I'm a foreigner

What it means to be on the AutSide

The other day, I was attending a professional development session at my school site (I’m a public school special education teacher, if you didn’t know). The topic was microaggressions. The exercise in which we were engaged had us writing in response to a prompt, “I am …” / “I am not …” These statements were supposed to juxtapose each other. One example shared with my table, for example, was “I am a college graduate, I am not good at math.”

Now, we weren’t given a lot of time to develop out our thoughts. We were given about 30 seconds to come up with an idea and share it with our group. This is nowhere near enough time for a non-verbal autistic person to perform the task, for sure.

I began the thought, “I am a foreigner, I am not …” and then time was up. As the host began to change topics, my table partner asked politely, “where were you born?”

I wasn’t at all thinking geographically when I began the train of thought, though they were. Foreigner, in the common lexicon, is geographically related. I was thinking in terms of my autistic system and feelings of always being in a foreign environment - there, I was working in an overly verbal world of teaching.

For most people, a simple question like “where were you born,” should elicit a simple response, City/Provence/Country. Not so for me.

My birth certificate was created by the government more than four years after my birth. I know now that the names contained therein are all fiction. My name, the one on my birth certificate, is not the one I was born with, nor the one I use now. The doctor’s name, it would seem, was made up as well. The listed mother did not give birth to me. I share not a single bit of familial DNA with the listed father. The listed doctor, is fictional as well.

I received formal “notification” that I was adopted when I had left for college. It would take decades to piece together the elements of the previous paragraph. So tragic, it would seem, were the circumstances of the first few years of my life that no one would speak to me of specifics. I did get a quasi “death-bed confession” from an eye witness to some of the events about an incident where I was left with a neighbour when I was a toddler, and somehow disappeared from the apartment. Panic ensued when a snake was found in my playpen, and I was gone. I also found, from another eye witness, that terms of my adoption were managed by Child Services and all records sealed by the court. My birth parents, it seems, were made by the court to renounce all parental rights and swear off contacting me in the future. There is a roughly 2-year period where I was in care of Child Services before the adoption. Again, this is all pieced together information gathered over decades from people largely unwilling to share this with me for some reason known only to them.

There is a consensus of opinion that I was born in southern California. There is, however, a bit of evidence that the actual location was in South Carolina. I know now who my biological parents are. Between them, there are confirmations and contradictions as regards the story of my entry into this world and the subsequent four and a half years leading up to my adoption.

A baby photo turned up in a family album at my paternal aunt’s house in central Michigan. The name on the back of the photo lends credence to my belief that my birth name was in dispute. I have a social security card with a version of my name on it from that time as well. The number and name are not the ones I have now. This discrepancy in my official record - having two social security numbers and multiple names - was noticed by the federal financial aid people during my freshman year in college as well as the US Army’s CID, when asking about my passport in relation to working as a data analyst contractor for the US DOD in Europe (background checks are quite interesting for me, as you can imagine).

Vocally, I sound like my grandmother’s entertainment choices. When I was hoovering up language as a wee bairn, the mantra of the house was “kids should be seen and not heard.” As a non-verbal autistic child, I didn’t have words of my own. I borrowed them from the television and from those around me. Spending as much time with my grandmother as I did, the source of my vocal input was the BBC (via SoCal PBS). My wee Gran loved the shows from the UK. So, the bulk of my early vocal input was not American, it was British (and Gran’s Canadian Scot dialect). (side bar: the Peppa Effect) I wasn’t encouraged to speak at home, so it made no difference to anyone what I sounded like or what accent I had. With echolalia, I tended to sound like the source of the vocal information. This often confused my classmates, but echolalia is a topic for a different day.

What does this trip down memory lane have to do with microaggressions, I hear you asking? Yes, indeed. Back to the point.

I didn’t realise how triggering that simple question might be. “Where were you born,” brought up so many emotions long since buried. Feelings that I thought I’d dealt with. But, most of all, it brought up the feelings that in spite of all of the work that I’ve done to be a better vocal communicator, a simple question could trip me up.

I’m a foreigner, an AutSider to this place & time.

Erich Fromm posited that we can capture a fundamental difference between two entirely different ways of living one’s life in the distinction between “having” and “being.” In what sense do I “have” a family? Do I “have” an education? Do I “have” an automobile? “Being,” on the other hand, is about those qualities that merge with my own existence: skills & traits that are mine, that I can exercise, and that cannot be taken away from me. I am, for example, autistic. That can’t be taken away from me. I will never be without my autistic system, so I don’t “have” autism, I “am” autistic.

A brief aside … I “have” written several books. I thus “am” a writer. Check out No Place for Autism? by clicking here. Get yours today.

In the world of education, the “haves” have won. You must “have” a college degree in my state to be a teacher. You must “have” a credential from the state to be a public school teacher. You must “have” the right credential to teach special education. And so on …

But, autistic people are natural learners. We love to share, in our way, those things that interest us, with like minded people. We love to connect, deeply. We know that anyone can learn anything, share anything, connect with anyone. We don’t necessarily value titles. We value knowledge and deep, authentic connection. We “are” naturally curious. We “are” naturally generous with what we know and what we value.

