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319 14 “All the Things I Have Ever Been” Autoethnographic Reflections on Academic Writing and Autism Dawn Eddings Prince When neurotypical people picture people on the spectrum, usually stereotypes come to mind in spite of the ongoing efforts of those on the spectrum who are able to bridge the communication gap and tell their own stories in their own words. Perhaps this is human nature ; certainly there are examples everywhere, in every clique and niche, of people whom one might describe as having “autistic” tendencies, or perhaps more accurately as having stereotypically autistic tendencies: singularity, an insular view of reality, a certain rigidity and love of reliable patterns that exclude or prohibit an easy flow, or a kind of encompassing , of the widest possible approach to awareness of all things. Although I quit school as a teenager, having been taunted for my autistic habits, I eventually found my passion in anthropology and went back to school. I finally excelled: my ability to focus intently, my immersion style of learning, and my photographic memory were all great tools for my college experience. As I have become more and more ensconced in academia, following its rules and learning to speak its language , I have always been aware that I and all the things and perhaps even people I am are lost in its translation. I have become increasingly disturbed that there is only one “me” that is welcomed and embraced in this erudite and tamed country in the lingua franca. I have become increasingly uncomfortable seeing the autistic stereotype in the academic mirror, and I am not speaking of the careless imprints of experts speaking for those on the spectrum; rather, I see in the style of the writing itself the very thing I do not wish to serve: the singular and exclusionary nature of academic writing, its own insular view of reality, its beloved rigidity and reliable patterns. For me, language is blended inextricably to context and memory. 320 DAWN EDDINGS PRINCE Even when I was a child, this melding represented the most important thing in the world, and everything, from bathrooms to snails to dogs, had language. If a thing existed, it existed as a living part of language and had a deep understanding of its place in the vibrations of speech, in the vibrations of existence. This whole cloth of speech and living things made my world a magical place. I learned very early, however, that for most people, language was a kind of weapon rather than an amorphous mist of the birth waters of reality . It seemed that for most speaking humans, language could be considered a violent activity, in that it cut up the world and its use also cut groups of people one from another. A knife was just a knife and bore no relationship to the cutting of language. A chair was just a chair where nothing sat. A breath was just a breath, a singular thing apart from the heart, apart from the atmosphere, a thing separate from saying. In this way, I knew that language was as important to other people as it was to me, but in a dangerous way. The silence between their words was just as full of cutting as the silence between my words was a place of connection. When I was young I talked to animals in that language of silence. I knew what trees and streams were saying, because they told me. I knew what sow bugs and snakes were saying, because they molded me. I grew together with them because of the words of living together in a world where everything needed everything else. Sometimes my grandfather would ask me in the garden, “What are the worms saying today?” “Fine fine slither dirt push good rotting green,” I would answer, smiling. My grandfather, in his love and understanding, never told me how important it was to talk like everyone you were supposed to emulate. There was no place for saying that tomato plants said, “Sun warm summer, pushing, pushing green, green red, red,” or that fish said, “Cold float shade shade shade.” After I moved far away from my grandparents, dropped out of school, became homeless, and ultimately decided to go back to school, I renewed my efforts to follow the rules that normal people use in language. Maybe it was easier for me to follow certain rules by then because I was in an academic setting and the rules are very specific when...

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