On Wednesday, April 6th, I had the distinct honor and privilege to sit on a panel at the United Nations in New York City. It was an event co-sponsored by Autism Speaks and the Permanent Mission of Bangladesh at the United Nations, dedicated to raising awareness of autism and addressing related issues in different areas.
My job was to be the "human" face on the subject, to remind the audience and the other panelists that, first and foremost, we are dealing with people here. Not statistics, not figures, but fellow human beings. The other panelists were Dr. Geri Dawson, Chief Science Officer of Autism Speakers; Prof. Saima Wazed Hossain, Chair of the National Advisory Committee on Autism in Bangladesh and daughter of the Prime Minister; and Dr. Shekhar Saxena, Director of the Mental Health division at the World Health Organization.
As I sat on a couch in the Bangladesh Mission before the event, I kept wondering how it was that I got there. A series of chance encounters, made connections, coincidences, taken opportunities, and plain old luck seemed to be at work, all in combination. My family, my friends, everyone who believed in me in my life, are all what I felt like propelled me to the place where I am now, the place where I would be invited to be a part of something like this.
I could say so much more on the subject, but I would very much like to show you all the video of the event, so that you can see for yourself what it was like. The entire event is in the video below, and my portion of the panel starts at the 1 hour, 8 minute mark. I hope you enjoy it!
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Autism Speaks "Light It Up Blue" Blog Post
I was recently asked to write a blog post for Autism Speaks' specially created "Light It Up Blue" blog dedicated to letters addressed to the President to get the White House to participate in this campaign on April 2nd, World Autism Awareness Day.
This post was originally published on the Light It Up Blue blog here.
~*~
"Dear Mr. President and First Lady Michelle Obama,
Every year, the same day comes. Crunch! go the crisp leaves under your feet, twirling around in the cool, late autumn breeze, before coming to land on the earth below. Children race from house to house, their sneaker-covered feet thumping across the pavement, waiting for the door to open, to see the face of whoever lives there, voices ringing out in a choir of “Trick or treat!” when the moment finally arrives.
I am, of course, talking about Halloween: the time of ghosts, goblins, bobbing apples, and mini-sized candies filling up plastic buckets across the nation. And with the spirit of frivolity and mischievous fun also comes words of caution, issued forth by parents far and wide. From elementary school onward, every kid knew the most important Halloween rule of all: Never go to a house that doesn’t have any lights on.
A light is a symbol of welcome. Come, the light says. This is a safe place. For centuries, a lantern hanging outside of a building meant hospitality, and a darkened establishment meant emptiness—a place to be avoided. Today, we still have lights on the front of our houses, and when we know company is coming, it is often custom to leave the light on.
For individuals with autism spectrum disorders, however, the houses we encounter—be they school, a disability service center, even the place we supposedly call home—are often dark. We have been outcast, shunned, bullied, pushed around by a system that itself sits in darkness. There is no welcome for us, Mr. President. Time and again, we look for the light on the front of the house, and it is nowhere to be found.
Too often, people on the autism spectrum spend their entire lives in these dark houses. We have met rejection even at the hands of our own families, whose inability to understand our diagnosis and who we are leads to prolonged emotional and social isolation—a painful reminder of how much we don’t fit in, even with those whose blood we share.
And yet, with our honesty, loyalty, and compassionate natures, the houses we build as adults stay lit. We grow up; we find our way in this world that is not built for people like us, persevering, and despite the pain we have felt and the heartaches we have suffered, we let others in, not wanting them to face the same dark houses in which we once lived.
It is for these reasons and so many others, Mr. President and First Lady Michelle, that I am asking you to light the White House blue on April 2nd this year, in honor of World Autism Awareness Day. Our voices have typically not been those that are heard in the arena of politics, but with a single action, this can change . By taking part in this campaign, you will bring hope and encouragement to countless individuals on the autism spectrum and their loved ones. Stand with the autism community, and let your commitment to our cause shine bright.
Let your house be one with the lights on."
- Amy Gravino
Self-Advocate, Writer, Asperger's Syndrome College Coach
This post was originally published on the Light It Up Blue blog here.
~*~
"Dear Mr. President and First Lady Michelle Obama,
Every year, the same day comes. Crunch! go the crisp leaves under your feet, twirling around in the cool, late autumn breeze, before coming to land on the earth below. Children race from house to house, their sneaker-covered feet thumping across the pavement, waiting for the door to open, to see the face of whoever lives there, voices ringing out in a choir of “Trick or treat!” when the moment finally arrives.
I am, of course, talking about Halloween: the time of ghosts, goblins, bobbing apples, and mini-sized candies filling up plastic buckets across the nation. And with the spirit of frivolity and mischievous fun also comes words of caution, issued forth by parents far and wide. From elementary school onward, every kid knew the most important Halloween rule of all: Never go to a house that doesn’t have any lights on.
A light is a symbol of welcome. Come, the light says. This is a safe place. For centuries, a lantern hanging outside of a building meant hospitality, and a darkened establishment meant emptiness—a place to be avoided. Today, we still have lights on the front of our houses, and when we know company is coming, it is often custom to leave the light on.
For individuals with autism spectrum disorders, however, the houses we encounter—be they school, a disability service center, even the place we supposedly call home—are often dark. We have been outcast, shunned, bullied, pushed around by a system that itself sits in darkness. There is no welcome for us, Mr. President. Time and again, we look for the light on the front of the house, and it is nowhere to be found.
Too often, people on the autism spectrum spend their entire lives in these dark houses. We have met rejection even at the hands of our own families, whose inability to understand our diagnosis and who we are leads to prolonged emotional and social isolation—a painful reminder of how much we don’t fit in, even with those whose blood we share.
And yet, with our honesty, loyalty, and compassionate natures, the houses we build as adults stay lit. We grow up; we find our way in this world that is not built for people like us, persevering, and despite the pain we have felt and the heartaches we have suffered, we let others in, not wanting them to face the same dark houses in which we once lived.
It is for these reasons and so many others, Mr. President and First Lady Michelle, that I am asking you to light the White House blue on April 2nd this year, in honor of World Autism Awareness Day. Our voices have typically not been those that are heard in the arena of politics, but with a single action, this can change . By taking part in this campaign, you will bring hope and encouragement to countless individuals on the autism spectrum and their loved ones. Stand with the autism community, and let your commitment to our cause shine bright.
Let your house be one with the lights on."
