.

Someone you trust and care about suddenly comes running into the room. Without slowing down, they barrel right up to where you’re sitting, stopping just before they run into you.

Would you say, “Well, what’s wrong with that? I mean, they didn’t hurt you or even touch you.”

Or, if a friend were describing this as something their spouse does multiple times a day, would you be recommending a divorce lawyer?

That’s the closest I can come to explaining how it feels when yet another truck or car or moving van rumbles its way down the alley our apartment overlooks. It feels as if someone’s about to knock me over, even though I know they won’t really do it.

I know that what I’ve described sounds like I live right next door to an airport, and that’s not the case. Objectively speaking, the noise we live with isn’t particularly loud. My neurotypical spouse lives in this same apartment and he has no trouble tuning out the sound of the vehicles. My kiddo, who may be autistic, lived here until last year and would get upset at how I was “overreacting” to the alley activity until we had some constructive conversations.

I have two next-door neighbors whose apartment is situated exactly the same as ours is. One of them has worked at home for years; both of them spent most of their time in their apartment even before the pandemic. Neither of them is the least bit troubled by the sounds from the alley. They don’t seem to notice them even when they’re standing in the alley. I once spoke to one of these neighbors as I was taking down some trash and they were getting something from their garage. A car drove right by as we were speaking. My neighbor went on talking as if nothing were happening. No change of expression. No involuntary movement away from the source of the sound. He didn’t even raise his voice.

Why should he? The car wasn’t all that loud or dangerously close. It was just – large. If you’re me.

I’m struggling for words here. Sometimes I feel less like a born-and-bred citizen of my own place and time, and more like forest dweller from five hundred years ago and a thousand miles away. Living in this strange new world wasn’t my idea and isn’t always easy, but I don’t have a choice so I do the best I can.

But ever since I self-diagnosed, I’ve decided to stop pretending that living here isn’t work.

I know I just spent a long time explaining that it’s not the noise per se that bothers me. But the fact is, being able to shut out some of the sound helps me cope. Being able to shut out any kind of sensory perception helps.

So if a car goes by and I’ve had spent the day coping with too much so-called normal human activity, I will go ahead and cover my ears, close my eyes, and take a deep meditation breath. I will remove myself as much as possible from the situation.

It’s such a relief.

I am so tired of having to pretend that everything’s fine and great and hey look at me I’m one of the cool neurotypical kids.

I started “muffling” like this at home and I noticed that I wasn’t feeling nearly as stressed the rest of the time. I was a calmer spouse, parent, and building manager when I wasn’t squandering my resources on unnecessary masking.

I explained what I was doing to my spouse and he was fine with it. He’s a rational human being. He benefits if I’m calmer and happier, too. And if that means having to remember where he was in the conversation – or reminding me where I was – when I needed to hit “pause” for a few seconds, well, fair enough.

We don’t go out a lot (thank you, Delta variant), but we do go for walks. Or to the occasional movie when literally no one else will be there. (Hooray for being able to buy tickets online and see who else decided to buy tickets for the same showing.) Times are strange and stressful. I’ve decided that I really don’t care anymore if people look at me funny when I suddenly feel the need to clap my hands over my ears.

I’m a fifty-three-year-old woman who barely understands how her own phone works. I’ve given up on the idea of being a certain kind of impressive.

I was feeling really good about the decision to cut down on masking. And then I read a post in one of my autism groups.

I’ve paraphrased to protect the privacy of the individuals in question, but the message is one I think needs to be shared.

“I’ve noticed that my tolerance for stressful stimuli has gone way down,” they said. “I just can’t mask the way I used to. I don’t want to. Has the world gotten louder and brighter, or have I just stopped being willing to put up with discomfort?”

The second one, I thought, happily. Me, too. And good for you! Good for both of us.

Then I read the first reply.

“You might be dealing with autistic burnout,” they cautioned.

Wait – what, now?

