Am I Disabled Too?
Questioning My Identity As A Parent to an Autistic Child
Estée Klar
Against the background of a new “behaviour,” as it would be described by clinical behaviourists – Adam’s grunting – my writing about identity is agitated. How do I identify with disability and stigma as a parent with a child with the autism label? Do I matter? Does the act of defining an identity matter, or does it reinforce normative discourses about disability and identity in the act of defining one? In this dialogue with my father, I use Judith Butler’s “Giving An Account of Oneself” as my lens as she discusses identity against Hegel and Adriana Cavarero as well as notions around the social, discriminative and post-structuralist models of disability.
“We begin with a response, a question that answers to a noise, and we do it in the dark – do without exactly knowing, making do with speaking. Who’s there or here, and who’s gone?” (Thomas Keenan)
Huh huh…huh huh. Adam has started grunting. He hasn’t done it before. Usually Adam’s movements and occasional sounds don’t get to me. Yet this is constant grunting that agitates me. It punctuates my discomfort with the question, am I disabled too? Huh huh…huh huh. It seems as if he cannot stop it and I don’t have the silence I want to write this paper about whether I can also claim disability because of Adam through the lens of Judith Butler’s Giving An Account of Oneself as she discusses Hegel and Cavarero. It’s hard to concentrate. Huh huh…huh huh. I want Adam to stop. Huh huh…huh huh. I feel so awful for feeling this way. Huh huh. I decide to call my father to refocus.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Hi,” he says in a rushed almost what do you want voice. I often think he’s waiting to hear what I need from him or what’s wrong since I needed him a lot when Adam’s dad left. He’s listened to the weight of my thoughts, my worry for Adam, my questions about the meaning of all this.
“Adam’s grunting is getting louder again. It’s really hard to work when I hear him doing that.”
“It’ll be fine. Look, when we saw him last week, it quieted down. You know as well as I that things like this with Adam come and go.”
“I know, I know. But this one’s tougher. This one is vocal and loud. I’m having a visceral response. It’s like he’s setting off an alarm in me; as if his grunting makes Adam so urgently present, but it’s me who feels urgency – he seems happy enough. It’s like there’s an agitated presence but I am the one bringing it to the situation. Does this make sense?”
“I’m trying to follow you.”
“It makes me question everything in the sense of the social construction of the autism label against this loud noise that emanates from Adam’s chest, his body. I mean is this about me or is this about Adam?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m trying to ask the question about whether, because of Adam’s autism, I can claim disability too?” I could hear my father sigh.
“That’s a tough one.”
“Adam’s grunting is demanding my full attention. Every-other second when I hear it, I feel that I have to run in and save him. It’s exhausting.”
“You don’t need to run in and help him.”
“I’ve been getting better at that. In the meantime I started writing this paper and I decided to use the grunting because it’s so present and real right now. It’s challenging my ideas and conflicts with Adam’s embodied manifestations, if I may call it that, and I am interested in this idea of agitation.”
“Ha, ha. There you go!” He replied in his jolly good fashion, as if he was proud of my ingenuity. His approval encouraged me to continue.
“Can I talk about what I am thinking about?”
“Sure,” he said quickly.
“My question is problematic. On the one hand, I want to write about times like this, when it feels hard to help Adam, or even when I feel stressed or need help. I also want to write about the times when I feel isolated or stigmatized without blaming and creating more hardship for him. I am really hesitant and I seem to resist writing about this. The problem is, if I go and complain how difficult it is for me at times, then these are the arguments that get turned around to legitimize that autistic people are a burden on their parents, and on society. It gives justification for cures, remedies, and eugenics arguments.”
“Yep,” said my father waiting for more. I heard the sound of a clicking keyboard on the other end of the receiver.
“Then there’s the complication of claiming disability where I do not have a visible one. I can claim my own disability without attaching it to autism these days with my injuries. As for autism, can I claim that disability because of the barriers I face in the name of helping Adam get access to education and programs? Also, my own identity is malleable and it changes with time and experience and as Adam may change over time. So if I talk about myself as disabled because of autism, I could be blaming autism as the barrier for inclusion rather than the social constructions built to exclude Adam. Then there is another issue.”