- Amy Gravino
Self-Advocate, Writer, Asperger's Syndrome College Coach
Monday, March 21, 2011
An Exciting Announcement!
Hello, folks!
I am thrilled and honored to announce that I have been asked to speak at an event on April 6th at the United Nations in NYC! It's co-sponsored by Autism Speaks and the Permanent Mission of Bangladesh at the UN. I will be on a panel with three other speakers: Dr. Geri Dawson, the Chief Science Officer of Autism Speaks; Dr. Shekhar Saxena, the director of the Mental Health division of the World Health Organization; and Prof. Saima Hossain, the Chair of the Autism Advisory Committee on Autism in Bangladesh who is also the daughter of the prime minister.
The event will be attended by the Secretary General (who is giving opening remarks), as well as UN dignitaries and representatives from UN organizations (such as the WHO). The topic I have been asked to discuss is my perspective as a self-advocate and how international collaboration can help to deliver answers for the autism community.
This event is FREE and open to the public, so if you are in the New York area, feel free to come! Click the photo below to view the "Save the Date" flyer with all of the pertinent details (flyer is in PDF format).
Also, be sure to watch for my next blog post, which will be my thoughts on the landmark episode of the TV show Parenthood, in which the parents of a character with Asperger's Syndrome tell the child about his diagnosis.
I am thrilled and honored to announce that I have been asked to speak at an event on April 6th at the United Nations in NYC! It's co-sponsored by Autism Speaks and the Permanent Mission of Bangladesh at the UN. I will be on a panel with three other speakers: Dr. Geri Dawson, the Chief Science Officer of Autism Speaks; Dr. Shekhar Saxena, the director of the Mental Health division of the World Health Organization; and Prof. Saima Hossain, the Chair of the Autism Advisory Committee on Autism in Bangladesh who is also the daughter of the prime minister.
The event will be attended by the Secretary General (who is giving opening remarks), as well as UN dignitaries and representatives from UN organizations (such as the WHO). The topic I have been asked to discuss is my perspective as a self-advocate and how international collaboration can help to deliver answers for the autism community.
This event is FREE and open to the public, so if you are in the New York area, feel free to come! Click the photo below to view the "Save the Date" flyer with all of the pertinent details (flyer is in PDF format).
Also, be sure to watch for my next blog post, which will be my thoughts on the landmark episode of the TV show Parenthood, in which the parents of a character with Asperger's Syndrome tell the child about his diagnosis.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Hypocrisy Rising: Why Children With Autism Don't Matter to Alec Baldwin
EDIT 3/2/11, 2:32 PM: To clarify, the purpose of the piece is actually not meant to have anything to do with Alec Baldwin, but to use the example as a lens through which to examine the systematic devaluing of people on the autism spectrum. That was truly my intention. I am aware that disability is a serious thing, as I do have Asperger's Syndrome and have struggled for most of my life just to survive, let alone thrive and experience happiness. I am not trying to make light of anything nor present this as a gossip column, as that is the last thing I would want to do. The first half of the piece is meant to draw people in and keep them reading to the second half, which is where my more salient points are. But, according to some, it seems I missed the mark here, and for that, I apologize.
In 1996, the world was a very different place. Mel Gibson--pre-Passion, pre-anti-Semitic, misogynistic drunken tirades--was still a bankable Hollywood movie star. Rene Russo had yet to disappear off the face of the planet, and it was at this time that these two starred together in a movie called Ransom.
The plot of Ransom is simple (spoilers ahead): The wealthy owner of an airline (Gibson) and his wife (Russo) have their son kidnapped from them and held for ransom by an extremely crooked cop (Gary Sinise). When things go awry with the attempted payoff, Gibson's character decides to turn the tables and offers the ransom money as a bounty on the kidnappers instead.
Recently, I managed to catch a glimpse of the film on TV, and after watching it, did what I often do after seeing a movie I haven't seen before: I went to IMDb (The Internet Movie Database) to read about it. One of my favorite sections to peruse is the Trivia page, so that's where I went, and it was there that I came across the following: "Ron Howard's first choice for the role of Jimmy Shaker was Alec Baldwin, who turned it down due to the sinister nature of the character as well as the film's theme of endangering a child."
On the surface, this seems totally innocuous. Good on Alec Baldwin, would be most people's reaction, for passing on a role that he didn't feel comfortable with, and for such a noble reason as the endangerment of a child. But just two years later, in 1998, Mr. Baldwin accepted a role in a movie called Mercury Rising, with Bruce Willis. The role Mr. Baldwin took on was that of the villain. In the movie, a child cracks a top secret government code, and the government decides to have him killed. Thus, the theme of the film Mercury Rising...is child endangerment.
Why the sudden turnaround? What possible difference could there be between the two movies as to warrant such a change of heart? Both involve violence, both put the welfare of a young child in danger. Both have villains who could be considered cold-blooded, two-faced, and very unpleasant. So where does the difference lie? Maybe the the devil wasn't in the plot, but in the details.
Maybe the difference was that the child in Ransom was a typically developing child, and the child in Mercury Rising...was a child with autism.
In Ransom, the villain has direct contact with the endangered child, and is actually the one who physically harms him at times, though this is never seen on-camera. In Mercury Rising (a very ironic title for a movie featuring a child with autism), the villain is the one pulling the strings, but not the one doing the leg work. Assassins trail the boy and seek to kill him, while the villain strolls about in his wine cellar while throwing soirées at his luxurious home.
Perhaps, then, it is much easier to accept the endangerment of a child when it is not going on right in front of you. When it is not your hands wielding the weapon that is meant to be used to exterminate the child's life. Or when the child is too "disabled" to know what is really going on. Why else would the endangerment of a neurotypical child disturb Mr. Baldwin, yet the endangerment of a child with autism leave him unfazed?
Of course, Alec Baldwin does not have the greatest track record with autism, either. In 2007, at the Golden Globes award show, Mr. Baldwin and several other stars of NBC television programs were seen wearing blue autism "puzzle piece" pins on their lapels.
Clockwise, from top: Alec Baldwin, Masi Oka, Steve Carell, and Tina Fey.
Mr. Baldwin took home an award that night, and spoke at a press conference afterward. Undoubtedly, the question he was most frequently asked was in regard to the puzzle piece pin. This was a great opportunity, both for Mr. Baldwin and the autism community, to really raise awareness, to make a bold statement about autism in front of an audience of millions. Instead, what Mr. Baldwin said was this:
(Full video here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2tFrCdVMMY4M. The above part is at the beginning.)
