Autism and Neurodiversity Different Does Not Mean Broken
Transcriber: Jennie González
Reviewer: David DeRuwe
We all know someone who’s a little weird.
Someone who’s a little too eager,
a little too enthusiastic.
Someone who doesn’t get the hint
when you want the conversation to end,
so you have to plan your escape.
Someone who might think that you’re on
closer terms than you actually are.
Someone who has very specific interests
and thinks that you are just as interested
in all the same things that they like.
We all know someone like this, right?
We all know someone
who’s a little awkward.
Well, what if I told you that some people
who strike you as weird or awkward -
they’re not suffering from any kind
of moral or character flaw?
What if I told you that some people
seem different to you
because they are literally
wired differently?
Conditions like autism, ADHD,
dyslexia, and tourette syndrome
all fall under the umbrella
of something called neurodiversity.
The people who have these
conditions are united by the fact
that their brain structure
is physically different,
and that difference in wiring
leads to different ways of thinking,
communicating, and experiencing the world.
One of the main ideas
behind neurodiversity
is that different does not mean broken.
The term was created by a sociologist
named Judy Singer in the 1990s
to refer to the infinite and naturally
occurring variability of the human brain,
because we all have
our own unique neurology,
and with it, our own strengths
and weaknesses.
The problem for a lot
of neurodivergent people
is that the world we live in was created
with neurotypical brains in mind.
And as a result of this, neurodivergent
people have to put in extra work,
constantly translating their thoughts
and ideas and experiences
from one frame of reference to another.
Things are getting better.
We know more about conditions
like autism than ever before.
We’re getting better at diagnosing
various forms of neurodivergence,
and we’re getting better at creating
more accessible environments
that work better for everyone.
But that’s not what I’m here
to talk to you about tonight.
I’m here to talk to you
about the weird kids, the quiet ones,
the ones who sit by themselves.
The kids who overreact
or underreact or just act strangely.
The kids whose classmates
will sometimes say to them,
“Why are you doing that? Why
are you being so weird?”
The kids whose teachers
sometimes will even say,
“You know, they’d have more friends
and they wouldn’t get bullied
quite so much if they just made
a little effort to not be quite so weird.”
As a middle school librarian,
I really relate to those quiet, weird kids
that I work with
because I was one of them.
I ate lunch by myself a lot,
usually outside because the cafeteria
was too bright and too loud
and just too overwhelming.
I often only had one friend,
and I spent a lot of time in the library,
which may explain how I ended
up as a school librarian.
But I also had these unexpected,
over-the-top meltdowns
caused by sensory overload
that were frequently misinterpreted
to be intentional temper tantrums.
I struggled with changes in routine,
and I didn’t know how to begin
or end a conversation.
But since I did well in school,
nothing really happened.
I was never recommended
for an autism diagnosis as a kid.
My parents did have my hearing
checked when I was five
because my mom complained that I
never answered when she called for me.
She’d have to physically
enter my line of sight
for me to realize
that she was talking to me,
but I passed that hearing test with flying
colors, and that was the end of it.
My parents did not know what autism was.
In the 1980s and the 1990s
when I was a kid, autism was something
that was predominantly diagnosed
in young white males who couldn’t speak.
So being a Puerto Rican
and Mexican-American girl
who spoke relatively well,
I didn’t really have the traits
that people associated
with autism at the time.
It would take over 30 years
for someone to make the connection.
After five years
of teaching special education
and working with neurodivergent
students every day,
I learned that I had secretly
been one of them all along.
I’m part of what researchers call
“the lost generation of autism.”
The phrase was coined in 2015 by
researchers at the University of Cambridge
to refer to a lot of different people:
women, people of color,
trans and non-binary people,
all of whom had their autism
go unnoticed and undiagnosed for decades.
Instead, many of us
were just seen as weird.
And that lack of a diagnosis
has had a severe impact on our lives.
It has affected our mental health,
our relationships,
and even our career prospects.
The National Autistic Society in the UK
estimates that 85% of autistic
college graduates are unemployed.
Only about 10% of us might be married,
based on studies
from the University of Toronto
and the University
of Wisconsin in Madison.
The Centre for Addiction
and Mental Health in Toronto
found that autistic people
are five times more likely
to be diagnosed with conditions
like anxiety and depression.
And the Karolinska Institutet in Sweden
has found that autistic people
are 10 times more likely
to die by suicide.
The trauma that leads someone
to take their own life
is not something that happens overnight.
It is the result of years
of feeling misunderstood
and feeling like you
are misunderstanding everyone else.
As neurodivergent people,
we constantly contort ourselves
to fit the expectations
of neurotypical society.
We constantly bend to meet the standards
and the rules of the people around us,
but eventually if we’re not properly
supported, we break.
My friend Scott used to read
the phone book as a kid.
I read the encyclopedia,
but he really liked numbers,
and Scott was a bit of a weird kid
that grew up to be a bit of a weird adult.
He struggled to maintain relationships,
but he was never diagnosed
with any kind of neurodivergent condition.
After knowing Scott
for more than a decade,
I began to suspect that he
might be wired differently, like me.
But what I didn’t know was how much
he was struggling all on his own
because like so many other neurodivergent
people, Scott was suffering in silence.
He put on a mask, a facade, of being
perfectly fine while simultaneously
he was growing to believe that the world
would be a better place without him.
The pandemic was Scott’s breaking point.
He died by suicide last October.
And the world is worse off
because he’s gone.
Just as a rainforest with biodiversity
is better equipped to adapt
and respond to threats,
humanity needs neurodiversity.
We all benefit when we have different
kinds of minds solving our problems,
creating our works of art,
and enriching our communities.
But even if a neurodivergent person
is not out there changing the world,
their life still has value.
We talk so much as a society
about the importance of kindness,
but far too many of us
will distance ourselves
from people we don’t really understand.
We tell autistic people that they need
to learn better social skills,
but bridging that gap
between autistic and non-autistic people
can’t fall solely on our shoulders,
because when we’re dealing
with things like anxiety
or depression or suicidal thoughts,
we don’t have that much left to give.
We need you to meet us halfway.
So tonight, I’m asking you
to rethink the word “weird.”
Take that letter E and move it
down just a couple of spots,
and you’ll end up with “wired,”
and that’s the word I want you
to take home with you tonight.
The next time you meet someone who
strikes you as weird or strange,
I want you to remind yourself:
their brain is probably wired
a little differently than mine,
and that’s OK.
They might be neurodivergent, they might
have post-traumatic stress disorder,
they might have some other condition,
but you don’t need to know
their exact diagnosis
to be more compassionate
and patient and understanding.
We will all ultimately
benefit from a world
that is more empathetic and kind,
and the neurodivergent kids
that I work with every day -
they deserve to live
in that kind of world.
They deserve so much more
than what my generation had.
So let’s work together and make this world
a better place for all of us.
Thank you.
(Applause)