“Yes?”
“Our experiences are not similar. Maybe he can share his experiences with other people with the autism label, and maybe he can’t. Are our bodies individual or collective or both? I can’t necessarily walk in Adam’s shoes and I can’t claim the embodied autistic experience the way he can. You see, there are a lot of questions about identity and experience.”
“So why is this important? What do you want?” He always had a habit of asking just the right question. “Do you want recognition?” I wanted to find a way to argue away from the possibility that I might need any.
“Okay. I’m thinking.” I heard my father chuckle in the background muffling the phone and speaking to my mother. He then uncovered the phone.
“Go on.”
“Maybe I want people to understand how hard this is for me to discuss, you know? I mean, is this important to discuss? I keep coming to the question what about me?””
“Yeah, so? What about you?” my father asked sharply, as if I sounded selfish.
“I knew you’d say that. Let me try and explain before you judge me, please? For instance, have I been writing myself out of the picture when I do so about my son’s rights, and when I’ve said that autistic people must speak for themselves in this autism rights movement? Communication is difficult for Adam and there’s no question that I have to help him, which sort of speaks to the interdependence issue about accommodation and autism. So, do I matter in this discussion as his parent? Somewhere in there is the politically correct space of claiming my identity as an autistic ally, but it leaves out some of the challenges I face as a non-autistic single parent to an autistic boy that doesn’t always fit with a political movement. You see, I’ve been writing this blog for years, and I tend to sound strong and positive all the time. Yet I think I’ve made it clear that I don’t think, in an ableist sense, that everyone has to have some sort of ability, or be strong, to be treated as equal citizens. There are some people who can’t contribute to the economy in the same ways, or at all. I don’t think human value and equal rights should be based on that. You know as well as I that I’ve been told I’m in denial by people who want to stay rooted in the why me, this autism is terrible and must be eradicated discourse, and I feel awkward discussing Adam’s private struggles in public. I think of the ethics involved in that and I don’t want to define our identity simply by our struggles, but they are definitely a part of it and I don’t wish to omit it, either. Part of me feels that what I write is performative; a version of my life with Adam. I present this to the world because of discrimination and because proclaiming struggle can threaten Adam’s existence. Still, I’m trying to decide if this is an act of editing or half-truth-telling. I mean, I share the same challenges and feelings as many other parents do.” I mumble getting frustrated, listening to Adam push out breathy grunts emanating from his chest downstairs. “I don’t know.”
“Yes, yes, but what does writing about this do for you?”
“I’m trying to answer the question, for now, if claiming my child’s disability as my own is fair to him and to other disabled people where I do not share the same somatic identity and experience. Although I experience stigma to some degree because of Adam’s autism label and as his caregiver, does that permit me to claim disability too?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Let me give you one example that might tell you about how I can feel stigmatized because this is the oppressive experience of being disabled. If I go out, people ask me if I have children. I have a big choice to make with this simple question. I have to decide whether to tell people I just have a child or if I should mention that I have an autistic child.”
“Yes, but what does it matter?” My father’s t’s were sharp. “It depends on who you are talking to.”
“Perhaps, but let me try to see if I have a point. The dialogue can go either of two ways. If I choose the first option where I do not feel that the investment in telling my story is going to be worth it, the conversation around do you have children? goes pretty much like this: Someone will ask, How old is your son? I’ll say, Ten. He’ll be eleven soon. Then they’ll say something like, Oh that’s a fun age; turning into a pre-teen. All the boys want to… whatever, just fill in the blank. They might even ask me what sports teams Adam is on and then I can get a little stuck there. Or, I can end the conversation. So here’s the strange thing: when I do that I feel like a lie to myself because so much of my time, thought and energy is spent with these issues and caring for Adam. I am then only half (or less) of my Self in this performative utterance. In that moment, I feel a sense of loss because I can’t share my story. I feel I have cut off Adam from me as I would cut off my own arm. I’ve come to name this my amputated identity. Goffman said…”
“Who’s Goffman?” interrupted my father.
“Erving Goffman wrote about stigma.”
“Go on.”