In another interview, Mr. Baldwin actually stated that he "had no idea" what the pin stood for, and that his boss "made him wear it." Maybe his insensitivity to autism shouldn't come as a surprise, given that this is the same man who, in recent history, referred to his own daughter as a "thoughtless little pig." But his apathy and his ability to see the endangerment of a child with autism as different from that of a neurotypical child speaks to a greater issue, one that is endemic to society at large: the devaluing of the lives of people on the autism spectrum.
It starts out as something simple: Always being picked last for kickball. Sitting down to eat lunch and seeing everyone move to a different table. Slowly, these little incidents add up, until, without realizing it, your life doesn't belong to you anymore. One day, you wake up, and life has turned into The Price is Right. Everyone has a tag, and you look down at yours to find out what you're worth. The thickly drawn "0" with a dollar sign next to it is your answer.
I spent the first twenty years of my life believing that I was worth less. That I didn't matter as much, or even at all, because I was different, because I did not fit in. Because I have Asperger's Syndrome. I have seen others on the autism spectrum treated in similar ways. Their contributions in the workplace viewed as less. Their social standing viewed as less. Everything that makes up them as a person, as a whole, viewed as less.
One of the hardest moments in life is when the people who are meant to protect you fail in that capacity, for those same reasons. I remember the blind eyes that teachers turned towards the bullying and teasing that I experienced. Maybe they thought it would stop on its own. Maybe they thought it was just "kids being kids." Or maybe...I wasn't worth it. So many students in the halls; so many far savvier than I, far more able to "play the victim" and garner sympathy. Maybe I just didn't strike the right chord.
The weight of that dismissal carries on through the years. Even though now, as an adult, I do not believe I am worth less, I have seen how those who work closely with individuals on the autism spectrum speak of those whom they are treating. Not necessarily viewing them as less, but as different. These are not children; they are "children who have autism." Every achievement they have, every milestone they reach, will always be measured by that barometer. It'll never be, "Check out that kid, look what a great job he/she did!", but "Check out that kid, look what a great job he/she did, especially for a kid who has autism!"
Every person is a person who is able to achieve things based on their own ability, to the best of that ability. The moment we start looking at individuals on the spectrum as persons who are capable of real accomplishment--accomplishment without qualifiers, without comparing them to neurotypical individuals or even other individuals on the spectrum--is when the stigma of "different" will finally begin to fade.
By eliminating the emphasis that is placed on autism spectrum vs. neurotypical, high-functioning vs. low-functioning, the value of people on the autism spectrum will be fully realized. The notion that a person with autism is like a parcel one receives in the mail that comes damaged, whose value drops significantly because it is "defective", will be a thing of the past. And people on the spectrum, whose identities and sense of self have all but been held ransom by these barriers, will come to view themselves in a different light. A better light.
A light where disability doesn't mean less.
In 1996, the world was a very different place. Mel Gibson--pre-Passion, pre-anti-Semitic, misogynistic drunken tirades--was still a bankable Hollywood movie star. Rene Russo had yet to disappear off the face of the planet, and it was at this time that these two starred together in a movie called Ransom.
The plot of Ransom is simple (spoilers ahead): The wealthy owner of an airline (Gibson) and his wife (Russo) have their son kidnapped from them and held for ransom by an extremely crooked cop (Gary Sinise). When things go awry with the attempted payoff, Gibson's character decides to turn the tables and offers the ransom money as a bounty on the kidnappers instead.
Recently, I managed to catch a glimpse of the film on TV, and after watching it, did what I often do after seeing a movie I haven't seen before: I went to IMDb (The Internet Movie Database) to read about it. One of my favorite sections to peruse is the Trivia page, so that's where I went, and it was there that I came across the following: "Ron Howard's first choice for the role of Jimmy Shaker was Alec Baldwin, who turned it down due to the sinister nature of the character as well as the film's theme of endangering a child."
On the surface, this seems totally innocuous. Good on Alec Baldwin, would be most people's reaction, for passing on a role that he didn't feel comfortable with, and for such a noble reason as the endangerment of a child. But just two years later, in 1998, Mr. Baldwin accepted a role in a movie called Mercury Rising, with Bruce Willis. The role Mr. Baldwin took on was that of the villain. In the movie, a child cracks a top secret government code, and the government decides to have him killed. Thus, the theme of the film Mercury Rising...is child endangerment.
Why the sudden turnaround? What possible difference could there be between the two movies as to warrant such a change of heart? Both involve violence, both put the welfare of a young child in danger. Both have villains who could be considered cold-blooded, two-faced, and very unpleasant. So where does the difference lie? Maybe the the devil wasn't in the plot, but in the details.
Maybe the difference was that the child in Ransom was a typically developing child, and the child in Mercury Rising...was a child with autism.
In Ransom, the villain has direct contact with the endangered child, and is actually the one who physically harms him at times, though this is never seen on-camera. In Mercury Rising (a very ironic title for a movie featuring a child with autism), the villain is the one pulling the strings, but not the one doing the leg work. Assassins trail the boy and seek to kill him, while the villain strolls about in his wine cellar while throwing soirées at his luxurious home.
Perhaps, then, it is much easier to accept the endangerment of a child when it is not going on right in front of you. When it is not your hands wielding the weapon that is meant to be used to exterminate the child's life. Or when the child is too "disabled" to know what is really going on. Why else would the endangerment of a neurotypical child disturb Mr. Baldwin, yet the endangerment of a child with autism leave him unfazed?
Of course, Alec Baldwin does not have the greatest track record with autism, either. In 2007, at the Golden Globes award show, Mr. Baldwin and several other stars of NBC television programs were seen wearing blue autism "puzzle piece" pins on their lapels.
Clockwise, from top: Alec Baldwin, Masi Oka, Steve Carell, and Tina Fey.
Mr. Baldwin took home an award that night, and spoke at a press conference afterward. Undoubtedly, the question he was most frequently asked was in regard to the puzzle piece pin. This was a great opportunity, both for Mr. Baldwin and the autism community, to really raise awareness, to make a bold statement about autism in front of an audience of millions. Instead, what Mr. Baldwin said was this:
"Uh, Bob Wright, uh, from NBC Universal, is a great supporter of, uh, autism research, and has, uh, works raising money for autism, and this is Bob's, uh, gave us this pin to wear. And as I was mentioning earlier, that when you work for NBC and if Bob Wright had asked us to wear a hubcap on our lapel, um...I'd be wearing a hubcap right now, because we are working for Bob right now."
