Anonymous asked:

Hey, I just wanted to say I read your autism post and offer some perspective from my point of view (aunt to autistic boy). When I say "He never does ..." I don't mean never ever. What I mean is that strangers usually are quite cruel to him. I have literally heard "What a retard" directed towards him. So when people like you show kindness, and my nephew opens up, it's like a miracle every time. So continue what you do, but know never means "very, very rarely" and "I appreciate you".

Thank you for the kind words, and the assurances.

lastthingsfirst

vortisaurus:

winterisrambling:

"Hello.  My name is Luke Skywalker.  You killed my father.  Prepare to die."

"Never go up against a Mandalorian when death is on the line!" *immediately falls into Sarlacc pit*

"Bye, boys!  Have fun storming the Death Star!"

"Wampas Of Unusual Size?  I don’t think they exist."

"Do you want me to send you back to where you were?  Unemployed, on Hoth?"

"It just so happens that Obi-Wan here is only mostly dead."

"Give us the access code." "What access code?" "Chewie, tear his arms off." "Ohhh you mean this access code!"

"I could give you my word as a Corellian…" "No good. I’ve known too many Corellians"

"Why can’t I see?" "You’ve been mostly-frozen all day."

That day, she was amazed to discover that when he was saying “I know”, what he meant was, “I love you.” 

"Why do you wear that black mask? Were you burned on Mustafar, or something like that?" "Oh no, it’s just that they’re terribly comfortable. I think everyone will be wearing them in the future."

"Luke doesn’t get eaten by the rancor at this time. "What?” “The rancor doesn’t get him. I’m explaining to you because you look nervous.”

"He has autism. I’m really surprised he was playing with you."

This happens sometimes at work, and I’m never sure how to react. A parent (or other adult) will come up to me after I’ve been playing with their child, and point out that the child’s current behavior is really unusual for them.

Sometimes it’s young kids who just seem overwhelmed by their surroundings, and we’ll just sit together for a little bit. I’ll talk about things—their shoes, the weather, the character on their shirt—for little while, and then listen when they start talking. If they start talking—often, they don’t,and that’s okay.

Sometimes it’s a copycat game. They’ll hide from me, and I’ll hide from them. They peek out, and I peek out. They put their hands up, and I put my hands up. When they realize that everything I do is copying them, their actions get more intentional, silly, fun.

Last week there was a young man in our new Thomas the Tank Engine gallery. I talked with him for a minute, and it was immediately clear that he a.) loved trains, and b.) hated eye contact. So I stopped trying to make eye contact, and we played in parallel, not facing each other, but talking about trains, Thomas, the toys he had at home.

And it happened again, the grown-up coming up afterwards and confessing “He’s autistic, he doesn’t usually talk to people.”

And I smiled and said, “Well, it seems like he’s having fun,” because I didn’t know what else to say. And it did seem that way, and that’s great.

But I never know how to react when parents say that to me. They always seem pleased, grateful, even, and I guess they must mean it as a compliment. And if I made their day brighter, and (more importantly) their child’s day brighter, good. That’s wonderful, and it’s what I try to do with everyone who comes to the museum.

But it’s also weird, because—it’s what I do with everyone who comes to the museum. I’m not a therapist, I’m not a specialist, I’m not some mysterious Autism Whisperer. I just try to connect with kids and make their days better. I don’t have special tactics for “dealing with” autistic kids. I don’t even work in an environment where autistic kids are identified as such, except by their parents, after the fact.

So I’m literally treating these children as I would any other human: with cheer, and with kindness, with gentleness, silliness, understanding.

So when the adult says to me, “he never plays this way!” I worry.

Because I am not an extraordinary person. I am not doing anything special—just paying attention to the child, offering lighthearted interaction, responding to their needs and desires as best as I understand them. It’s how I approach every child I work with—hell, it’s how I try to approach every person I know.

So when I hear, “He never plays like this!”

I don’t really know what to say. But I hope with all my heart that its not because he’s never treated like this.

tyvianred
yelyahwilliams:

hamacidal:

ultrafunnypictures:

You can read up to 500 words per minute



wowwwwww

This is really strange for me, because to “capture” and remember what each word is when I see it here, I have to say it in my head.  I haven’t said words in my head like that since I was first learning to read.  It feels disjointed and confusing, taking effort to remember each little piece?

Like when you start learning a new language, and suddenly your only functional units of meaning are individual words, instead of the phrases, sentences, even paragraphs that you have at your beck and call in your native language.

yelyahwilliams:

hamacidal:

ultrafunnypictures:

You can read up to 500 words per minute

wowwwwww

This is really strange for me, because to “capture” and remember what each word is when I see it here, I have to say it in my head. I haven’t said words in my head like that since I was first learning to read. It feels disjointed and confusing, taking effort to remember each little piece?

Like when you start learning a new language, and suddenly your only functional units of meaning are individual words, instead of the phrases, sentences, even paragraphs that you have at your beck and call in your native language.
coelasquid

coelasquid:

I grew up playing bizarre Mac games no one has ever heard of. I don’t even remember most of their names so I’ve never heard of them either. They are lost to the ages.

I’ve been trying to find one of my childhood Mac games for over a decade. None of my family members remember it, and nobody else believes it exists.