esaunde2

Saunders Final Exam

Emily Saunders

Foss

ENGL384-02

Word Count: 1126

I pledge. –Emily Saunders

Rhetoricity: The Voice of Autism

Consider this: human beings have a fascination with language, with communication, and use it in every action that they take. Words are prescribed to objects, people, abstract concepts, animals, relationships, et cetera, and they are used to convey endless messages across endless modes of communication. There are very few (if any) ways in which human beings do not exist and communicate at the same time. In particular, voice (both literal and metaphorical) is often taken for granted as essential to the human experience, but what happens when that voice doesn’t conform to the standards set forth by the masses? What if your communication looks different? What if your language doesn’t match the one prescribed to you? Autism is frequently treated and discussed in ways that disregard the personhood, and therefore voice, of people with autism, despite their rich, albeit different, experiences with language.

A close look at Melanie Yergeau’s Introduction to her book, Authoring Autism, and Ralph James Savarese’s essay “Toward Postcolonial Neurology: Autism, Tito Mukhopadhyay, and a New Geo-poetics of the Body” shows an intense focus on the ways in which language and autism interact. Though they take two differing approaches to the subject—Savarese focusing primarily on the experiences and words of Tito Mukhopadhyay, and Yergeau focusing on (non)rhetoricity—both works critically engage with the topic, arguing against common conceptions and prejudices.

Yergeau spends much of her introduction discussing her idea of rhetoricity—what it is, how it’s used, and the politics of being able to participate in it. She writes, “It is not uncommon. . . for rhetoricians to claim that rhetoric is what makes one human. . . [its] precondition for humanness or personhood is typically and deeply connected to how we conceive sociality, or our modes of relating and relatedness with our (neurotypically human) surrounds” (Authoring Autism 6). By this, she means that rhetoric—or the meaning-making system by which we as social animals live—governs both our society as well as how we as individuals relate to it. This is a pretty straightforward concept but becomes twisted when brought into atypical contexts. Consider how, for example, characters representing a minority are portrayed on television. Black men are the funny guy, the athlete, the criminal, and generally angry. Black women are “crazy”, hypersexual, matriarchs, and welfare queens. Members of the LGBT community are flamboyant, dramatic, caricatures, and often victims of violence. The disabled . . . well, the disabled are hardly visible to begin with. All of these tropes are rhetorical tools used to define and confine minority groups in order for the majority (straight, cis-gendered white folk) to maintain power and control.

In the case of disability studies—and more specifically autism—this can be not only degrading but dehumanizing, which Yergeau goes on to explore in her introduction as well. People with autism are often framed as being nonrhetorical (Authoring Autism 5). But, if rhetoric is what makes us human, as we discussed earlier, then what does that mean for the autistic? Do they not compose stories, interact with the rhetoric-laden world around them, and communicate? Scholarly literature would have you believe, as Yergeau points out, that “In all things discursive, autism represents decided lack” (Authoring Autism 7). The disability, according to this literature, inhibits the autistic from being able to meaningfully interact with and produce rhetoric, despite copious evidence of the opposite. The difference is, well, difference. Autistic rhetoric may look, sound, and/or feel different than that produced and consumed by neurotypical folk. However, this preconceived idea that rhetoric—and therefore humanity—must mimic one specific kind is what keeps autistic rhetoric from being integrated into modern literature and scholarship. There’s no effort to include and explore the rhetoricity of the autistic, and that is what ultimately keeps them from being able to establish their own voice.

What, then, does autistic rhetoric look like? How exactly does an autistic person produce and consume it? Ralph James Savarese takes an interesting stance on the subject, entering the conversation through discussion of “severely” autistic author Tito Mukhopadhyay (Savarese 5). Savarese is quick to point out Mukhopadhyay’s use of language and how it starkly undermines the current conception of people with autism as being nonrhetorical, including a staggering number of quotes from the young author’s works. Mukhopadhyay writes, at only eight years old, “One day I dream that we can grow in a matured society where nobody would be ‘normal or abnormal’ but just human beings, accepting any other human being—ready to grow together” (The Mind Tree 90). By including this particular quote, as well as emphasizing the age at which Mukhopadhyay wrote it, Savarese effectively challenges the idea of nonrhetorical people with autism. The young author clearly has a voice, has rhetoric to be shared, has a way of consuming rhetoric and translating it into something he understands, and that is an important thing to notice.