(Full video here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2tFrCdVMMY4M. The above part is at the beginning.)
In another interview, Mr. Baldwin actually stated that he "had no idea" what the pin stood for, and that his boss "made him wear it." Maybe his insensitivity to autism shouldn't come as a surprise, given that this is the same man who, in recent history, referred to his own daughter as a "thoughtless little pig." But his apathy and his ability to see the endangerment of a child with autism as different from that of a neurotypical child speaks to a greater issue, one that is endemic to society at large: the devaluing of the lives of people on the autism spectrum.
It starts out as something simple: Always being picked last for kickball. Sitting down to eat lunch and seeing everyone move to a different table. Slowly, these little incidents add up, until, without realizing it, your life doesn't belong to you anymore. One day, you wake up, and life has turned into The Price is Right. Everyone has a tag, and you look down at yours to find out what you're worth. The thickly drawn "0" with a dollar sign next to it is your answer.
I spent the first twenty years of my life believing that I was worth less. That I didn't matter as much, or even at all, because I was different, because I did not fit in. Because I have Asperger's Syndrome. I have seen others on the autism spectrum treated in similar ways. Their contributions in the workplace viewed as less. Their social standing viewed as less. Everything that makes up them as a person, as a whole, viewed as less.
One of the hardest moments in life is when the people who are meant to protect you fail in that capacity, for those same reasons. I remember the blind eyes that teachers turned towards the bullying and teasing that I experienced. Maybe they thought it would stop on its own. Maybe they thought it was just "kids being kids." Or maybe...I wasn't worth it. So many students in the halls; so many far savvier than I, far more able to "play the victim" and garner sympathy. Maybe I just didn't strike the right chord.
The weight of that dismissal carries on through the years. Even though now, as an adult, I do not believe I am worth less, I have seen how those who work closely with individuals on the autism spectrum speak of those whom they are treating. Not necessarily viewing them as less, but as different. These are not children; they are "children who have autism." Every achievement they have, every milestone they reach, will always be measured by that barometer. It'll never be, "Check out that kid, look what a great job he/she did!", but "Check out that kid, look what a great job he/she did, especially for a kid who has autism!"
Every person is a person who is able to achieve things based on their own ability, to the best of that ability. The moment we start looking at individuals on the spectrum as persons who are capable of real accomplishment--accomplishment without qualifiers, without comparing them to neurotypical individuals or even other individuals on the spectrum--is when the stigma of "different" will finally begin to fade.
By eliminating the emphasis that is placed on autism spectrum vs. neurotypical, high-functioning vs. low-functioning, the value of people on the autism spectrum will be fully realized. The notion that a person with autism is like a parcel one receives in the mail that comes damaged, whose value drops significantly because it is "defective", will be a thing of the past. And people on the spectrum, whose identities and sense of self have all but been held ransom by these barriers, will come to view themselves in a different light. A better light.
A light where disability doesn't mean less.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Thoughts on Love
Some ramblings and random thoughts on the subject of love, which has been on my mind rather a lot lately. Please feel free to leave comments and feedback.
WARNING: May contain some adult content and language (one swear word). Watch at your own discretion.
WARNING: May contain some adult content and language (one swear word). Watch at your own discretion.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
An Ode to 2010
It is now a new year. The old has passed beneath our feet, and as we embrace this new beginning, I thought I would take a look back at what has ended. The ups, the downs, the highs, and the lows--there were many that took place this past year, and I have encapsulated them all in this piece.
So, without further ado, this is Ode to 2010:
---
On a quiet, moon's sliver of a street
Did we and 2010 first meet
And if we'd known what was to come as we dined on chili and trifle
The calendar hanging we would have aimed, and shot it with a rifle.
Through the winter months' long chill
Different seats in different concert halls were filled
From Y to A in revered North
To gardens grey at thirteenth and fourth.
The final stage of study came
Demands three years of grad school could not tame
Not one, but two thesis defenses
Whose madness robbed me of my good senses.
Eyes gazed upon freckled shoulders, in weather good and bad
Fickle fortune intervened; an accident was had.
While mechanics murmured, poked and prodded under the hood
True blue friends comforted, kept company, and stood.
Longstanding friendships fell from sight
To keep them I fought, with all of my might
Twelve years cast off, with nary a word
Heartbreaking silence the only sound heard.
No relationship did find me hence
No talk of romance, nor white picket fence
Cupid debated, but when push came to shove
I remained alone, and watched others fall in love.
Positives were had, to be quite sure
Published writing, public speaking, new culinary dishes galore
And the greatest accomplishment: a new LLC
A business for coaching college students, just like me
In 2010, a great many things were lost
And compared to what was given, was it worth the cost?
I do not know, nor perhaps will I ever
How time can be so cruel, so kind, or so clever
I'm ready to say goodbye to this lopsided year
To abandon the grief, the doubt, and the fear
So, like the Jews, whose bread stays unleavened
I declare, "Shalom! Good riddance, 2010! And hello and welcome to 2011!"
So, without further ado, this is Ode to 2010:
---
On a quiet, moon's sliver of a street
Did we and 2010 first meet
And if we'd known what was to come as we dined on chili and trifle
The calendar hanging we would have aimed, and shot it with a rifle.
Through the winter months' long chill
Different seats in different concert halls were filled
From Y to A in revered North
To gardens grey at thirteenth and fourth.
The final stage of study came
Demands three years of grad school could not tame
Not one, but two thesis defenses
Whose madness robbed me of my good senses.
Eyes gazed upon freckled shoulders, in weather good and bad
Fickle fortune intervened; an accident was had.
While mechanics murmured, poked and prodded under the hood
True blue friends comforted, kept company, and stood.
Longstanding friendships fell from sight
To keep them I fought, with all of my might
Twelve years cast off, with nary a word
Heartbreaking silence the only sound heard.
No relationship did find me hence
No talk of romance, nor white picket fence
Cupid debated, but when push came to shove
I remained alone, and watched others fall in love.
Positives were had, to be quite sure
Published writing, public speaking, new culinary dishes galore
And the greatest accomplishment: a new LLC
A business for coaching college students, just like me
In 2010, a great many things were lost
And compared to what was given, was it worth the cost?
