Mosaic of Minds: Studying & celebrating all kinds

disabilityculturalcenter:

sweetpeaclothing:

When Connie Feda’s 13 year old daughter, who has Down’s Syndrome, wanted a doll that looked like her, Connie was inspired to make her own!

When your child is disabled, it is almost impossible to find a doll that represents them. With some struggle, it is possible to find glasses, doll-sized hearing aids or a wheelchair. But a doll that reflects the facial and physical appearances of Downs Syndrome has yet to be produced.
One girl had waited long enough! According to WPXI.com, Connie Feda’s 13-year-old daughter Hannah, who has Downs Syndrome, was flipping through a toy catalogue when she said to her mom, “None of these dolls look like me. Not one of them.” Feda was inspired to make a doll that represented her.
Feda designed the doll, not just to look like a child with Downs, but to be stimulating and sympathetic to Downs children in other ways too. The doll’s clothes have zippers that are easier to grip and can be special ordered with a “badge of courage” scar painted on to the chest to indicate the heart surgery common to Downs children. For all these reasons, the doll is perfect for a child with Downs or a friend or sibling.
Feda is taking pre-orders now for her Dolls for Downs. She advertizes them with this smart tagline: “My doll has more chromosomes than your doll.” It’s this attitude – that she is unashamedly proud and shrugs aside any notion that there is something lacking in a child with a disability – that I respect about her project.
There are many restrictions on children with disabilities – but play should never be one of them.

Just beautiful!

What a wonderful project. Way to go, Connie and Hannah Feda!

sweetpeaclothing:

When Connie Feda’s 13 year old daughter, who has Down’s Syndrome, wanted a doll that looked like her, Connie was inspired to make her own!

When your child is disabled, it is almost impossible to find a doll that represents them. With some struggle, it is possible to find glasses, doll-sized hearing aids or a wheelchair. But a doll that reflects the facial and physical appearances of Downs Syndrome has yet to be produced.

One girl had waited long enough! According to WPXI.com, Connie Feda’s 13-year-old daughter Hannah, who has Downs Syndrome, was flipping through a toy catalogue when she said to her mom, “None of these dolls look like me. Not one of them.” Feda was inspired to make a doll that represented her.

Feda designed the doll, not just to look like a child with Downs, but to be stimulating and sympathetic to Downs children in other ways too. The doll’s clothes have zippers that are easier to grip and can be special ordered with a “badge of courage” scar painted on to the chest to indicate the heart surgery common to Downs children. For all these reasons, the doll is perfect for a child with Downs or a friend or sibling.

Feda is taking pre-orders now for her Dolls for Downs. She advertizes them with this smart tagline: “My doll has more chromosomes than your doll.” It’s this attitude – that she is unashamedly proud and shrugs aside any notion that there is something lacking in a child with a disability – that I respect about her project.

There are many restrictions on children with disabilities – but play should never be one of them.

Just beautiful!

What a wonderful project. Way to go, Connie and Hannah Feda!

Because You Aren't Autistic: Talents to "make up" for your deficits »

yesthattoo:

artsieaspie:

allisticntprivilege:

Does anyone notice that people with disabilities are often pushed to excel in something, just so that they can compensate for their difficulties? In fact, I would say those from just about any minority group is pressured to perform well in sports, academics, or other respected areas so that they can have a foot in the door when dealing with a racist/sexist/ableist/homophobic society. I understand the sentiment that parents particularly want their children to show the world what they are capable of, when society does not think they can do anything.

However, even if PWD do not have any extraordinary talents, they still are human beings who deserve to be accepted like anyone else. The idea that they are obligated to work on special skills, while NT/able-bodied people are allowed to just be your average joes, is ableist. Of course, this also applies to people of different skin color, languages, or even the female gender. I know there are many instances of parents pushing their children to get straight A’s or be really good at sports, so that they prove themselves worthy of respect, even though they are black/Hispanic/female.