“After years of trying to pass for ‘normal,’ we can get exhausted and start to shut down,” the commenter went on. “Try to take extra-good care of yourself.”

I’d heard of autistic burnout. It’s one of the first things that comes up as a suggestion when you’re on Twitter and you type #Autistic.

I gripe about that in my pinned tweet. Why is the number-one prompt “burnout” and not “pride” or some other positive message?

I did some more griping and then I did some more reading. And now I’m starting to wonder myself.

I’m not going to go back to masking, of course. No matter what, I’m doing what’s best for myself.

But am I leaning in to losing shame?

Or am I burning out?

–Or is it both and yes I would like a side of fries with that?

More thoughts next week.

In the meantime, your thoughts – be they neurodiverse or neurotypical – would be very much appreciated.

As I mentioned in a previous post, Monday is “details” day. So instead of posting about autism, aphantasia, or other neurodivergent news, I’m going to chat about something I’m passionate about.

One of my special interests is birds.

I don’t have a house or a yard, but I’m lucky enough to have an apartment with a balcony. I’ve been feeding hummingbirds for decades, but I only recently expanded my focus to songbirds and mourning doves. I offer the kind of food that they enjoy and that won’t irritate my neighbors. (Everyone smiles to see a songbird; no one wants to step out of their car and into a pile of sunflower seed shells.) I also offer safe, clean, fresh water, and a lot of plants to help my guests hide from the eyes of predators.

I love the birds that come by. I’m fascinated by the fact that every year brings a new dominant species. We never used to get dark-eyed juncos outside of winter; now they’re here year-round. I used to count myself lucky if I saw a goldfinch once a year; now I see dozens a day. The inter- and intra-species dynamics are endlessly enthralling.

But if I had it to do over again, I’d have made my balcony a crow sanctuary right from the start.

Crows! How can you not love a bird whose very name is a cry of delight?

If you keep an eye out, you can find a new story every day about some human rewarded for their generosity to these brilliant birds.

My spouse: hey I just read this amazing story about a woman who feeds crows

Me: (tries not to die of envy-induced heart attack)

Spouse: So this woman puts food out for crows in her driveway every day –

Me: hey I was just thinking what if you started parking in the street from now on?

Spouse: That’s going to be rough on street-cleaning days.

Me: DO YOU WANT ME TO BE HAPPY OR NOT

Spouse: Also the neighbors who share that driveway might not be thrilled if your crows are out there eating right when somebody needs to get their car.

Me: DUDE WHATEVER

Spouse: …honey, I know you love crows –

Me: You could end the sentence right there and the world would be a better place.

Spouse: – but we ARE the building managers.

Me: FINE

I was sadly convinced that having once offered the balcony to birds who are prey, it would be the worst kind of betrayal to give space to birds OF prey.

But the driveway really wasn’t a possibility. Neither is our building’s shared courtyard. Or the alley that runs behind it.

I’d just have to keep admiring crows from a wistful distance.

Things finally came to a head this weekend, when Rye Crow came by.

Rye Crow is a member of our local group who occasionally uses the roof of the house across the alley for bread storage. A handful of times in the past few months, she’s stopped by with a slice of rye bread, set it down, and gone off in search of another.

It was always rye and I never saw her eat it. At most, she’d pace around protectively for a few minutes before heading out on another supply run.

I’ve mentioned this to my spouse, who found it as entertaining as I did. It was just one more neighborly foible, like that hundred-year-old guy down the street who keeps an Oktoberfest banner over his porch year-round.

Then yesterday changed everything. For me, at least.

It was Sunday. I’m usually up early on Sundays – out for a jog, then home to make waffles or pancakes.

I have chronic health problems and occasionally they tackle me hard. Yesterday my morning plans were derailed by a bout of nausea bad enough to keep me in bed until nine o’clock, which for me is like a normal human sleeping until one in the afternoon.

Me (staggering out, still in night clothes): yeah hey feeling lousy still want waffles though

Spouse: Rye Crow was here!

