The Myths Persist

“But you don’t look/act/seem autistic!” I still get this a lot. I have learned to laugh at it, but there seems to be a misconception that I have overcome autism, or that I am less in control of my specific decisions than I really am. These are myths, and the myths persist. Like cockroaches, these false conceptions about autism and autistics continue to give me a headache. They also continue to make a neurotypical person (if you have to ask, you are one) think I am not autistic. I got my diagnosis from the University of California, Los Angeles, where they are serious about autism diagnosis and treatment. I would like to expose the myths that persist about autistic people and my experience with them. How many of these have you fallen for?

Myth 1.  Autistic People Are All Alike / Autistic People Are All Like “Rain Man” or (Insert person here)

Saying that autistic people are all like this one person or that one person (NO) is just as false and damaging as saying Hispanic people are all illegal immigrants (NO), or that all men are dogs (NO). People often expect “Rain Man” or Temple Grandin when I mention autism. We are all as different as we can be.

Myth 2.  Autistic People Don’t Have Feelings

Personally, I have often run out of the room to cry out of anger, sadness or frustration. I have even experienced happiness too intensely at times. Remember, we are processing things different from the neurotypical mind. For example, I do not watch “Real Housewives of…” because it makes me want to hit somebody out of stress or anger. Also, on empathy: I have often cried or felt sad when someone frowns or cries on the TV or movie screen. How much more empathic can I be?

  1. Autistic People Don’t Build Relationships

I struggle with this one all the time. I am currently looking for a man to love. I have, in the past, though, had my share of boyfriends, and been praised as a good girlfriend.

  1. Autistic People Are a Danger to Society

Here are the most common reasons somebody with autism may strike somebody:

  1. Frustration – usually after another sign, such as crying or shrieking
  2. Sensory Overload – This is “fight or flight” response
  3. Stress – Like the above “Real Housewives” scenario I mentioned

There is very little action out of malice. However, autistic people are often victims of hate violence.

  1. All Autistic People Are Savants

I lost much of my “savanthood” as I became more social, and my speech became more neurotypical, and I became more well-rounded. I used to be a spelling savant, by the way. Does this make me less autistic? Of course not.

  1. Autistic People Have No Language Skills

There are some autistic people who talk so much, you can’t get a word in edgewise. While it is true some of us remain nonverbal, most of us eventually learn language, but often at a later age than neurotypicals.

  1. Autistic People Can’t Do Much of Anything

This one just burns my biscuits. What if you could draw upon their special interest? I have seen innovative, creative works come out of autistic people since the diagnosis. This is probably where the savanthood myth comes from. Also, saying “My child would never…” is severely disappointing to the child themselves. Also, I held a job down at In-N-Out Burger for SIX YEARS. Not months, YEARS. I was a respected worker among the people there, too.

  1. Autistic People Do Not Like To Be Touched

This is one that is usually portrayed in media. Maybe the one who does not like to be touched have a sensory issue. Sensory issues can go the other way, to liking touch a little too much. I love being touched. It has gotten me into trouble in the past. Contact me privately if you want details.

  1. 9. There is an Autism Epidemic

When you cast a wider net for fish, you catch more fish. The “epidemic” began at about the same time the criteria for autism spectrum disorders was widened to include atypical and female autistics, plus higher people on the spectrum.

Why don’t you tell me more myths that seem to pervade your experience with neurotypicals? Or, if you’re neurotypical, ask me if something about autism is myth or fact? We can come to a greater understanding together.