I am glad the majority of autistic rights advocates strongly oppose the idea that autism acceptance only applies to gifted “high-funtioning” autistics. But the general public still views autistics as geniuses and savants with poor social skills. So that means if autistics do not fit those stereotypes, they are unfortunate failures who can neither do science nor work well with people.

YES!!! This is why I get so cross when autism awareness/acceptance efforts keep dragging Einstein up as a reason why autistic people are worthwhile. No, no, no, just no. Einstein (who may or may not have been autistic. I wouldn’t know, I wasn’t there - and neither were you) is NOT your average autistic person any more than he’s your average German or your average male. He’s not your typical anything - he was Einstein.

Most autistic people aren’t Einstein, we shouldn’t have to be, and using awesome savant superpowers and extreme-end-of-the-bell-cure intelligence as an argument for the rights of autistic people doesn’t actually address the core issue: We shouldn’t have to justify our right to exist. We’re human beings, therefore we deserve respect and the same human rights and dignity as everyone else.

(This is a rant-triggering topic for me, because I’m an autistic person who doesn’t have any awesome gifts or souped-up skills.)

It’s an important thing.

From family history (I’m not related to him, but he was a family friend, my uncle has a letter from him, he sponsored my great-grandpa to get out of Germany, that kind of thing) I can tell that he was able to get along with autistic people (great-aunt Rona was pretty blatant, great-grandma Fanny ticked my Aut-dar a bit, one of her sons/my grandpa is also fairly clear…) but that’s not saying that he was himself autistic. And we don’t need to know if he was autistic anyways, because all the stuff you said. It’s not about super-skills or whatever, it’s about humanity.

Absolutely, people are worthwhile whether they’re good at anything or not!

It seems to me though, from personal experience anyway, that having a disability makes things harder and makes one work harder to accomplish the same amount other people do. If you’re also really good at something, however obscure, it gives you a counterbalancing area where things are easier for you than other people. It also gives you something other people can appreciate and respect you for, whether or not they know about your disability. Plus, being good at something can give you a sense of accomplishment, which can be really nice when a lot of the time you’re worrying about whether you can measure up and accomplish your goals because of the disability.

So one things I love about Temple Grandin (besides that she’s successful while never being cured and still being obviously quite autistic), is that her very specific talents helped her find something to do that gives her life value and meaning. IIRC she’s talked a lot about wanting to make the world a better place for having lived in it…just like we all want. It’s just that while some of us bumble along trying to figure out what it is, for her, there was a perfect and obvious match, given her amazing visual thinking and love of animals.

I guess what I’m trying to say here is…I get why the assumption that autistic people MUST be savants is ableist, but isn’t developing talents a good thing that should be encouraged?

The Third Glance »

thethirdglance.wordpress.com

On the surface, I am a young PhD student, studying my absolute favorite subject. I am independent from my parents. I am asexual. I have a super cool secret life based on a hobby I have. I can speak in English, and I know French, and some American Sign Language. I am a voracious reader, both of fiction and non-. I love playing the piano. I am Autistic. And I have a story that wants to be told.

At first glance, I pass. I can enter into the neurotypical world and it looks like I’m doing well. It looks like I’m normal, successful, and all-around a good example. I graduated college in two and a half years, with honors, while most people — including my parents — thought I would flunk out in a few months. I’m a research scientist, in a wonderful lab, doing what I love to do, and I even get paid for it.

I live independently, and I can take care of myself. I have good “life skills”: laundry? I’ve been doing my own since I was four. Cooking? No problem, I am able to make at least one real meal every few days, and can fake the rest with cereal and sandwiches and leftovers. I’ve learned to manage money and can pay all my own bills on time. I’m rules oriented. I’ve never missed a deadline, because I know that it is against the rules. I’m not violent, and don’t have obvious, visible meltdowns in public. I’ve been trained, meticulously, to be invisible, to not be a burden, to exist without being seen or heard or even acknowledged.

