"But That Won't Get You Anywhere"

I write fanfiction. I like to write fanfiction. I have notebooks full of it, and computer folders even more so. I've been told it's quite good, for fanfiction. That I have good technique, and that it's like reading a published book. I'm my own worst critic, so I can't say for sure, but having been told so so many times I guess there's probably some truth to it.

Seven years ago, I took a creative writing class. Besides the fact that I had trouble understanding some of the assignments (we would often read a piece of fiction and then be told to write "in the same style" without a serious explanation of what that style was), one of the biggest disagreements I had with the instructor was that I used fanfiction for most of my assignments. I followed the directions as best as I understood them, but I put them into fanfiction. The instructor was critical. She seemed to think this was a phase, and not a helpful one for me. She seemed to think I would only be able to advance in my writing when I stopped writing fanfiction.

Five months ago, I was handed half a script. I had a cast already ready, a date set for the performance. We'll write it along the way, he said. It was an interesting challenge, a decent story, and a chance to direct that I would never have passed up. But a few weeks passed, and it wasn't coming together anywhere near fast enough. So I sat down, and over the course of a day and a half I re-wrote the entire script. Fixing the scenes that were already there, filling in the blanks that were left to be finished, writing entirely new scenes to elaborate on points that weren't delved into deeply enough. And somewhere along the way it occurred to me: the skills I use to write fanfiction were the exact same skills I used to write this play. Every warning I'd been given all those years ago had turned out to be completely wrong. Those skills had served me in a very real way.

I look at my life as an autistic person, and in some ways, this isn't an unusual scenario. So many people in my life had ideas about what I should be doing, in order to be successful. Often they boiled down to the idea that I had to change what I was doing in order to succeed. And looking back on those suggestions, I can't think of a single one that contributed to my success, or a single one I left unfollowed that had the dire consequences I was told about.

When parents of autistic children ask how to support their children, I tell them to take the skills the children already have and nurture them into something they can do with their lives. Many things and behaviors that seem useless can be turned into something that is useful, if the right outlet is found.

They told me fanfiction wouldn't get me anywhere, but last month, five audiences, several hundred people, had a different perspective.

They Put Me Next to a Group That Wishes I Didn't Exist

I'm very active on my campus, and I'm quite proud of my position as the president of a small student organization. Thanks to a few "paper"work screw-ups, I had to scramble to get us a place at this month's Student Organization Fair, our best chance this semester to reach the campus community. We got the spot, and I was proud to represent our organization.

The fair was not what I expected, but it was okay for the most part. The less-than-stellar turnout can be looked past, my feet have finally stopped hurting, and the fact that the member who had all the literature no-showed becomes less of an issue when one considers that the people who gave my table a second look can probably be counted on one hand. What I can't seem to push aside is who was one table over. Because they put my student organization next to the table for our campus' all-new Autism Speaks chapter.

Now, they don't know that I'm autistic. My organization is not an Autism organization per se, although I've pushed to get more disability advocacy on our list of issues. The assignments were alphabetical, nothing more. But for me, it was more than just an unfortunate coincidence.

I didn't feel that there was anyone I could turn to to rectify the situation. Like it or not, I respect the rights of this organization to share their viewpoint, so asking the organizers to ask them to leave wouldn't have been an option to me even if I thought there was a chance I'd be taken seriously. I could have asked to be moved to another table, but there were two problems with that.

The first is quite straightforward: in order to explain why I was not comfortable with the arrangement, I likely would have had to disclose my Autistic nature to whoever I spoke to. I'm openly Autistic, but that doesn't mean I want to blurt it out to the virtual strangers running the event. There are still too many stereotypes associated with autism to make that advisable.

The second is more complicated, and that is that I would have had to explain exactly what about that was so unsettling as to create a situation in need of resolution. I did attempt to explain this to someone from the table on my other side, a disability advocacy group. Her reply was that she wants to "reach out to all advocates". I attempted to explain, but I felt I wasn't getting through even to someone who was a member of a group advocating for "diverse abilities".

How, then, to explain to a group of event organizers that this was not like putting the College Democrats right next to the College Republicans (and the judgement in that case is, in my opinion, questionable in and of itself). This is an organization that believes I should not exist. An organization that believes that my body is not rightfully mine, but rather something I have no right to. An organization that has said that people like me bring suffering on our families. And no, I don't believe that every person at that table believes these things, but that is what that blue puzzle piece means to me. It means an organization that advocates torture, that advocates silencing voices like mine.

I don't know the answer. I'm not even positive I know the question.