Being Kind to My Looks

Listen up, girls! Chances are, you have been to hard on yourselves. I am not one to judge, because I am guilty of it too. I mean, have you read the titles of my posts? “I’m so Ugly…” or “Undesirable” are not indicators of good body image. Rather, they are cries for help. I need help in recognizing what is good about me. That is why I decided to be kind to myself. I mean, my mother resents the fact I don’t think I’m pretty. She has told me this, bluntly. Why don’t I see it? Is it because of those gorgeous models I see in magazines? That standard is impossible. I know it is, but something pressures me to conform to it. I know it’s a losing battle to compare myself to those girls…especially because those girls are not even real. Thanks to Photoshop, nobody knows what any celebrity really looks like. I did not recognize Britney Spears on the cover of a recent fitness magazine. Here’s the story: I looked and looked, not knowing who this woman on Women’s Health was, until I got home and watched Access Hollywood. They said it was Britney Spears. I thought: Has Photoshop gone that far out of control? Now I’m not hating on her, I just did not recognize her. She had aged slightly since I recognized her face last. This scares me. For instance, if I saw Benedict Cumberbatch walking down the street one day, would I recognize him? Or anyone else on a magazine cover, for that matter? Argh! Now, if we are to compare ourselves to Photoshopped images, we will always fall short. I have decided to stop comparing myself to celebrities besides the ones I have something in common with…and only on that trait, please. There is so much I can do to see my looks in a new light. It’s a start, but I think that can unleash a wave of self-kindness.

Selfie for 2015
Walk In Red, and Light It Up Gold 2015


My Experience with White Privilege

Back when I worked at In-N-Out Burger, I was working on the register one day. So was a girl named Betty Rodriguez. She had dark brown skin, kind of like a light tobacco, sparkling brown eyes, and a gorgeous smile. She was truly beautiful. As you can see, I have a fairly beige tone. We were in our uniforms, at our registers, and both ready to take an order when a woman walked in. She had skin like mine, and brown hair. She walked in between us, paused as she looked to one person, then another, then came to me. I was somewhat offended for Betty. She probably would not remember this, but I have this incident etched in my mind. I wanted to ask the woman what was so frightening about sweet Betty, but I knew the answer: she had dark skin. Oh, how scary. I am not particularly scared of dark skin or a different language, but I am not perfectly racism-free. Why am I blathering on about a minor incident involving skin color? I am talking about white privilege. Now, before you go and put this away, I want you to know that white privilege is real, and I can prove it, because I am white, and privileged because of it. Why, do you ask, am I complaining about something that works to my advantage? Simply put, it should not. People should not be scared of others because they have traits different from themselves. I have seen fear and rage on both sides of a trait war – English and Spanish speaking hate on both sides, for example – but I have seen it most benefit people of a white, rich, male, able type. I am going to focus on racial privileges, which I admittedly benefit from, but I can this from many sides, since there are privileges I do not have. I am just relating my experiences; do not call me an “expert” on the subject.

Another time, my mother, her husband and I were driving through the “black” section of a Florida town. (Yes, it was what I call a leftover from segregation.) What I noticed about the area was that it was clean, the buildings were painted, with no chipping, and good-natured, well-dressed people. I noticed all of this, and even then I asked myself “Why am I noticing this?” The answer lies in racial stereotyping I was as yet unaware of. I was expecting a dirty, unkempt, trash-strewn section of town so ugly I would be glad to get out of there. But I did not get that. I got a lovely set of streets and buildings, and regular people with darker skin. I can’t wait for my prejudices to be knocked for a loop again, especially since they are so negative about darker skin colors. It’s quite a mind-blowing experience.

Another incident? I will oblige. Every time I went through the “Asian” section of a town with my sister, my sister had to make fun of the signs that contained the local nationality’s writing on the signs. She would say “Boing jaww wahh dong” if there were more than two signs. Fortunately, we were in the safety of our car when she would say this stupid mock Asian language. Boy, would they be mad if they knew how we were talking!

So, I hope you can see that white privilege is a real thing. Every time you see blond dolls in a Hispanic market, white privilege is real. (Everyone likes to look like the ones in power and privilege.) Every time Asians mention eyelid surgery, white privilege is real. (Yes, Asians have eyelid surgery to make their eyelids more European.) Every time a person of one skin color is four times more likely to go to jail than a person of another color, the second person’s skin color privilege is real. (Conservative estimates put white people’s jail time chances at 9%, compared to the 46% of minority chances.) If you think people in Ferguson, MO are overreacting, open your eyes. A federal investigation revealed a pattern of abuse and discrimination against minorities. If white privilege were not real, maybe the most recent Oscar contenders’ skin color would not have been an issue – but it is. And white privilege, my friend, is real.

What’s Wrong With Me?