I do not know, nor perhaps will I ever
How time can be so cruel, so kind, or so clever
I'm ready to say goodbye to this lopsided year
To abandon the grief, the doubt, and the fear
So, like the Jews, whose bread stays unleavened
I declare, "Shalom! Good riddance, 2010! And hello and welcome to 2011!"
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
On Grief and the Death of Elizabeth Edwards
As I'm sure most folks have heard by now, Elizabeth Edwards--ex-wife of former presidential candidate John Edwards--has died, from terminal cancer. She had only just decided to stop receiving treatment--on the advice of her doctors, who informed her that the cancer had spread to her bones. Not a day later, she was gone.
I can only imagine the sadness her loved ones must be feeling during this time. Everything that she went through, from the cancer diagnosis to her husband's infidelity and fathering an illegitimate child, no doubt took a great toll on her. From every story I have read, it seems she carried herself with dignity, grace, and comportment, despite having to experience all of this under the intense scrutiny of the public eye.
And now, this terrible disease, which went into remission once before, returned to ravage her body further. If nothing else, I am sure her family feels a sense of relief that she has been released from her pain.
But this does not change the fact that she is gone, and that her passing comes at one of the most difficult times of the year: the holidays.
I have some experience in this area, as it were.
In 2001, my one grandpa died four days before Christmas. I was home from my freshman year of college on winter break. My grandma called to tell me, and I felt my heart sink to my knees and my hands grow cold around the receiver as I said goodbye to her. What I did next was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. I was the only one home, and I called my mother at school, where she was teaching. The secretary in the main office answered and informed me that my mom was in class.
"It's an emergency," I said softly, and told her the news. She did not hesitate to page my mom after that. The air seemed to still when she came on the phone a few minutes later, and then I heard myself tell my mom that her father had died.
My other grandpa died on Thanksgiving in 2003. My parents and I were standing in my aunt's house when my father got a call on his cell phone. He was perfectly calm as he told us, and we left immediately, heading up to his cousin Karim's house, where his side of the family would be.
Nobody spoke as we waited for my great-aunt Lollie and my Aunt Nancy to get there. I remember them walking into the kitchen--my great-aunt in a white sweatshirt with the word "Florida" emblazoned on the front, her straw-like hair freshly dyed and hairsprayed to unprecedented stiffness on top of her head, and the long bags under her eyes, set with wrinkles and stained with dried tears.
She hardly said a word--unheard of, for her--and was followed in by my Aunt Nancy. Her voice was choked as she greeted each of us, the gold Syrian bracelets on her wrist jingling as her hands shook. "He looked like he was just taking a nap!" she sobbed. I cast my eyes to the ground, ignoring the now-fetid smell of the turkey still cooking in the oven.
Last year, my great-uncle Sammy died on Christmas Eve. And though the loss was not as powerful as the previous two, I saw my other cousins swept in a tide of their own sorrow, and I grieved with them for their "giddo" (Arabic word for "grandpa").
I remember the wake. The beautiful stained glass in St. Ann's, a Byzantine Catholic church, and the colorful icons painted across the domed ceiling. I felt the blue carpet beneath my feet, and the cold from the doors opening and closing.
And Kathy, sister of my dad's previously mentioned cousin, Karim. She had been taking care of my great-uncle (her father) for the previous several months. I could see relief in her face, mixed in with the overwhelming grief. I wanted to say something to her, offer a word of comfort, for what little it might have meant. So I took her hand and said:
"I'm sorry. I know right now you're feeling like Christmas will never be the same again. The truth is, it does change your holiday forever--at first, you mourn and grieve, as is natural. But as time goes on, you start to celebrate--to incorporate the things that person stood for into your celebration. Instead of dwelling on what their death took away from the holiday, you remember all that they gave to it, all of the good that came from their presence and how much it meant. How part of them is still there, even after death, and always will be, just as long as you remember."
As I stood in the post office today, attempting to stave off the stress of a long line and only one clerk behind the desk, I thought of this. Of Christmases gone by, Christmases spent with my grandparents. I can still smell my grandmother's cooking in the kitchen, still see their tree festooned with blue-and-yellow ribbons, white twinkling lights, and numerous ornaments.
Christmas is not the same now, not as it was then, nor will it ever be--but it's inside of me. I'll be damned if I can remember a single present I ever got from my grandparents, but that love is something I will never forget. It is my great hope that in time, Kathy and my cousins and the family of Elizabeth Edwards will find their grief lessened, and that good memories will take its place, trading the cold in for the warmth.
I can only imagine the sadness her loved ones must be feeling during this time. Everything that she went through, from the cancer diagnosis to her husband's infidelity and fathering an illegitimate child, no doubt took a great toll on her. From every story I have read, it seems she carried herself with dignity, grace, and comportment, despite having to experience all of this under the intense scrutiny of the public eye.
And now, this terrible disease, which went into remission once before, returned to ravage her body further. If nothing else, I am sure her family feels a sense of relief that she has been released from her pain.
But this does not change the fact that she is gone, and that her passing comes at one of the most difficult times of the year: the holidays.
I have some experience in this area, as it were.
In 2001, my one grandpa died four days before Christmas. I was home from my freshman year of college on winter break. My grandma called to tell me, and I felt my heart sink to my knees and my hands grow cold around the receiver as I said goodbye to her. What I did next was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. I was the only one home, and I called my mother at school, where she was teaching. The secretary in the main office answered and informed me that my mom was in class.
"It's an emergency," I said softly, and told her the news. She did not hesitate to page my mom after that. The air seemed to still when she came on the phone a few minutes later, and then I heard myself tell my mom that her father had died.
My other grandpa died on Thanksgiving in 2003. My parents and I were standing in my aunt's house when my father got a call on his cell phone. He was perfectly calm as he told us, and we left immediately, heading up to his cousin Karim's house, where his side of the family would be.
Nobody spoke as we waited for my great-aunt Lollie and my Aunt Nancy to get there. I remember them walking into the kitchen--my great-aunt in a white sweatshirt with the word "Florida" emblazoned on the front, her straw-like hair freshly dyed and hairsprayed to unprecedented stiffness on top of her head, and the long bags under her eyes, set with wrinkles and stained with dried tears.
She hardly said a word--unheard of, for her--and was followed in by my Aunt Nancy. Her voice was choked as she greeted each of us, the gold Syrian bracelets on her wrist jingling as her hands shook. "He looked like he was just taking a nap!" she sobbed. I cast my eyes to the ground, ignoring the now-fetid smell of the turkey still cooking in the oven.