“He wrote about a notion called Dyadic Cooperation where ‘stigma may lead to an adaptation to lead an individual to avoid interactions with others who are viewed as poor partners for social exchange.’ So in my example, I am experiencing a loss of identity as a result from the possible expense it might cost me, or Adam, for sharing it. There are so many examples of the stigma I feel even when I go out with Adam and how he is scrutinized if people know his label. Or if he makes noises, of course, people will look at him. Remember when Adam didn’t want that doctor to touch his ears so the doctor said that’s Adam’s going to be violent when he becomes a teenager because he’s autistic – just because Adam wouldn’t let him touch his ears!”
“That doctor should be reported,” my father said angrily.
“Yes, but that goes on every day in our world. I feel the pain in my gut as much as I think Adam would if he was old enough to understand the weight of that comment. Now let me talk about all of this literature I’m reading on how parents give up their jobs or promotions for their disabled children, and how important it is to support parents. It’s not that I don’t think parents should be supported; it’s just that I question how they are supported to cure autism and cope rather than questioning these things. Parents aren’t encouraged to question the system that oppresses our children as much as us. We are expected to remediate our children to normalcy and society doesn’t have a legal responsibility for inclusion and equality of opportunity and well-being; only to support us to remediate our children before they can become mainstreamed. Financially and emotionally, this can be disabling, not to mention leaving parents feeling desperate and hopeless when they discover that autism isn’t curable, and I’m not trying to make an argument for a cure here. We are charged with solving this ‘problem,’ which is our children, which then leads to our feelings of isolation. This marginalization of our children, and all disabled people, affects our lives too. I guess I’m trying to say that there are lots of issues with care and the expectation on families as containers of disability; families as embodied silos in the politics of care. Aren’t we all accountable? It’s hard to explain this. I’d rather just be accepted, to have a life without so many questions about autism as our identity. I’m not saying I want to hide it, either.”
“I think society is measured by how it treats its most vulnerable citizens and you’re right, it operates on this individualist concept. But regarding the social situation, it’s not a lie if you don’t tell people Adam is autistic. It just depends on who you talk to. Not everyone deserves an explanation and I think it depends on context.”
“Yes, but…”
“So what’s your point? Do you want pity?” said my father sharply.
“No. Maybe I just want to be understood, if this is recognition, but it’s not quite. I’m referring to recognition as understanding and empathy, and it’s not just for me – I want it for Adam too. Think of diagnostic labeling, if you can accept this metaphor, like a wound or gash on the body, a stigmata. I am trying to make sense of it, as do many autistic adults who have to make sense of all the discrimination, or even a new diagnosis, I think. This is like someone trying to make sense of cancer, or after a serious disabling accident, where disability is thrust upon a person suddenly. We write, paint or try to express our experience in order to make it coherent. Yet doesn’t everyone want the short answer to who are you? I guess I don’t feel entirely comfortable in claiming disability although I can identify with stigma. It’s hard to answer the question of who am I? in one sentence. Here’s another interesting point, though. If I use the social or discriminatory model of disability which states that social barriers to equality of opportunity and well-being constitutes disability I could, prima facie, claim it. If I can’t get access to certain services or a way of life that others are entitled to as Adam’s parent because I have to take care of him, which does I admit, intersect with my role as a single-mother, then that can be perceived as disabling. Yet the social model does not take into account the complexities of physical or embodied impairment. It can’t explain that the impairments that most of us will face over the course of our lives may be physically limiting or will require medical treatment. The social model is still part of a normative discourse because it implies that if all society needs to do is to remove the social barriers, then disability won’t exist. Therefore, one could argue that it sets out to ameliorate disability and disability cannot, or should not always be fixed for the sake of fixing, and the removal of social barriers alone will not rid society of disability. Lennard Davis writes that even the notion of identity is a normative concept. He argues that distinguishing from other identity groups can limit their own projects. So identity isn’t stable. ”
“That, I like,” said my father. “Look, you are working to help Adam’s future. There are ignorant people out there and there always will be. You just keep doing what you’re doing. Adam’s a sweet little guy. He’s our guy.” My dad’s voice softened.