Me: wait what

Spouse: She was actually eating bread!

Me: ARE YOU KIDDING ME

Me: THE ONE TIME I’M LAID UP LATE SHE DOES SOMETHING EXTRA COOL

Spouse: …it was really neat.

Me: YEAH GREAT IF ANYONE NEEDS ME I’LL BE OVER HERE NOT SEEING CROWS BEING AWESOME

Rye Crow came back later with a friend. My spouse was able to get some great pictures thanks to his terrific zoom lens.

We marveled over the pizzazz of these personality kids. We speculated as to whether they might leave slices of bread on this roof because it’s easier to take bites of toast than soft bread.

And just like that, I couldn’t stand it any longer.

Me: Okay, that’s it.

Spouse: What’s what?

Me: I’m in.

Me: I have to start feeding crows.

I’d already started playing around a bit with the layout of objects on our balcony, seeing if it would be possible to keep everyone safe and fed and also let me take some real steps toward becoming a friend of the crows rather than just an abstract admirer.

Spoiler alert: yep!

But that’s another story for another blog post.

1. When someone tells you they’re autistic, just nod. A friendly smile is nice, if you can manage it.

2. If you have a personal positive experience with autism that can be expressed in a single sentence – go for it. “Oh, great – so’s my sister” works. So does, “Oh, hey – I just took a seminar in business communication and I learned a lot of cool stuff about neurodiversity.”

3. But please don’t congratulate yourself for an hour and a half because you know something, anything, about autism.

3. If you’re tempted to say, “But you don’t look autistic,” think again. Think a bunch of times. Think about something else. Anything else. Mostly, think about the fact that you really, really shouldn’t say that.

4. “I never would have guessed you’re autistic” is a catastrophically awful thing to say, because you’re making autism sound catastrophically awful.

5. Someone who comes out to you as autistic is telling you something important about themselves. This is the exact opposite of someone who’s looking for an argument. Especially an argument that boils down to you claiming to know more about them than they do.

6. Please don’t pick one thing you heard about autism and say, “But you don’t do THIS.” After all, you’re not the identical twin of the last neurotypical person I met.

7. And speaking of individuality: just FYI, we’re not all good at math.

8. Or science.

9. We’re not all preadolescent boys. (Novelists and screenplay writers, take note.)

10. If you want to learn more about autism, go online. Go to a library. Go watch a TED talk. Don’t ask me to recommend ten or twenty resources you might find helpful. In case you didn’t figure this out in school, you’re supposed to do your own homework.

11. I have hair. I have money. I have attitude. I don’t “have” autism.

12. I don’t “suffer” from autism. I suffer from neurotypicals saying hurtful stuff about autism.

13. I’m not looking to be cured any more than you are.

14. No, I don’t know Greta Thunberg.

15. No, I didn’t read that book by that autistic person you heard about that time.

16. Seriously – aren’t we the ones who are supposed to have awful social skills?

Several months ago, BuzzFeed News ran a story about a woman who won the kind of contest no one even wants to place in: worst tattoo ever.

It makes sense that such a tattoo would involve words rather than art. Plenty of people have rued the day they got someone else’s name inked on them. But this woman’s choice initially seemed harmless. She chose a quote she liked.

Not a famous quote. Not great poetry, or even mediocre poetry. Instead, Leah Holland chose the words of a friend of hers.

I’ll admit that if a friend of mine paid me a compliment, my first impulse would not be to think, “She’s right – I AM totally rad.” And I doubt that I’d follow that up with, “I should tell the world!”

But that’s what she did. On March 4, 2020, Leah Holland paid to have the words “courageously and radically refuse to wear a mask” tattooed on her arm.

On March 6 of that same year, Holland’s home state of Kentucky had its first official case of there’s no way I have to spell this out for you.

What’s even more striking about the timing is that Holland says she waited two years to make that compliment permanent. If she’d just waited two and a half, no one but her family and friends would have ever heard of her.

