4:15am October 10, 2010

➸ Critic of the Dawn

I know I am not my uncle, because people tell me, in subtle and not-so-subtle ways. “You don’t seem disabled,” they say. In the tiny stress on you, I know my uncle, and I know we are being distinguished. People relax, ever so slightly, when they read the words on my communication board: they realize that even when I cannot speak, I still use language much like theirs. I know too well the agitated stillness when I cannot find words to make myself clear, cannot fathom others’ meanings. In the sudden release of physical tension that betrays others’ reassurance, I know my uncle.

I know I am not my sister, because people tell me, in subtle and not-so-subtle ways. They use words like perseveration, echolalia, concreteness, self-stim, self-injury. In these words, I know my sister, and I know we are being distinguished. People stiffen, ever so slightly, when they see stairs, when they realize they’ve touched me, when they spot throbbing fluorescents, when they realize the lecture isn’t captioned and there is no text. In the sudden physical tension that betrays others’ discomfort, I know my sister.

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