Because when you take that second glance, you see that I can’t pass. That I flap and jump up and down and babble incoherently when I’m excited about something. That when I’m tired, or scared, or thinking really hard, I curl up and rock. That I don’t make eye contact, and that I typically communicate in a very one-sided way. That I wear the same thing day after day after day. I have eight fleece jackets, because I like the way they feel on my skin, and I wear one every day, because if I don’t the strange textures on my skin make me so uncomfortable that I can’t function. That I jump at the slightest sounds and I always know who is entering the room. That I need to have a routine and lists and written reminders and timers to function. That I often forget to eat or drink because I’m so absorbed in what I’m doing that I don’t notice hunger or anything else. That I’m so sensitive to textures that when I do remember to eat, it’s often the same thing over and over again, because I can only tolerate a few foods.

The second glance is the one that most people stop: I’m too weird for them, and it’s an effort to be near me or friendly to me, or even to acknowledge that I exist. In our society, “different” translates to “difficult” and difficult situations and difficult people are simply swept under the rug with the philosophy “if we just ignore them, they will go away.” I can pass just enough to be read as “normal” at first glance, and to be made invisible and a nonperson at second glance.

But then there’s the third glance, the one that most people never bother to take, but it is the most important one, the one that captivates you, and turns that fleeting glance into a good long look. I am the person I am today, because there are a few people who took that third glance. And they saw a compassionate, excited, quirky person. They saw someone who is brutally honest, exceptionally aware of her surroundings, keenly observant, meticulous, interesting, and fiercely passionate: someone who is worthwhile, and who will be a loyal friend, if you give her the chance. They saw a person, because they took the time to really truly see.

I’m hoping that you will take that third glance. Not just at me, but at everyone in your life. I hope that sharing my story, I will help you to see beyond that second glance, and to understand the people you at first brush aside because they are too different. I’m lucky because I have words that I can use to express how I think and feel. But these words are new to me and I am still learning how to use them. I am still learning how to take that third glance at myself. So learn to take that Third Glance and open your eyes and really look at those around you. And in doing so, you will come to know amazing, passionate people. And take that third glance at yourself and discover the wonderful person under your own skin. Because everyone deserves to be seen.

Reblogging because everyone, no matter what their neurotype, deserves to be seen. Take that third glance.

Passionate Cynic: A big reason I've never gotten into the whole *~positive thinking~* thing is that it tends to be very dismissive of... »

passionatecynic:

The instructor spent a while talking about how we are in control of the majority of the things in our lives, and when we can’t control things we need to stay positive about it.

That’s all well and good, but it doesn’t acknowledge the fact that my brain is trying to sabotage me every fucking step…

In my experience, depression and rumination are self-reinforcing cycles. If you don’t do something, anything, to try to break the cycle, they will keep getting worse and worse.

The worse it gets, more I get into a rut of negative thinking and the harder it is to think positively. My efforts at positive thinking don’t magically make the depression go away or fix everything in my life, but they do keep it from getting worse. The sooner I attempt, the easier and more helpful it is.

It has to be positive reframing that’s realistic enough for me to believe, though, not something so Pollyannaish I can’t even consider it. An example: if I don’t get a response to a business email right away, a realistic positive response might be, “this person is busy a lot, so they probably haven’t had time to check their email yet.”

autisticproblems:

Autistic Problem #133: When people refuse to provide you with specific instructions and then get angry when you do it wrong.

[submitted by http://joey-andromeda.tumblr.com/ ]

One of the ‘triggers’ to a special interest can be reading about someone who is different, an outcast such as Harry Potter in the books by J.K. Rowling. The child with Asperger’s syndrome is able to identify with the adversity faced by the hero of the story, and wishes that perhaps he or she could have the special abilities that are eventually recognised in the character of the triumphant hero.

“

—

Tony Attwood (The Complete Guide to Asperger’s Syndrome (via felixlovesyou)

I am kind of wondering… what child doesn’t do this? Since when was it only autistic children who wished to be Superman, Wonder Woman, etc. etc.? Since when is it only autistic children who identify with characters who face adversity? Since when do only autistic people obsess about fictional worlds? I dare you to go to fanfiction.net and see for yourself. This is absolutely not a sign of a special interest or an autistic obsession. This is an example of how completely normal child behaviour is medicalised if the child has a diagnosis.