I may be the only person who doesn’t think that the original sentiment was nothing worse than badly timed. Leah Holland – young, white, and presumably neurotypical – is quoted in that BuzzFeed article as being “the type of person who thinks it’s pointless to pretend you’re someone you’re not.”

Even before we talk about my own personal take on this idea, I want you to ask yourself what comes to mind when you imagine someone who says, “Look – I’m not going to pretend to be someone I’m not.” The people who spring to my mind are white American men who not only refuse to apologize for being sexist, racist, and anti-science, but take every opportunity to brag about how often they defy what they like to call “the PC police.”

But never mind that. Let’s pretend that “be yourself” just means “be someone who is genuinely good and kind and well-intentioned but who refuses to, I don’t know, pretend to love baroque violin music when really she’d rather spend the afternoon blasting ABBA’s greatest hits.”

And as long as we’re in The Land of Rainbow Make-Believe (Yes, We Have Unicorns Here!), let’s also pretend that being against “wearing a mask” could of course only ever be taken in a figurative sense, and that everyone is of course absolutely fine with and even enthusiastic about wearing a literal physical mask if that’s what it takes to protect ourselves in the midst of a global pandemic. (Look, I SAID this was a fantasy.)

There’s still something upsetting about the idea that it’s “pointless” to cover your true self.

“Masking,” as a recent article pointed out, is something many autistic people do on a regular basis. It isn’t fun. It can be deeply uncomfortable. But we do it because we’ve been told that being ourselves is one hundred percent NOT okay.

Not making eye contact? Not okay.

Covering your ears against a sound no one else notices? You know you’re not five anymore, right?

Not faking a socially acceptable expression? You really should smile more.

Yeah, okay – that last one could be referring to autistic people, or it could be what everyone who presents as female gets to hear at least once in our lucky little lives.

It’s damaging to mask in the long run.

In the short run, masking can sometimes be, or at least seem like, the only way to get or keep a job, a friend, a family.

I mentioned in my previous post that I spent some of my time away from blogging doing some work I had mixed feelings about. I’m the onsite manager of the building I live in, and part of my job is showing vacancies to prospective tenants.

Some buildings have management companies that simply let people grab a key and take a look around the empty apartment in question. We don’t.

We don’t because the last two tenants our management company found for us by doing that ended up being people who broke their leases and (in one case) left without paying their last month’s rent. Running a credit check on someone tells you surprising little about what they’ll be like as a tenant.

So I show people around. I tell them about the place. I field their questions.

And I listen. Boy, don’t I.

Here’s an actual conversation I had with the management company a few years ago:

MC: So, what did you think of that couple who came by this morning? They sounded nice on the phone, and their credit score is great. They’re really interested in renting the place.

Me: They’re also really interested in how much light the front room would get if they knocked out the wall between the kitchen and the living room.

MC: Never mind.

Showing people around means talking on the phone. Which means answering the phone. Which means that even the neurotypicals are with me on how ick my job can be at times.

Showing people around means playing a part. I am the helpful manager whose voice is upbeat without being too saccharine or chirpy, whose tone is warm but not inappropriately friendly, who is brisk and businesslike and above all Here To Help.

Showing people around means nonstop masking.

And to be honest? I’m kind of into it.

I’ve spent my whole life struggling and usually failing to understand what’s expected of me. I’ve felt like an anthropologist in my own peer group: why do they do that? Why don’t they do this? And why can’t I ever figure it out well enough to pass as one of them?

Being a building manager means following a script. And oh, honey – I’ve been “scripting” for decades now.

Playing the part of manager means that for once, everyone understands when I say how exhausting it was dealing with people all day.

Being a manager means that for once, I’m not covering up who I really am because there’s something wrong with her. I’m skillfully masking my true self under a veneer of professionalism to protect my own privacy. Anyone would do the same in my shoes.

And for once, playing a part comes with a tangible payoff. I may still be struggling with the most basic social interactions in my personal life. I may be resigned to being the neighborhood weirdo. (“How many lizards does she have now?”)