Last year, my great-uncle Sammy died on Christmas Eve. And though the loss was not as powerful as the previous two, I saw my other cousins swept in a tide of their own sorrow, and I grieved with them for their "giddo" (Arabic word for "grandpa").
I remember the wake. The beautiful stained glass in St. Ann's, a Byzantine Catholic church, and the colorful icons painted across the domed ceiling. I felt the blue carpet beneath my feet, and the cold from the doors opening and closing.
And Kathy, sister of my dad's previously mentioned cousin, Karim. She had been taking care of my great-uncle (her father) for the previous several months. I could see relief in her face, mixed in with the overwhelming grief. I wanted to say something to her, offer a word of comfort, for what little it might have meant. So I took her hand and said:
"I'm sorry. I know right now you're feeling like Christmas will never be the same again. The truth is, it does change your holiday forever--at first, you mourn and grieve, as is natural. But as time goes on, you start to celebrate--to incorporate the things that person stood for into your celebration. Instead of dwelling on what their death took away from the holiday, you remember all that they gave to it, all of the good that came from their presence and how much it meant. How part of them is still there, even after death, and always will be, just as long as you remember."
As I stood in the post office today, attempting to stave off the stress of a long line and only one clerk behind the desk, I thought of this. Of Christmases gone by, Christmases spent with my grandparents. I can still smell my grandmother's cooking in the kitchen, still see their tree festooned with blue-and-yellow ribbons, white twinkling lights, and numerous ornaments.
Christmas is not the same now, not as it was then, nor will it ever be--but it's inside of me. I'll be damned if I can remember a single present I ever got from my grandparents, but that love is something I will never forget. It is my great hope that in time, Kathy and my cousins and the family of Elizabeth Edwards will find their grief lessened, and that good memories will take its place, trading the cold in for the warmth.
Friday, December 3, 2010
In the Event of An Emergency
I recently became aware of a news story out of Towson University, in Maryland. A student there was interning (student teaching) at Thomas Johnson Elementary School in Baltimore City, and she reported witnessing teachers verbally and physically abusing children with autism. The principal of the school immediately attempted to discredit her claims by saying that this student has Asperger's Syndrome and was "mentally deficient and probably lying," and her advisors at Towson questioned her story. The final nail in the coffin was the Dean of Education telling her to stop talking about the incident altogether (Click here to read the full story).
As a student in a Masters degree program in Applied Behavior Analysis, one of my requirements in my first year was to do classroom "observations" at partner schools here in New Jersey.
It was a crisp Fall morning in 2007. I drove down the Garden State Parkway somewhat nervously, having just gotten my license the month before. After signing in at the main office, I made my way through the beige-painted hallway, the walls periodically dotted with the students' brightly-colored artwork.
I sat in a blue chair, the hard plastic pressed against my thighs as I surveyed the self-contained classroom before me. Small wooden cubbies containing coats, knapsacks, and carefully packed lunch boxes lined the wall, and various toys and other objects lay scattered across the carpeted floor. Several pieces of chalk sat idly in a tray beneath the blackboard, and I resisted the urge to pick one up and smell it.
The children made noise, as children so often do, sometimes so shrill and loud that I had to hold my ears. I've never felt particularly at ease around children, but knowing that they were on the spectrum--knowing that I was once them, and in some ways, still am--gave me a small measure of comfort.
Yes, in case you didn't know: I have Asperger's Syndrome.
When I was applying for graduate school, the decision of disclosing the diagnosis was one I did not hesitate on. I stated it outright, both in my written application and during the in-person interview. I believed that it would be an asset, to have a firsthand perspective that I could add to class discussions and use to help my fellow classmates better understand the students with whom they work on a daily basis.
It took a great many years for me to see having Asperger's Syndrome in such a light. To view it as a positive, rather than a negative. And here I was, walking into this completely new environment, unwilling to disguise a diagnosis that had been such an integral part of my being accepted into that environment in the first place.
I was fortunate, yes, where so many others are not. When I imagine being treated as the young woman in this story was treated--her credibility tarnished, her good name dragged through the muck--I am pained beyond the description of words. I am stirred, furious, into an ardor of righteousness, because I know that if I had seen what she had seen, I also would have been moved to report it.
So why should what she says, or what I say, or what anyone else with Asperger's Syndrome say, be so harshly discredited? Indeed, the most laughable part of this entire debacle is the school's principal saying that because of this young woman's condition, she was "probably lying." There is a sad irony to an authority figure whose charges include students on the autism spectrum completely and utterly failing to understand one of the most frequent hallmarks of ASDs, which is the near inability to lie.
People on the autism spectrum are said to be extremely honest, sometimes even brutally so, and that lying is a social event in which they will not and/or cannot engage. For me, it was simply that I never saw any point in lying. I may not have always been so tactful when I was younger, but it was never because I intended to hurt anyone or meant any harm. I have learned how to frame my honesty in a proper context, but never have I diluted it.
I do not believe this young woman would do so, either, and in fact would be more moved to seek justice for the terrible treatment visited upon these students by the very people who are meant to be taking care of them. Because how close did she perhaps come to being one of them? How close did I come? And just as I had no one to speak for me, these children also have no one to speak for them.
Except her.
The school principal and the members of this young woman's department at Towson, by their actions, sought to silence her voice--and, in turn, silence the voices of these children. There can be no defending them, no rationalizing or logic-ing their deeds away.
How can we expect these children to value themselves if the adults around them are so clearly demonstrating that they do not value them? I spent too many years believing I was not a person worth loving, or having as a friend, as a student, a daughter. Too many years believing I was not a person at all, and that vicious trap is what awaits these kids and so many others if things do not begin to change.
This young woman is one of the voices of change, one that I hope will be able to speak up loudly and proudly, rising from the ashes of the two schools' disgraceful actions. I hope she does go on to become a special education teacher and give students with ASDs and other developmental disabilities the support and encouragement they need--the very same support the education department at Towson so astoundingly failed to show her during their gross mishandling of this entire matter.
For the hope of a better future for all: Stop the abuse, stop the cover-up, stop the deliberate spread of misinformation. Let the truth ring out.
As a student in a Masters degree program in Applied Behavior Analysis, one of my requirements in my first year was to do classroom "observations" at partner schools here in New Jersey.