On top of the words themselves, Savarese takes time to discuss the physicality of Mukhopadhyay’s language, and how the difference in the author’s proprioception (“a sensory modality that can be defined as an awareness of one’s body in space” [10]) informs his rhetoric. The purposeful manipulation of voice in his book, The Mind Tree, sometimes in first person and sometimes in the third, speaks to the disconnect felt by the author between his personhood and his body (Savarese 10). Throughout the essay, Savarese’s purpose is to highlight and underscore the unique and rich way in which Mukhopadhyay uses his voice in his book. Of course, the young author is but one person, and one voice among many that deserve to be heard.

The important thing to remember is that rhetoric—language, relations, consumption, production—is not limited to one kind of format. Similar to how different languages express similar idea, or how there are different genres of writing, of poetry, of music and media, the language of autism isn’t somehow less than that of a person without it. It’s just different. Yergeau and Savarese both attempt to point this out in their own ways throughout their works, as have many other scholars as the disability studies scholarship expands over time. One tackled the concept of rhetoricity head on, emphasizing its importance and the significance of excluding an entire group of people from it. The other delves into the specific language of one autistic author in particular, exploring the difference in special relation to that of a neurotypical person and challenging the conception that people with autism—especially those who are nonverbal—are somehow incapable of meaningfully relating to and producing language. Both of them work together and individually to break down the harmful stereotypes and de-humanization of people with autism in order to allow them to establish their own voice in its stead.

Works Cited

Mukhopadhyay, Tito. The Mind Tree. New York: Arcade, 2003.

Savarese, Ralph James. “Toward a Postcolonial Neurology: Autism, Tito Mukhopadhyay, and a New Geo-poetics of the Body.” 2010.

Yergeau, Melanie. “Introduction: Involution.” Authoring Autism, Duke University Press, 2017, pp. 1–34.

Saunders Major Project: Poetry Collection

The following poems are first and foremost about my personal experiences with depression and anxiety. That’s just how they started. However, as I went through and revised them, fixing wording here and punctuation there, I found myself wanting to explore the relationship between my mental illnesses and my identity. In the past several years, since starting college, I’ve struggled a lot, trying to find the balance between Depressed Emily, Anxious Emily, and Normal Emily that felt the most true to myself.

I’ve never been one to take my own mental illnesses and romanticize them, so linking the illnesses to my love for writing poetry didn’t feel right, but it didn’t feel honest to say they play no part in the process either. What’s more, each of those versions of myself is just one facet of the whole person. I’m not me without them just the same as I’m not me just because I have them. On making those realizations this project took a new turn. Instead of focusing solely on experience, I changed my direction to explore more of the relationship between myself and my mental illness—each version of myself individually, how they all play together—as well as how they impact my relationship with the people around me, be they strangers or loved ones.

The purpose of this project isn’t to make a broad statement about disability in general—I have no right to be the sole voice, especially because my disabilities don’t extend into the physical. Instead, I want to shed some light on some of the inner workings of mental illness, specifically depression and anxiety, in order to bring the complicated nature of it all into focus. I hope that the poems I’ve written don’t come across as romanticizing in any way, nor do I hope they belittle. Instead, I hope when you read you find them authentic and real, showing many different facets of what it means to be human.

Hindsight

I want to tell you about the good things, too, I mean

it wasn’t all awful I just don’t remember anything else

but the air smelling dirty and burning and feeling like

suffocating in concrete and also missing the green and

skipping a presentation in my speech class because my

suitemates thought I was having a heart attack (it was

just anxiety and the ER nurse was annoyed with me

until I mentioned you had died, in which case she nodded

like she finally got it) and my professor asked me about

the trip the next day in class, in front of everyone, and I had to

explain, “oh, I’m fine, it was all a misunderstanding,” but

she was nice about it and after that I started seeing a

therapist, Dr. T, and if it weren’t for her I’d probably be

squished under the Green Line at Boylston Street Station

which she said was passive suicidal ideation and anyways

walking through Harvard Square to see Dr. T is one of

my favorite memories of the city because, for once, I

felt like I could breathe and not be stealing someone else’s air.

Auditory Anxiety

It’s like this: I know in my gut something’s wrong

because it leaves a bad taste in my mouth

whenever I leave the room and they start talking.

No, no, sorry, it’s not a bad taste in my mouth

it’s my whole brain tensing up, it’s my blood

stampeding through my chest up to my ears and

It’s like this: I hold my breath so I won’t move

but I still feel my fingers wiggling so I lock up

every joint muscle nerve, begging for silence

to come free me but some stupid tears sneak out

and tickle my ears like they’re teasing me and

I’ve never felt so out of control as when the snap

of my breath sent me running, no, crawling

to press my ear against the wall the crack under the door

anything to fill in the blanks and

It’s like this: When it gets so bad I can’t even breathe,

I know I can’t trust what I hear.