But by gum, I’m able to put on the mask of Middle-Aged Manager In An Upper Middle-Class Neighborhood well enough and often enough to keep our building full of tenants who so far haven’t taken a sledgehammer to a single wall, load bearing or not.

Just checking in and sorry to have been gone so long. Half of my absence was due to being the kind of busy I have mixed feelings about – more about that soon. The other half was thanks to a pleasant sort of busyness I felt was closer to the French word for busy: occupé. I was taken on several spontaneous day trips and got to revel in natural beauty and indulge my ferocious love of non-human animals. More about that soon, too.

This little hermit crab was in a tank that, naturally enough, housed plenty of other occupants. It’s silly that they’re called hermits just because they carry their homes with them. They’re very sociable. They don’t want to be all by themselves. They’re always looking around for something to eat, someone to date, someone’s discarded shell to move into. They’re interdependent – just like humans. Except that hermit crabs don’t seem to mind the fact that they rely on plenty of other beings for their survival. Not that I’m feeling preachy.

Anyway. I spent an unreasonable amount of time watching and taking videos of this little crab sauntering around, often stepping on one of those pillowy-looking sea stars in the process. The stars did not seem thrilled by this. They don’t have brains, but they can sense light and dark and they can certainly tell when someone’s clambering over them.

Anyway anyway. I’m back. Summer’s over. Sorry to have been such a hermit. Hope you’re well.

Talk soon.

Someday, when it’s safe for all involved, I will be able to visit my lovely father-in-law and his lovely wife again. 

And when I do, I will bring my coffee kettle, the coffee scale and beautiful glass Chemex coffee-pour-over jug my kiddo got me for Christmas, the coffee grinder my kiddo recommended I get, and my favorite coffee beans.

Partly because the beans are called “Holy Cannoli” and feature label art inspired by my father-in-law’s favorite movie, The Godfather. The coffee itself is also very good, and I’d like to share it with him.

And partly because bringing all my own equipment is apparently – and I say this with all possible love, respect, and accuracy – the only dad-blasted way I will ever get a cup of coffee in my father-in-law’s home.

Why?

Because he’s neurotypical. 

According to Laura S. DeThorne, PhD, neurotypical people tend to suffer from “an inability to understand that other people know, want, feel, or believe things.”

Oh, wait, that’s right. DeThorne didn’t say that. In an article defending autistic people against accusations of being unable to empathize, she used that quote to describe the stereotype non-autistic people harbor about us.

Let’s just jump straight to the part where this stereotype ISN’T TRUE.

I realize that for some neurotypicals, that guy you met that one time may be more compelling than, for instance, this article from Scientific American. I also realize that if this is how you think, you’re probably not reading this blog. So let’s just take it as a given that autistic people can be empathetic.

Let’s also grant the fact that some neurotypical people can be occasionally, breathtakingly oblivious to the needs and feelings of those around them.

And then, because they’re neurotypical, they get to NOT BE DEFINED BY THAT.

Let’s circle back to coffee or lack thereof at my father-in-law’s house, shall we?

So far as I can tell, he’s about as neurotypical as they come. Which, as I may have made clear by now, isn’t necessarily a compliment coming from me. But in this case, there’s no malice. I’m just pointing out a fact.

I have learned that when we drive the hour it takes to get to my father-in-law’s house, I need to either bring my own coffee or ask loudly and repeatedly and clearly for it. Because although my father-in-law knows very well how long it takes to get from our home to his, he has never once in the history of ever offered us a drink when we arrive. 

Summoning all my patience and of course empathy, I would occasionally mention this to my spouse on the drive home.

Me: DUDE.

Spouse (sighing): Yes?

Me: We were there for HOURS.

Spouse (sighing again): I know.

Me: He didn’t offer us ANYthing to drink. NOTHING.

Spouse: Well, he –

Me: HE HAD A GLASS OF WATER NEXT TO HIM THE WHOLE TIME!