Thus, in my mind, the “land” of the autistic is the land of “being” and the land of the neurotypical is the land of “having.” I am from the “land of being,” in the sense of connecting with a community of autistic people and a heritage that includes many of my autistic ancestors. I live and work, however, in the land of “having.”

If it needs a name, this “land of being,” I’ll call it Værensland (a rough Danish translation of “the land of being”). Interestingly, there is a reference to an actual Værensland having existed around 1565 near Uppsala, Sweden, in the 1865 work, Handlingar rörande Sveriges historia, V 3-4, notes from Jöns Olsson (source).

So, just like English will always be a foreign language to me (my L1 is not verbal, after all), living and working in the land of “having” will always feel foreign to me. I don’t belong here. I don’t usually feel welcome here. I don’t really like it here if I’m being honest. But, I am here nevertheless. I’m a foreigner in a foreign land, an expat from Værensland.

…

Postscript: as I finished editing this article, it occurred to me that this “being” vs “having” argument is playing out in realtime elsewhere in our community. There are those that “have” a diagnosis of autism and there are those that don’t, who simply declare themselves to “be” autistic. I am privileged to both “have” a formal diagnosis and to “be” autistic. I recognise just how privileged I am in that regard. I also recognise that it’s not for me to police the inhabitants of Værensland. All are welcome and all are native, who declare themselves to be so. (now I should create a flag and coat of arms, or something …)

— May 2024 Update —

I was about to share this old article with a connection on LinkedIn. The idea of “retrocausality” was coming to mind, and just how much my transgender identity was screaming at me just below the surface. Now, with an autistic trans woman’s lens, I have a few more things to add. I hope that you don’t mind.

1. The feeling of being a “foreigner” or outsider:

As I reflect on this article, I realise that my sense of being a foreigner extends beyond my autistic identity and into my experience as a transgender woman. Just as I have often felt like an outsider in the neurotypical world, I have also felt like a stranger in the binary, cisgender world. The rigid expectations and norms surrounding gender have often left me feeling like I don't quite fit in, like I'm from a different “land” altogether. This sense of otherness has been a constant companion throughout my life, even before I had the language or self-understanding to name it as such. It’s only now, as I've come to embrace my identity as a trans woman, that I can fully recognise how deeply this feeling of being a foreigner has shaped my experiences and worldview.

2. The importance of “being” over “having:”

My emphasis on the value of intrinsic qualities and authentic self-expression takes on new meaning when viewed through the lens of my transgender identity. For so long, I felt pressure to conform to external expectations and labels, to “have” certain qualities or achievements in order to be seen as valid or worthy. But my journey of self-discovery has taught me that true fulfillment comes from embracing who I am, not what I have. As a trans woman, learning to prioritise my authentic self over societal expectations has been a crucial part of my growth and healing. It’s a lesson that echoes my experiences as an autistic person, reminding me that the most important thing is to be true to myself, regardless of what the world may demand of me.

3. The complex relationship with personal history and official records:

Looking back, I can see how my complicated birth story and the discrepancies in my official documents mirror the challenges I’ve faced as a transgender person. Just as my assigned name and gender never quite fit, the official records of my early life have always felt like a misrepresentation of my true self. The process of piecing together my history, of trying to make sense of the gaps and contradictions, echoes the journey of self-discovery I’ve undergone as a trans woman. It’s a reminder that our official narratives don’t always capture the full truth of who we are, and that sometimes we have to dig deeper to uncover our authentic selves. As I’ve worked to align my outer identity with my inner truth, I've come to appreciate the power of redefining my own narrative, of claiming my story on my own terms.

4. The value placed on self-declaration and self-knowledge:

Re-reading my postscript about the inhabitants of Værensland, I’m struck by how much it resonates with my journey as a transgender woman. The idea that anyone who declares themselves to be part of this community is welcome, regardless of formal diagnosis or external validation, is a powerful affirmation of the right to self-determination. It’s a principle that lies at the heart of the transgender rights movement - the belief that each individual has the authority to define their own gender identity, based on their own self-knowledge and lived experience. As someone who has had to fight for my right to be recognised as the woman I know myself to be, I deeply appreciate the importance of this principle. It's a reminder that our identities are not something that can be bestowed or withheld by others, but something that we claim for ourselves, based on our own inner truth.

As I reflect on this article through the lens of my transgender identity, I’m struck by how much of my journey was already present, even if I didn’t have the language or awareness to fully articulate it at the time. The themes of otherness, authenticity, self-discovery, and self-determination that run through this piece are the same ones that have guided me in embracing my identity as a trans woman. It’s a reminder that our paths are often more interconnected than we realize, and that the truths we uncover about ourselves have a way of shaping our lives in profound and unexpected ways.