What in the world is wrong with me? Here I am, watching Pride & Prejudice with Keira Knightley and feeling sorry for myself. What makes me think I am in competition with her? She’s married, for God’s sake. There is no sense in comparing myself to other people. It’s shameful to think that my looks will hold me back or take me forward with any long term effect. But in some old fuddy-duddy circles, they do. I don’t have time to figure out which circles count on my looks and which ones count on something else. If it were only easier to tell these things. Maybe it’s better if they don’t. I mean, do I need to be only good for the children I bear? Genetics make even that a risk. (The autism again, I know.) But why am I even wondering about my looks at all? They haven’t given me a man yet…and what’s wrong there, thinking I need a man. I don’t need a man so much, but something draws me to wanting one. I guess I should not make myself miserable. I wish I had a man…but I really don’t need one. I mean, if I have God, then I have all I need. That’s what I believe anyway. But I always wonder: is there some divine purpose I am missing out on by not having a man?

Here Are Some Lessons All Christians Can Learn From The Duggar Family Situation

When people are violently scarred, we must meet the needs of the victims, not sacrifice them on the burning altar of Public Relations. That will turn people away from Jesus.

john pavlovitz

duggars 2014

As news has begun filtering out about the sexual abuse within, and the subsequent mishandling and cover-up by the Reality TV-starring Duggar Family, Christians of all theological perspectives should take note of some of the important truths we need to uncover and remember in times like these:

1) All families are filled with flawed, unhealthy, profoundly screwed-up people. This includes your own. No one is immune to great weakness and darkness and hypocrisy no matter how high a sheen they may manage on their exterior lives. This is one of the great commonalities within our shared humanity; that we are equally capable of inflicting incredible damage on others, equally capable of self-destruction, and equally in need of forgiveness and mercy in the times that we falter. Even, and perhaps especially in moments like these, it is a great mistake to use the failings of another to fuel our own moral superiority or…

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Special Interest: The Dancing Princesses

I have always had a special interest in “The Shoes That Were Danced to Pieces,” or “The Dancing Princesses.” In giving the eldest princess the hero, it was always a special twist for me. I learned of the tale from Shelley Duvall’s Faerie Tale Theatre. Since then, I have probably had an unhealthy obsession with it. I have decided to put my own twist on the tale – from the viewpoint of the eldest.

Maria the Cursed

My name is Maria. I am the eldest of twelve. Each one of us has been praised as beautiful as the next. We dance each night in our perfect dream world, where each of us is loved by the man of our dreams. Sadly, it is the only place where I can find this man. You see, anyone who would choose one of us would choose my youngest sister, Catherine.

One day, I was preparing to wed a nobleman in my court. I remember this well, for my youngest sister Catherine was only seven years old. I felt this was my last chance to find a nobleman. You see, where I come from, a girl was cursed if they were not married by the time she was twenty. I was nineteen.

The day came for me to wed a lord, who was kind and sweet. We bade each other good night, hoping for the day. I awoke…but that very day, my sweet nobleman was found dead in his bed. Instead of a wedding, I attended a funeral. The word came out that I was cursed. Was I cursed? I had lost the one man I had loved. Had I lost the chance to ever have a husband and family? I longed to dance at a wedding, but no one would invite me. I was cursed, they said. No one would let me come to their wedding.

One of these lonely nights, I heard a voice. It was a lovely, pleasant whisper.

“Come dance with me,” it said.

My sisters were fast asleep. How was it I was awake and they were asleep that night, I do not know. I found a rose and a key I had never seen before on the table at my bedside.

“Come dance with me,” the voice echoed again.

I quietly rose from my bed and wore my best dress, and my best dancing shoes. I looked around for the face that held the voice, but there was none. I looked at the door. Surely he knew I my sisters and I were locked in for our own protection.

“Come…” the voice echoed behind me, back at my bed. Moonlight shone upon a secret rose carving on the head. For some reason, I touched it…and it sank into the ground with barely a noise. There were secret passages in and out of the castle, as it was with other castles. My sisters and I explored them all. How could I not know about this one?

“Come dance with me….”

I went down the stairs, down very far, until I reached a locked gate. As if by knowledge, I put the key in the keyhole. It opened on its own. I entered a wondrous world, of untold beauty. The trees were made of pure silver! I could not speak.