It was a crisp Fall morning in 2007. I drove down the Garden State Parkway somewhat nervously, having just gotten my license the month before. After signing in at the main office, I made my way through the beige-painted hallway, the walls periodically dotted with the students' brightly-colored artwork.
I sat in a blue chair, the hard plastic pressed against my thighs as I surveyed the self-contained classroom before me. Small wooden cubbies containing coats, knapsacks, and carefully packed lunch boxes lined the wall, and various toys and other objects lay scattered across the carpeted floor. Several pieces of chalk sat idly in a tray beneath the blackboard, and I resisted the urge to pick one up and smell it.
The children made noise, as children so often do, sometimes so shrill and loud that I had to hold my ears. I've never felt particularly at ease around children, but knowing that they were on the spectrum--knowing that I was once them, and in some ways, still am--gave me a small measure of comfort.
Yes, in case you didn't know: I have Asperger's Syndrome.
When I was applying for graduate school, the decision of disclosing the diagnosis was one I did not hesitate on. I stated it outright, both in my written application and during the in-person interview. I believed that it would be an asset, to have a firsthand perspective that I could add to class discussions and use to help my fellow classmates better understand the students with whom they work on a daily basis.
It took a great many years for me to see having Asperger's Syndrome in such a light. To view it as a positive, rather than a negative. And here I was, walking into this completely new environment, unwilling to disguise a diagnosis that had been such an integral part of my being accepted into that environment in the first place.
I was fortunate, yes, where so many others are not. When I imagine being treated as the young woman in this story was treated--her credibility tarnished, her good name dragged through the muck--I am pained beyond the description of words. I am stirred, furious, into an ardor of righteousness, because I know that if I had seen what she had seen, I also would have been moved to report it.
So why should what she says, or what I say, or what anyone else with Asperger's Syndrome say, be so harshly discredited? Indeed, the most laughable part of this entire debacle is the school's principal saying that because of this young woman's condition, she was "probably lying." There is a sad irony to an authority figure whose charges include students on the autism spectrum completely and utterly failing to understand one of the most frequent hallmarks of ASDs, which is the near inability to lie.
People on the autism spectrum are said to be extremely honest, sometimes even brutally so, and that lying is a social event in which they will not and/or cannot engage. For me, it was simply that I never saw any point in lying. I may not have always been so tactful when I was younger, but it was never because I intended to hurt anyone or meant any harm. I have learned how to frame my honesty in a proper context, but never have I diluted it.
I do not believe this young woman would do so, either, and in fact would be more moved to seek justice for the terrible treatment visited upon these students by the very people who are meant to be taking care of them. Because how close did she perhaps come to being one of them? How close did I come? And just as I had no one to speak for me, these children also have no one to speak for them.
Except her.
The school principal and the members of this young woman's department at Towson, by their actions, sought to silence her voice--and, in turn, silence the voices of these children. There can be no defending them, no rationalizing or logic-ing their deeds away.
How can we expect these children to value themselves if the adults around them are so clearly demonstrating that they do not value them? I spent too many years believing I was not a person worth loving, or having as a friend, as a student, a daughter. Too many years believing I was not a person at all, and that vicious trap is what awaits these kids and so many others if things do not begin to change.
This young woman is one of the voices of change, one that I hope will be able to speak up loudly and proudly, rising from the ashes of the two schools' disgraceful actions. I hope she does go on to become a special education teacher and give students with ASDs and other developmental disabilities the support and encouragement they need--the very same support the education department at Towson so astoundingly failed to show her during their gross mishandling of this entire matter.
For the hope of a better future for all: Stop the abuse, stop the cover-up, stop the deliberate spread of misinformation. Let the truth ring out.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Hair of the Dog
Every November, an event called NaNoWriMo takes place. It's where people challenge themselves to write a novel in exactly one month. I tried to do it last year (unsuccessfully), and though I'm not taking part this time around, (much as I would have liked to), I've been thinking a lot lately about a situation that occurred recently with an old friend of mine who stopped talking to me a few months ago.
I wanted to find some way of dealing with the situation, to sort through all of the emotions I've been feeling, so I decided to write about a particular memory I have of her. I have no idea if this is any good, but now I know I can write 850-ish words in an hour (that's how long it took me to write this), so I feel much more motivated to work on my book.
This piece is called Hair of the Dog.
---
"Come on, Charley!"
Her voice is sing-song, playful as she waves her hand. He pants happily, eyes bright and shining, chest heaving with eager breath, and trots over. I watch as she clips the green leash to his collar, readying him.
"Wanna go for a walk?"
He barks in the affirmative, tail wagging nonstop. The noise rings in my ears, but I stay calm, focused on the task at hand. I pull on my coat, following her copper ponytail out into the cool, autumn night.
Down the road, Charley does his business, and she lets him off the leash soon after. "So he can run around a little," she says, and I nod.
The lights from the baseball field behind her street cast a faint glow; beams of light slipping in between the thick trees. It's only steps to the high school from there, beige and black walls and doors that close with a thunderous click.
Charley's vibrating form appears under the streetlight then, thick, white curls turned to an unnatural orange. A rustling in the bushes catches his attention, and he's off, chasing the unlucky--and no doubt unhappy--neighborhood cat.
We shake our heads in disbelief, our collective laughter echoing down the street.
---
She calls him back soon after, and we head inside, clomping up the creaking steps and through the two doors into the foyer. The smell of dog hits me in the face almost immediately, and I wrinkle my nose in disgust.
I'm not a dog person.
It's always the barking, the piercing volume that vibrates inside my skull and leaves me trembling, overwhelmed. The yappy dogs are the worst, with their high-pitched yelps and jumping as if they have springs attached to their paws. The combination of the two is enough to send me running from the room.
She told me how dumb Charley was when I first met him. That he'd never hurt a fly. I remember the almost permanent grin he had on his face, teeth exposed, pink tongue hanging down as he stared at us. His fur reminds me of my mother's sweater--coarse and smooth, bristling underneath and between my fingers.
He's helped me be not afraid.
I walk behind her to the TV room, listening to the scritch-scratch of his feet on the hardwood floor. It had been the usual back-and-forth at the video store that night, trying to decide what to rent. We never agree on anything, until the very last moment, when some movie we'd missed catches both our attention.
"Are you okay with this one?"
"I am if you are."
"I'm good."