Spouse: I know.

Me: What do I have to do – make a sign?

Spouse: I don’t think that’s –

Me: Or maybe a life-size outline of the human body with “60% WATER” written on it? Is that the subtle kind of hint he might pick up, do you think?

Spouse: Do you want to stop at a bar on the way home?

I didn’t. Like Dracula, I never drink…wine. Or any other kind of alcohol. 

What I wanted was a glass of water – or a cup of tea, or, when I developed a taste for that rather late in life, a cup of coffee. And I wanted them from my father-in-law. The guy we’d just schlepped all the way across county lines to see.

What I really wanted was equality.

Some time back, Oliver Sacks wrote a profile of Temple Grandin for the New Yorker. When Sacks went to visit her, he “kept hoping” she would offer him some coffee. When she didn’t, he finally asked for some. 

Sacks dedicated an entire paragraph in his profile to how, ermagerd, she didn’t. Even. OFFER. A cup of coffee! When CLEARLY she should have noticed he wanted one! He’d traveled a long way! He’d missed lunch! Which I kind of think is on him, but what do I know!

Anyway. When Grandin failed to offer coffee and went on to speak at length about her field to the fellow scientist who’d visited her on purpose to learn more about her work, the prevailing attitude was: “Can you BELIEVE those wacky autistic people? They don’t understand the most basic human needs! They have no empathy whatsoever!” 

When my father-in-law doesn’t offer beverages because he’s too busy saying stuff that, just for the record, we’ve heard approximately nine jillion times before, it’s, “Well, that’s Dad for you.”

The last time I was there, I decided to be a grownup and not passive-aggressively wait to be offered a beverage. I decided to ask for what I wanted, pleasantly but firmly. 

About twenty minutes into our visit, in what seemed to be a natural break in the conversation, I said, “Hey – Mom? Dad? Could I bug you for a cup of coffee?”

They’ve visited me in the past. I have made coffee for them. And sat having a cup of my own at the same table. This will be relevant in a moment.

Looking a little surprised but perfectly friendly, my stepmother-in-law agreed. We went into the kitchen. My father-in-law decided he’d rather stay talking to my husband and son so he could finish his usual seven-hour screed on What Exactly Is Wrong With The World Dang Nab It.

I asked again for a cup of coffee. My stepmother-in-law said, “I know you love tea, right?”

I do, but I also love coffee and this afternoon I really needed the caffeine. I said as much. “Coffee would be great if you’ve got it,” I added.

They did have it. She said as much. 

She made me a cup of tea.

An hour later, we all went into the kitchen and my father-in-law made a cup of coffee for himself. Just himself. I had to ask for one. AGAIN.

I’m sure you’re dying to know, so: yes. I got a cup this time. FINALLY.

Stepmother-in-law: I thought you wanted tea!

Me: I asked for coffee.

S: You love tea!

Me: And I also love coffee! That’s why I asked for some! And I’d love some now! As long as you’re making some!

S: Oh.

Just to sum up: Oliver Sacks LAMBASTED Temple Grandin for talking for a solid hour (or so he claims) without offering beverages. This, he insisted, was clear evidence that autistic folks are socially clueless blathermouths without even the most basic level of empathy for our fellow humans.

My father-in-law did not get up to make me a cup of coffee even when asked to because he wanted to finish his monologue.

My stepmother-in-law, who for the record is NOT neurodivergent, made me a cup of tea when I asked for a cup of coffee.

They get to be themselves: unique neurotypical individuals.

Meanwhile,I offer a selection beverages and fresh-baked refreshments to anyone who even walks BY my apartment, let alone steps inside. 

And I’m one of those socially inept, unempathetic autistic people.

If I didn’t know better, I’d say neurotypicals have a bad habit of cherry-picking evidence that supports their pre-existing biases. 

But that wouldn’t be very fair of me, would it? I mean, they’re not ALL like that.

Actually? I’m pretty sure they are.