“Come dance with me….”

I walked through the forest of silver, and then I soon learned the path was lined with trees of gold! They were even more beautiful than the trees of silver! I walked even faster, knowing the voice would be at the end of the path.

“Come dance with me….”

The trees were now made of glittering, bright diamonds. I could not wait to see the owner of the voice…

“Come dance with me.”

I then saw him. He was a handsome man. A very handsome man, indeed. He was sitting in a boat on a lake that reflected the diamond trees.

“Princess Maria?”


“I know you have longed to dance for years. Come.”

Something pulled me into the boat, against my better judgment. He took me out to a lovely palace, where music was playing. I was finally going to dance. There was music, and dancing. I danced all night long. I danced to much that my shoes were ruined, but I did not care. It was so wonderful. So many handsome men, and so many dances to do, and such delicious foods to eat.

I was tired, but happy, when he led me back to the forest. I was falling hard and fast for this man. Where did he come from? And how did he love me? He barely knew me. It did not matter. I swore I would come again the next night.

These revelries continued for a few more nights. I kept ruining a pair of shoes each night.

Then my sisters found out. I was getting ready to go when my sister Hildegarde came out of hiding, dressed as for a ball. I discovered that the others were already dressed as well.

“We have seen you doing this. We want to come too.”

“No, Hildie. I cannot allow it.”

“But you always seem so happy as of late. We are coming too.”

“Why would you want to do what I’m doing?”

“We’re coming, or we’re going to tell father.”

And that was it.  I could not tell my father what I was doing, because how could I explain? Then he would take my only happiness away, and I would become cursed again. Even little Catherine was dressed and ready to go.

“Alright, but it will take the prince a long time to take us out on the boat. It is too small for more than three people.”

But when I got there, there were twelve boats waiting! Had I revealed too much to my prince?

We all danced, night after night. It was a wonderful time, or so I thought.


One day, our father asked us about our shoes. He asked how we could go dancing every night. We had no answer, for I was not about to give up the only real pleasure in my life.

He then dismissed us for a time, but I found out from the baker’s wife that he issued a proclamation for men all around that one of us would be given as a wife to the first man who found out our secret.


Not long after, a prince came calling. He was set in the room next to ours, now open for all of the world to see, and he was stationed outside. This was not to help assuage anyone’s fears, especially Catherine, who feared being discovered the most.

I gave him a sleeping draught given to me by my prince. I also had to assuage Catherine all night, the first night he stayed.

He was sent to prison after three days. He lamented, as he went, that he would have rather died than do this. He said as he left, “It’s Maria. She’s cursed, I tell you.”

Some time later, another prince came, and another. Twelve princes in all…and all of them cursed me as they left. I was still Maria the cursed.


One day, after all this was over, I stepped out to the balcony of my room and saw a soldier talking to the cobbler’s wife. This was no significant thing; there were soldiers roaming the countryside from all the wars raging around our peaceful land, begging for whatever they could have. This one was receiving a cape from the cobbler’s wife. She was always a kind soul, I presumed. He looked up at me, and I saw his beautiful eyes. He was rough and dirty, like most soldiers were, but his eyes struck me like the vivid blue sky that day. I shook it off, and simply went about my day, caring for my sisters.


A few days later, we were introduced to our next prospect. We simply stood there, as we normally did, with our heads down in respect. I, however, took a small peek at him. He was not like the young princes. He was older, more mature. Of course, as it seemed the custom, he would surely pick Catherine as a bride. Catherine was barely fourteen at this time. People say she was ready to handle the vigors of being a wife, since she was of marriageable age, but I knew better. Oh, the madness of the age!

We lifted our heads up to greet him, and I looked into his eyes. It was the soldier from before! I knew it, since I had seen those eyes before. They were the ones I had seen with the cobbler’s wife. He was certainly handsome, in a way, but I wondered…was he like me? Was he discarded after his service, like I was discarded after my curse?


The soldier, whose name was Thomas, did not drink an ounce of wine at dinner. I thought this was strange, since I did not put any of the sleeping draught in it. The cobbler’s wife must have instructed him not to drink it. This was going to be a hard one to conceal. He then looked into my eyes again. I could have looked into his eyes forever, but Catherine broke my gaze. She needed a little help with something, I could not remember what. Oh, that sweet innocence is what most men crave. I knew I had no chance.