“When you talk in that tone about Adam it makes me feel that this isn’t something just about my identity as Adam’s parent or as a single-parent or as a woman, even though I’m not discrediting these aspects of my identity, either. I’m considering this in a collective sense because identity is always shifting and seems so unreliable. Listen to this:
‘The you comes before the we, before the plural you and before the they. Symptomatically, the ‘you’ is a term that is not at home in the modern and contemporary developments of ethics and politics. The ‘you’ is ignored by individualistic doctrines, which are too preoccupied with praising the rights of the I, and the ‘you’ is masked by a Kantian form of ethics that is only capable of staging an I that addresses itself as a familiar ‘you.’ Neither does the ‘you’ find a home in the schools of thought to which individualism is opposed – these schools reveal themselves for the most part to be affected by a moralistic vice, which, in order to avoid falling into the decadence of the I, avoids the contiguity of the you, and privileges the collective, plural pronouns. Indeed, many revolutionary movements (which range from traditional communism to the feminism of sisterhood) seem to share a curious linguistic code based on the intrinsic morality of pronouns. The we is always positive, the plural you is a possible ally, the they has the face of an antagonist and the I is unseemly, and the you is, of course, superfluous.”’
“That’s fantastic, who wrote that?” my father said enthusiastically.
“Her name is Adriana Cavarero. I found it in a book by Judith Butler On Giving An Account of Oneself. I find it interesting how she writes about the politics of pronouns. So in essence she’s saying in our age, the we is in fashion. I think a lot of people might take issue with that in a neo-liberal capitalist society that highly values the I. So the question isn’t just about me, it’s what about we? But we have to be careful here because even collective identity is malleable and we have to think about what Lennard Davis said. Yet it denotes social responsibility and asks us to question the discrimination of the disabled body as singular/abnormal entity of them separate from the normative us. When I start thinking in those terms when Adam is grunting or having body spasms, I see how my agitation creates the question of what’s wrong? I am defining his embodiment aberrently, against my reaction to it, while he is happily grunting to himself. My question about my identity with Adam’s gets blurred, and sadly, I think Adam’s identity is constructed largely on his physical behaviours-as-aberrant. But this is not to say I don’t have these difficult moments. I really struggle with this!”
“Of course you do. It’s natural.”
“Butler also writes, ‘For Hegel, the desire to be, the desire to persist in one’s own being …is fulfilled only through the desire to be recognized. But if recognition works to capture or arrest desire, then what has happened to the desire to be and to persisting one’s own being? Spinoza marks for us the desire to live, to persist, upon which any theory of recognition operates may seek to fix and capture us, they run the risk of arresting desire, and of putting an end to life.’ So if I have this right, Butler is suggesting that my desire, that is the act of trying to define myself as a parent who shares disability with my son, is inadequate if not potentially life-threatening, like Davis implies. ‘As a result, it is important for ethical philosophy to consider that any theory of recognition will have to give an account of the desire for recognition, remember that desire sets the limits and the conditions for the operation of recognition itself.’ I’m not comfortable in setting those limits precisely because they are limiting.
“Go on, you’re on to something.”
“Cavarero also says we are ‘exposed to one another’s vulnerability and singularity and that our political situation consists in learning how to handle and honour this constant exposure;’ that we are not closed in on ourselves, or solipsistic. She goes on to say, ‘I exist in an important sense for you.’ I think I’ve taken this position. Adam is present in everything I write and don’t write and the lines are always shifting. I am also tied to the political environment which problematizes the notion of autism, of course. Perhaps I can’t resist the importance of social movements. In a way, one could say that the issues we discuss around disability asks us to think collectively from which all society may benefit. I’ve talked about engaging with Adam in a relational dialectic and then I discovered that Hanna Arendt presented the notion of a relational politics whereby ‘the exposure and vulnerability of the other makes a primary ethical claim on me.’ I can’t rid myself of this notion that I cannot identify myself in isolation, or maybe at all. Maybe all I can do is keep writing.”
“There you go. How’s Adam’s grunting now?”
“It seems to have quieted.”
“Remember, your attempt to find only one answer to your question isn’t possible. It can end up being meaningless.”
“You’re referring to essentialism?”
“Exactly. Remember to keep it open ended.”
“My relationship with Adam, or my argument?”
“Both.”
—–
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