All the Little Selves

Every now and then we hold meetings

to check-in with one another, sit at the round

table and ask questions like “how are you feeling?”

and “what have you been up to?”

It’s not always the same because

I’m not always the same. Sometimes

I’m the monochrome, others the

cartoon. Today I’m neither. I’m plain.

It’s not that we don’t see each other—

The monochrome visits at night, slips

under the covers to keep me warm while

I dream and talks to me when I can’t.

The cartoon finds me in crowds, appears

behind new people, pantomiming surprise

to see me there, clambers up onto the shoulders

of strangers, looks to the sky for pianos and anvils.

Today we’re talking about ourselves.

They haven’t visited recently and, if I’m being honest,

I miss them. I tell them that and they look at me confused,

silent, take one hand each and squeeze. A promise.

Perspectives

Even at rock bottom I never saw myself as

broken. Just faded, dulled, muted. I’d look

at the world and be frightened by the vibrancy,

wishing for the easy comfort of my bedroom.

Sometimes they seemed like they were screaming

technicolor murder, and on those days I’d

stay safe under the covers, blank. That was back when

I couldn’t find where my shadows stopped and I

began. I was so wrapped up in them we were

inseparable, like one big knot. Pisces season

never was very kind to me, but I still greet

her all the same, each tangled finger waving,

To the Me I Was Before

Were you watching? Did you see when

I cut, colored, dyed, pierced, molded myself

in the absence of your shadow, practiced

unfurling my edges and pressing out the creases.

It didn’t stick at first—it’s hard to take up space

when you’re so used to folding in on yourself,

after all, but I’ve decided to let myself be,

to expand and contract as I need to, to let

the colors permeate through me so I can feel

entire spectrums of light. In this time of

me, me, me, this absence of your me,

I want to spark life back into these hollows.

I want to be bright again.

Emily Saunders’s Response to “Until” by Ayisha Knight and “Introducing White Disability Studies: A Modest Proposal” by Chris Bell

Last semester in my Queer Literature Studies course taught by Professor Haffey, we spent one class period talking about the different ways to construct identity. One of the main takeaways from that discussion was that no two people can experience something in exactly the same way. While two people may share many labels in common, there will still be things that each individual is a member of that the other is not. In many ways this has informed how I look at identity as it is represented or spoken about in discourse around me, and it was especially prominent to me in the readings for today—namely, “Until” by Ayisha Knight and “Introducing White Disability Studies: A Modest Proposal” by Chris Bell.

Right off the bat in her poem, Knight confronts the problematic, exclusionary discourse around several groups with whom she identifies: Things like her blackness, queerness, religion, and deafness are often called into question as not being authentic enough for x, y, and z reasons. By pointing these things out, she calls attention to the idea that only one kind of experience can be representative of an entire group of people. This is, unfortunately, a widespread ideology enforced by the lack of discussion and consideration for intersectionality within any one group’s discourse.

Similarly, Bell challenges this position in his essay by suggesting the term “Disability Studies” be changed to “White Disability Studies” to more accurately name those who are included in the discourse (275). Instead of providing a list of ways in which scholars of White Disability Studies can be more inclusive (a conversation that has been had time and time again) he cleverly crafts one that would help the movement remain as whitewashed and singular as it is currently. The irony of his approach is that it not only makes the whiteness of the field glaringly obvious, but by listing what they shouldn’t do, he’s telling them what they need to. The fact of the matter is, only providing one form of authentic representation is one way to create and maintain power, over both the public sphere of influence and the individual. In this way, even bodies that are “different” can be regimented and managed, which only reinforces the power hierarchy that defines an individual person’s identity and its worth to society: a man is more valued than a woman, a white woman is more valued than a black woman, an able-bodied individual is more valued than a disabled individual. Everything can be compared against increasingly complicated and unfair standards.

This is where I can connect Ayisha Knight’s poem to Bell’s essay the best, because what he calls for—authentic, varied representation in the Disability Studies field—is what Knight proudly champions. She navigates the different parts of her identity, brings the listener along on a journey to self-love and appreciation, part of which came through in the form of recognition from an equal. A lover. She brings to the stage an honest voice that represents many different groups simultaneously, all wrapped up in one body—her own.

I pledge. Emily Saunders

Word Count: 510