I went to his room, with the wine I had prepared at bedtime. I gave it to him, as he looked upon me with a curiously lustful gaze. He seemed to drink it, were it not for that silly sponge tied under his chin. Did he think I could not see it? How insulting. But I could not tell my sisters, for they might panic. So, I took the cup and acted as if I saw nothing. He soon went to sleep, snoring loudly. We all laughed, and I said, “He, too, could have spared his life.”

As we got dressed, Catherine was especially fearful this night.

“I don’t know how it is, while you are so happy I feel very uneasy; I am sure some mischance will befall us.”

“You simpleton,” I said, for this was how I teased her, “You are always afraid; have you forgotten how many kings’ sons have already watched in vain? And as for this soldier, even if I had not given him his sleeping draught, he would have slept soundly enough.” Hopefully, this was the case.

I then went to the bed, as I normally do, and opened the secret passage. We all went down, down I our passageway, and soon I was at the gate.

Catherine cried out, “Something is wrong! Someone has stepped on my dress!” It was Thomas! I was sure of it!

But I could not alarm my sisters. “You only got caught on a nail.”

We then passed through the trees of silver, where a loud noise was heard through the trees. Again, Catherine was afraid. “That hasn’t happened before!”

“It is only our princes, who are shouting for joy at our approach.”

This happened again in the golden trees, and then in the diamond trees. But I had to let my sisters stay ignorant of what was happening, because somehow Thomas began to invade my thoughts. His eyes were wonderful to think about.

At the nighty ball, there were more curious happenings: every time I put a glass of wine to my lips, it was empty. Of course, Catherine was afraid, but I could not let her in on what I surmised, for what if it was not Thomas, but somebody else? What if somebody else came down and found out our secret?

At the end of the night, our shoes were worn, so we had to go again. As we left, I was sure there was somebody beside myself and my prince in the boat. Oh, if only I could bring Thomas down here-but he would tell everything, and I would dance no more. As we climbed the stairs back to our bedroom, we began to hear a noise in Thomas’ room. He was snoring. Catherine was finally relieved. Even Hildegarde was laughing at it-and she rarely spoke about anything besides her plants.

All the next day, Thomas spent time with each and every one of us princesses. At least I had some time to go on an errand with him, to the cobbler’s wife. She and I were good friends; I try to make friends with those who serve us every day. They are good people, most of them.

“How are we today, dearie? Have you found love yet?”

“How could I find love? I am cursed.”

Then the cobbler’s wife shook her head. “You are not cursed. Sometimes, people die for reasons we do not know.”

“That is even worse, to not know why people are dying.”

“Maybe they will know someday, my dear.”

Thomas was conversing with the cobbler all this time, but he kept looking back at me, with a smile. He was so nice. Maybe he could think of me as marriageable, maybe not.

“How are your boys, dear Brunhilda?” Brunhilda was the name of the cobbler’s wife.

She smiled. “They are very good. Their apprenticeships are coming along well. One of them, in Hamelin, told of a strange tale of a pied piper getting rid of the rats in town, and then getting rid of the children. But he was always the sort to tell wild tales.”

“And your daughter?”

“She is doing well. She is married to a baker, and they are having a child soon. I shall travel to Berlin soon to help her.”

“I can assure you safe passage when you do.”

“Oh, my dear, thank you. It will be much appreciated.”

We both laughed, and then Thomas looked at me again. He was smiling.

When we rode back, Thomas tried to get information out of me.

“I wonder, why, with such beauty and wit, you do not find a handsome man.”

“I am cursed.”

“Why would you say that?”

“The man I was supposed to marry died before we were to wed.”

“That does not constitute a curse. I would say your mysterious dancing is more of a curse than that.”

“Why would you say that? I am never allowed to a wedding.”

“My dear, that will change soon.”

“I am afraid I am too old to marry.”

“I would not say that.”

We soon got to the castle. Thomas’ words rang in my ear throughout the evening. If only it were true.