I watch the tape slide into the VCR, the television flickering as the FBI warning appeared on screen. She grabs the remote then--one of several on the ruddy wooden chest in front of us--and fast-forwards. Her legs are tucked under her, a bowl of popcorn curled in one hand and pressed against her sweatshirt-covered torso. My purchase from the store was a box of gummi bears, and I've already taken them out of the package and sorted them by color, discarding the oranges and yellows.
She's washed her makeup off, revealing the truth behind the facade. Erect, reddened pimples dot the landscape of her face, all connecting to form a picture of what is inside. I've watched her hide, standing in front of the mirror, concealing, pressing the brush with fevered strokes, again and again. I don't understand it.
To me, she is beautiful. She is my best friend, and she is beautiful. If I can see it, why can't she?
The movie begins to play, but I'm regarding her silently now, honored by this moment. She has let me know who she really is. I do the same thing, but all the time, because I don't know how to hide. Sitting here beside her, eating painstakingly arranged gummi bears, I can finally breathe. I am at peace.
She's a part of me. A string for this kite that is always flying, flying, nearly flying away forever. She makes the earth real. And when I'm with her, I'm real.
Charley is lying next to her on the couch now, head bowed and resting on her leg. His doggy derrière is perilously close to my person, and so I hurriedly scoot over, one eye fixed warily on his posterior. She seems even calmer when he is around, and I gaze at the two of them, grateful for the comfort they have both given me.
The movie has finished, a final swell of music crescendoing as the credits start to roll. This is the part I dread, the knowing it's begun to end. I would like to live in a universe of infinite Saturday nights, spent exactly like this. There would never be any Sundays. Sunday is the falling day, the day of knowing what's coming, and being able to do nothing about it, except wait.
But I am safe here, in the night. Behind these walls, in this room, on this couch. With her sitting next to me. I'm sixteen, and she's my best friend, and she always will be.
...Won't she?
I wanted to find some way of dealing with the situation, to sort through all of the emotions I've been feeling, so I decided to write about a particular memory I have of her. I have no idea if this is any good, but now I know I can write 850-ish words in an hour (that's how long it took me to write this), so I feel much more motivated to work on my book.
This piece is called Hair of the Dog.
---
"Come on, Charley!"
Her voice is sing-song, playful as she waves her hand. He pants happily, eyes bright and shining, chest heaving with eager breath, and trots over. I watch as she clips the green leash to his collar, readying him.
"Wanna go for a walk?"
He barks in the affirmative, tail wagging nonstop. The noise rings in my ears, but I stay calm, focused on the task at hand. I pull on my coat, following her copper ponytail out into the cool, autumn night.
Down the road, Charley does his business, and she lets him off the leash soon after. "So he can run around a little," she says, and I nod.
The lights from the baseball field behind her street cast a faint glow; beams of light slipping in between the thick trees. It's only steps to the high school from there, beige and black walls and doors that close with a thunderous click.
Charley's vibrating form appears under the streetlight then, thick, white curls turned to an unnatural orange. A rustling in the bushes catches his attention, and he's off, chasing the unlucky--and no doubt unhappy--neighborhood cat.
We shake our heads in disbelief, our collective laughter echoing down the street.
---
She calls him back soon after, and we head inside, clomping up the creaking steps and through the two doors into the foyer. The smell of dog hits me in the face almost immediately, and I wrinkle my nose in disgust.
I'm not a dog person.
It's always the barking, the piercing volume that vibrates inside my skull and leaves me trembling, overwhelmed. The yappy dogs are the worst, with their high-pitched yelps and jumping as if they have springs attached to their paws. The combination of the two is enough to send me running from the room.
She told me how dumb Charley was when I first met him. That he'd never hurt a fly. I remember the almost permanent grin he had on his face, teeth exposed, pink tongue hanging down as he stared at us. His fur reminds me of my mother's sweater--coarse and smooth, bristling underneath and between my fingers.
He's helped me be not afraid.
I walk behind her to the TV room, listening to the scritch-scratch of his feet on the hardwood floor. It had been the usual back-and-forth at the video store that night, trying to decide what to rent. We never agree on anything, until the very last moment, when some movie we'd missed catches both our attention.
"Are you okay with this one?"
"I am if you are."
"I'm good."
I watch the tape slide into the VCR, the television flickering as the FBI warning appeared on screen. She grabs the remote then--one of several on the ruddy wooden chest in front of us--and fast-forwards. Her legs are tucked under her, a bowl of popcorn curled in one hand and pressed against her sweatshirt-covered torso. My purchase from the store was a box of gummi bears, and I've already taken them out of the package and sorted them by color, discarding the oranges and yellows.
She's washed her makeup off, revealing the truth behind the facade. Erect, reddened pimples dot the landscape of her face, all connecting to form a picture of what is inside. I've watched her hide, standing in front of the mirror, concealing, pressing the brush with fevered strokes, again and again. I don't understand it.
To me, she is beautiful. She is my best friend, and she is beautiful. If I can see it, why can't she?
The movie begins to play, but I'm regarding her silently now, honored by this moment. She has let me know who she really is. I do the same thing, but all the time, because I don't know how to hide. Sitting here beside her, eating painstakingly arranged gummi bears, I can finally breathe. I am at peace.
She's a part of me. A string for this kite that is always flying, flying, nearly flying away forever. She makes the earth real. And when I'm with her, I'm real.
Charley is lying next to her on the couch now, head bowed and resting on her leg. His doggy derrière is perilously close to my person, and so I hurriedly scoot over, one eye fixed warily on his posterior. She seems even calmer when he is around, and I gaze at the two of them, grateful for the comfort they have both given me.
The movie has finished, a final swell of music crescendoing as the credits start to roll. This is the part I dread, the knowing it's begun to end. I would like to live in a universe of infinite Saturday nights, spent exactly like this. There would never be any Sundays. Sunday is the falling day, the day of knowing what's coming, and being able to do nothing about it, except wait.
But I am safe here, in the night. Behind these walls, in this room, on this couch. With her sitting next to me. I'm sixteen, and she's my best friend, and she always will be.
...Won't she?
Thursday, October 21, 2010
It Will Get Better
In response to the recent suicides by several gay teens, there is currently a campaign going around called "It Gets Better," featuring videos of the famous and non-famous alike, telling these young people that things do get better. I was inspired to create a video of my own, though this is geared more towards individuals on the autism spectrum than GLBT teens (but everyone is welcome to watch). It is a little lengthy, for which I apologize, but if you enjoy it, please "Like" it and pass it on!
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