Recently a comment was made on one of the forums that "dark age treatments" that force people on the spectrum to deny who they are and adopt normal modes of behavior is somewhat like what was done to Native American and Aboriginal children who were stripped of home and culture and made over into the conquering white culture's image.
This image comes to mind when I think of one of my church's core values, "authenticity" (the others are community, truth, simplicity which all together form the word "ACTS"). What does authenticity mean to someone whose very identity has been repeatedly denied?
Let's take that Native or Aboriginal kid. We want him or her to be "authentic", right? So he or she starts out speaking his or her native language. Uh-oh. Can't do that. Gotta speak ENGLISH around here! So the language has to go. Next the clothes and the hairstyle. Little by little the culture is whittled away and replaced. So--when the Native kid is acting like a white kid--how is that being "authentic"? It's not. Authentic and acceptable are two different concepts. We've replaced the authentic person with a made-up acceptable person and called it good. Never mind what it does to that kid inside.
When I was a kid I had my behavior micro-managed and analyzed the hell out of. EVERY little word, every little thing was a BIG issue. I had to guard my words. I had to guard my thoughts. I remember one time drawing a male horse and I guess I was a little too authentic in drawing a certain part of it because OH MY GOD! the fuss that was made over it. I didn't mean anything by it--that was how male horses were made and for some reason I wanted my horse to be a male. I sure learned my lesson. After that I made sure all my horses were carefully neutered with no parts sticking out that shouldn't be. (And it wasn't even the full part for God's sake, it was merely the "sheath"). But apparently 12 year old girls are NOT supposed to observe such details, not even on plastic play horses let alone the real thing. Anyway my drawing materials were taken away for a while and there were conferences with teachers and counselors.
Horses were my passion. They did their damndest to break it and I guess they've finally succeeded. For one whole year I was practically forbidden to utter the word horse let alone read any horse stories. If I wanted to draw one (God forbid!) I had to ask permission. Well, one time I wanted to draw a Mexican scene which involved a burro so I asked the teacher if I could draw a burro. She said yes. The second teacher came in, saw me drawing the "forbidden" burro (zebras, mules and donkeys also were considered horses) and holy hell broke loose. Needless to say I did not at that age take these injustices quietly and I raised a fuss (aka meltdown). Which brought banishment to the box. I still like horses but being around them is much too painful. The ironic thing is now my mother, who sought so hard to break my obsession back then, e-mails me when she has a horse question. Of course I oblige but inside I am saying why are you asking me now?
The Box was a favorite punishment at the school I went to. It was about the size of a cubicle. Some had roofs so that you couldn't climb out (I was pretty good at that). The first time I ever saw The Box I asked a teacher, "what is that for?" Instead of explaining, she said "You'll find out." And I did. To this day I don't like being in a cubicle but the one I have is only 3 sided so that is not too bad. Maybe being put in the box doesn't sound so bad but if you are prone to claustrophobia then it might be a different story. And I was ALWAYS being sent to The Box.
The other day I was reading Eric Flint's "1636" which is part of a series about a 21st-century American town that somehow gets transported to 1630's Germany (the whole town and all!) and how that could have changed the course of history. This particular book dealt with Russia and there was a passage about serfs that caught my attention. Apparently if you were a serf back then you had to watch your mouth because things you and I would think would be perfectly innocent could cost that serf his or her life. If the lord and master thought that you were back-talking it didn't matter that you weren't. Anything--the slightest thing--that could be interpreted as criticism--look out. Well, I won't say that my situation was as extreme as all that but I definitely understood what was going on there. When you are powerless your survival may depend on pleasing the powers that be. Callista Springer was a 16-year-old Michigan girl who had some kind of spectrum disorder who found that out the hard way--this was the girl who died in the house fire because she was chained to her bed. (Her parents are now in prison for child abuse and torture but they are trying to appeal their conviction and they are most upset that pictures of her blackened and burned body were allowed to be shown to the jurors.)