When we went to the dance that night, my boat was slow, but it set the speed of the other boats. Catherine was not afraid, at least. She was always worried about being discovered. But I wished somebody were there. I wished Thomas could see this.


Thomas, however, was not to be deterred. He asked more questions about the dancing, as in where we went, how could we worry our father, why dance all night. I told him again that I was cursed, and too old.

“How could you say that? You are still of childbearing age.”

“Why do you care? Would you rather be with Catherine?”

“Catherine is too young, and can have any man she wants.”

“Including you?”

“I have no idea how to run a kingdom. I would think that you would know the ins and outs of such matters.”

“That is all you want? Someone to run a kingdom?”

“No! Listen to me, Maria. You are not a cursed woman. You may think that now, but when you are old and gray, you will realize that you were wrong.” And he roughly kissed me on the lips.

I had to slap him; he was rude. I would be glad when he was sent to prison!


That night, I talked it over with my prince.

“Soon, he will be gone. Why do you matter what he thinks?” replied the prince.

“I just don’t know. I…don’t know.”

“You will soon be rid of him, and soon you will spend all night with me-and all day.”

I welcomed this news with mixed emotions. Where was Thomas when you needed him? What had I done?


That morning, I was waking up, tired again. We had just finished breakfast when my father and Thomas came into our room.

Thomas was holding three branches in one hand: one of silver, one of gold, and one of diamonds. In the other hand, he held a goblet-an amethyst goblet from the ball downstairs.

“Ladies,” said our father the king, “My associate Thomas tells me you have been spending time downstairs dancing all night-with trees made of silver, gold and diamonds. Is this true?”

Catherine burst into tears. “I knew it! I knew I was right!” She nearly fainted.

Hildegarde and my other sisters were unwilling to speak.

Thomas looked into my eyes, this time a knowing look.

Knowing I was defeated, I simply went to the bed, and tapped on the secret rose carving. The bed, as before, sank into the ground with nary a thought.

“This is how we leave our chambers. Go, see if you must.”

My father’s face turned white. “But…but why? Why must you go dancing in the underworld?”

It was then that surprising things poured from my mouth. Tears flowed from my eyes.

“I am a cursed woman, unable to get somebody to love me! One of these days I will be alone while all of you will be off with someone else.”

My sisters had to calm me for once. It was a strange position.

“So, since we have found out why everything happened, which one of my daughters would you like as a wife?”

Catherine, I’m sure he would say.

“I’m no longer so young; give me the eldest.”

Those words might have insulted another woman; but for me, they were the most magical I had ever heard.

“Will you have me as a husband, my dear Maria?”

I had confessed so much; another confession would not hurt.

“I hoped you would find me out. Yes, I will marry you.”

I took the key from around my neck, and tossed it under the bed. And then something strange happened. The bed came back up, and the stone under it sealed shut, as if nothing had ever happened.


The wedding was held that very same day. We danced and danced, my sisters and I. I danced with Thomas almost through the night.

After we had gone to bed, my shoes worn through once more, I could not help but realize that the wedding I would finally dance at would be my own!


I recently heard that Maggie Gyllenhaal, who is 37, was told she was too old to play a love interest to a 55-year-old man. What is wrong with Hollywood? Do they still ignore more than half the population? I mean, I AM 37. If the gorgeous Maggie Gyllenhaal has seen her last f***able day, as Amy Schumer so eloquently put it, what hope do I have of landing a man who won’t beat me? This is seriously stupid, Hollywood. I mean, are they next going to pair the late Jack Palance with the as-yet-unborn Cumberbaby? (That’s Benedict Cumberbatch’s child, in case you’re wondering.) I mean, how much is Hollywood still run by dirty old men? Do they want to date sperm now? That won’t do anything for you, you bunch of dirty old bums. No wonder I scream and cry at the plight of Hollywood actresses. There is so much hatred and fear of women in Hollywood, it freaks me out. I mean, personally, I have never had a last desirable day as much as a first desirable day, but I feel like the protesters in Ferguson right now. Do women need to stand on the street corners and “Occupy Hollywood” in order to be heard? Maybe I am just an ugly woman wanting to feel love, but don’t us undesirables need love too? Aren’t we human as well? Why does a woman’s age or weight still diminish her humanity?