(via jemimaaslana)

Yep, it’s similar to the saying that if you’re autistic, it’s therapy. If you’re neurotypical, it’s called playing.

(via goldenheartedrose)

Yes, yes, and yes. I remember being so confused when my parents told me I was autistic, and listed being obsessed with Harry Potter and baseball as one of the reasons. I was thinking, “I can show you a whole lot of other people on the Internet who are just as obsessed with Harry Potter as I am. And I’m not nearly as obsessed with baseball as you are, Dad, so what’s the issue? Why am I the abnormal one?”

(via allies-person)

I think had the internet been around when I was in elementary/middle school, I would have felt a lot less “weird” because there would be other people of all neurotypes to share in my “obsessions”. There are lots of people who have the same interests and obsessions that I do, and not all of them are autistic. So.

(via goldenheartedrose)

calmingmanatee:

Quote from Plato.

YES. And a lot of the time, you don’t know what battle they’re fighting.

You expected something that was tremendously important to you, and you looked forward to it with great joy and excitement, and maybe for a while you thought you actually had it—and then, perhaps gradually, perhaps abruptly, you had to recognize that the thing you looked forward to hasn’t happened. It isn’t going to happen. No matter how many other, normal children you have, nothing will change the fact that this time, the child you waited and hoped and planned and dreamed for didn’t arrive.

This is the same thing that parents experience when a child is stillborn, or when they have their baby to hold for a short time, only to have it die in infancy. It isn’t about autism, it’s about shattered expectations. I suggest that the best place to address these issues is not in organizations devoted to autism, but in parental bereavement counseling and support groups. In those settings parents learn to come to terms with their loss—not to forget about it, but to let it be in the past, where the grief doesn’t hit them in the face every waking moment of their lives. They learn to accept that their child is gone, forever, and won’t be coming back. Most importantly, they learn not to take out their grief for the lost child on their surviving children. This is of critical importance when one of those surviving children arrived at t time the child being mourned for died.

You didn’t lose a child to autism. You lost a child because the child you waited for never came into existence. That isn’t the fault of the autistic child who does exist, and it shouldn’t be our burden. We need and deserve families who can see us and value us for ourselves, not families whose vision of us is obscured by the ghosts of children who never lived. Grieve if you must, for your own lost dreams. But don’t mourn for us. We are alive. We are real. And we’re here waiting for you.

“

—	Jim Sinclair, Don’t Mourn for Us

Two Norwegian psychologists think that modern playgrounds are for wimps. Instead of short climbing walls, there should be towering monkey bars. Instead of plastic crawl tubes, there should be tall, steep slides. And balance beams. And rope swings. The rationale is that the more we shield children from potential scrapes and sprained ankles, the more unprepared they’ll be for real risk as adults, and the less aware they’ll be of their surroundings. Leif Kennair and Ellen Sandseter’s ideas have won the support of playground experts on both sides of the Atlantic; one company, Landscape Structures, offers a 10-foot-high climbing wall that twists like a Möbius strip.

“

—

32 Innovations That Will Change Your Tomorrow | NYT (via kateoplis)

Sharing this perspective because I don’t know if anyone else will.

As a child, I had terrible balance, was afraid of heights, and got dizzy at the drop of a hat. Even the nice, “wimpy” playground down the street terrified me, though I did eventually learn to cope, and liked it. I would have HATED a playground like Kennair and Sandseter recomend.

This is not to say a taller, riskier playground couldn’t help some kids. Just, it’s not for everyone, so they shouldn’t replace all the current playgrounds.

actuallyautistic:

autistickitten:

I will either babble at you or be completely silent

I love these.

::confused:: Wait, so, do you see yourself as “babbling at people?” To me “babbling at” is a wording that assumes there’s no purpose to the communication, it’s just a behavior. A brook babbles. A person seen as having nothing worthwhile to say babbles. Does this not bother you, or is it a word you’re trying to appropriate?