So when you come out of that kind of background you tend to view the word "authenticity" with suspicion. You don't know how to react. You don't know if it is a trap. This is something people who throw that word around don't realize or understand.
This image comes to mind when I think of one of my church's core values, "authenticity" (the others are community, truth, simplicity which all together form the word "ACTS"). What does authenticity mean to someone whose very identity has been repeatedly denied?
Let's take that Native or Aboriginal kid. We want him or her to be "authentic", right? So he or she starts out speaking his or her native language. Uh-oh. Can't do that. Gotta speak ENGLISH around here! So the language has to go. Next the clothes and the hairstyle. Little by little the culture is whittled away and replaced. So--when the Native kid is acting like a white kid--how is that being "authentic"? It's not. Authentic and acceptable are two different concepts. We've replaced the authentic person with a made-up acceptable person and called it good. Never mind what it does to that kid inside.
When I was a kid I had my behavior micro-managed and analyzed the hell out of. EVERY little word, every little thing was a BIG issue. I had to guard my words. I had to guard my thoughts. I remember one time drawing a male horse and I guess I was a little too authentic in drawing a certain part of it because OH MY GOD! the fuss that was made over it. I didn't mean anything by it--that was how male horses were made and for some reason I wanted my horse to be a male. I sure learned my lesson. After that I made sure all my horses were carefully neutered with no parts sticking out that shouldn't be. (And it wasn't even the full part for God's sake, it was merely the "sheath"). But apparently 12 year old girls are NOT supposed to observe such details, not even on plastic play horses let alone the real thing. Anyway my drawing materials were taken away for a while and there were conferences with teachers and counselors.
Horses were my passion. They did their damndest to break it and I guess they've finally succeeded. For one whole year I was practically forbidden to utter the word horse let alone read any horse stories. If I wanted to draw one (God forbid!) I had to ask permission. Well, one time I wanted to draw a Mexican scene which involved a burro so I asked the teacher if I could draw a burro. She said yes. The second teacher came in, saw me drawing the "forbidden" burro (zebras, mules and donkeys also were considered horses) and holy hell broke loose. Needless to say I did not at that age take these injustices quietly and I raised a fuss (aka meltdown). Which brought banishment to the box. I still like horses but being around them is much too painful. The ironic thing is now my mother, who sought so hard to break my obsession back then, e-mails me when she has a horse question. Of course I oblige but inside I am saying why are you asking me now?
The Box was a favorite punishment at the school I went to. It was about the size of a cubicle. Some had roofs so that you couldn't climb out (I was pretty good at that). The first time I ever saw The Box I asked a teacher, "what is that for?" Instead of explaining, she said "You'll find out." And I did. To this day I don't like being in a cubicle but the one I have is only 3 sided so that is not too bad. Maybe being put in the box doesn't sound so bad but if you are prone to claustrophobia then it might be a different story. And I was ALWAYS being sent to The Box.
The other day I was reading Eric Flint's "1636" which is part of a series about a 21st-century American town that somehow gets transported to 1630's Germany (the whole town and all!) and how that could have changed the course of history. This particular book dealt with Russia and there was a passage about serfs that caught my attention. Apparently if you were a serf back then you had to watch your mouth because things you and I would think would be perfectly innocent could cost that serf his or her life. If the lord and master thought that you were back-talking it didn't matter that you weren't. Anything--the slightest thing--that could be interpreted as criticism--look out. Well, I won't say that my situation was as extreme as all that but I definitely understood what was going on there. When you are powerless your survival may depend on pleasing the powers that be. Callista Springer was a 16-year-old Michigan girl who had some kind of spectrum disorder who found that out the hard way--this was the girl who died in the house fire because she was chained to her bed. (Her parents are now in prison for child abuse and torture but they are trying to appeal their conviction and they are most upset that pictures of her blackened and burned body were allowed to be shown to the jurors.)
So when you come out of that kind of background you tend to view the word "authenticity" with suspicion. You don't know how to react. You don't know if it is a trap. This is something people who throw that word around don't realize or understand.
