https://www.dailycal.org/2020/04/04/a-chilling-waiting-game-disability-and-health-care-during-a-pandemic/
A chilling waiting game: disability and healthcare during a pandemic
We are living in unsettling times. We are surrounded by images showing us exponential growth curves of COVID-19, or the coronavirus, cases around the U.S. and beyond, in what is now a global pandemic. The situation is even more baffling, anxiety-filled and stressful for people with disabilities, many of whom already face underlying health conditions and other comorbidities.
In fact, disability categories were listed in the top-10 “at risk” populations in the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention recommendations for mitigation strategies sent to local counties. People in the disability community also have to worry about family, friends and other support that we rely on and that are critical for our functioning and maintaining a decent quality of life.
“This period of enforced social distancing brings disruptions in the schedules of people with disabilities. The mechanisms of support — life support, social support, continuity — are fraying at the edges. When we wake up, we do not know what the new day will bring. Will we be forced to go outside, to relocate, can we find the things we’ll need to survive? Will the person who brings our groceries also inadvertently carry the virus that will kill us? All of these unknowns swirl around and choke us,” said Karen Nakamura, professor of anthropology and Robert and Colleen Haas Distinguished Chair of Disability Studies at UC Berkeley.
Indeed, “social distancing” is the term you hear when you tune into any media source. It’s the new buzz term, the new kid on the block. Many in the U.S. and around the world are hearing of this term for the first time in their lives in recent weeks. The term is approached with a mixture of fear and excitement. Excitement because it seems to provide a tangible way to deal with the need of the hour, slowing the spread of COVID-19, and because of the messages all around us (whether from the media or the campus administration) regarding the importance of practicing social distancing for the global coronavirus pandemic.
At the same time, social distancing is also a concerning and less desirable idea for most, as no one relishes the thought of being isolated from the rest of society. After all, being part of a valued social group is a fundamental human need. As a result, the public comforts itself in the knowledge that this new “social distancing” they are hearing of is a temporary phenomenon, which can be safely tucked away out of sight and out of mind once the pandemic has subsided.
The irony in all this is that social distancing is not something new, or a medical precaution to be grouped with the frequent washing of your hands, which is the other big piece of advice of the day. Some groups have been painfully aware of the practice of “social distancing” for a long time now. Social distancing has been widely practiced against people with disabilities, whether it’s physical disabilities, mental disabilities or neurodevelopmental disabilities such as autism.
The irony in all this is that social distancing is not something new, or a medical precaution to be grouped with the frequent washing of your hands, which is the other big piece of advice of the day.
Social distancing as a term was first coined in the 1920s by sociologist Robert Park. In the 1930s, the Bogardus social distance scale was developed to measure people’s desire to keep a distance from individuals in socially devalued groups. Variations of that scale are still prevalent today in the many studies being done on the issue. Social distancing scales basically ask people the extent of their willingness to be close to those from “outgroups,” with measurements ranging from high distance (willing to live in the same state as a person with a given trait or condition) to much closer connections (willing to be close friends with such a person, or even close relatives through marriage with them).
“For many people with psychiatric and intellectual disabilities, social distancing has been much of their experience — forced withdrawal from school, sequestration in homes or institutions and missed opportunities. A social life was always something that happened to other people,” Nakamura said.
As a minimally speaking autistic with significant challenges, I have been painfully aware of social distancing for much of my life. It is the way the kids from some special education classrooms are the socially isolated group in one part of the playground or even have a different recess time from the neurotypical kids in public schools. It is the deeply hurtful way a visiting parent intentionally moved her child to their other side as they passed by me and my aide in the hallways of Dilworth Elementary School. Yes, my autism does include stimming or off-beat mannerisms, but I was just a small third or fourth grader then. Maybe the belief of such people is that autism, like a virus, is “transmittable” and thus a reason for social distancing.
Social distancing is also being automatically excluded or ignored in activities that neurotypical kids are involved in. Ironically, the unspoken social distancing rules toward autistics like me did not apply on Halloween when there would be a host of costumed neighborhood kids at my doorstep asking for candy. Social distancing was something that could be turned on or off at the whim of society around me when it suited it.
For me, the term social distancing equates to loneliness and isolation due to nonspeaking autism. Most of my life has been spent trying to overcome and reduce this social distancing, and my college experience at UC Berkeley (though not without its bumps) has been a delightfully refreshing upgrade.
I was all the more intrigued when I heard UC Berkeley professor of psychology Stephen Hinshaw speak on social distancing during his talk on stigma and autism at the 1:59 Autism Spectrum Disorder DeCal, of which I am a student instructor, in mid-March. He jokingly remarked that he had wanted to rub his eyes in shock when he saw the term on a website a few weeks back, but of course, you are not supposed to touch your face. Now he sees the term in almost every post from any administrator or the campus. Hinshaw has been studying and writing about stigma and social distancing for a long time now.
“Social distancing is that place on the continuum between living on the same planet with somebody with a stigmatized condition to being much more socially close with them. We want to erode social distance and have closeness,” Hinshaw said during the class.
“Social distancing is that place on the continuum between living on the same planet with somebody with a stigmatized condition to being much more socially close with them.”— Stephen Hinshaw
Stigma results from a fear that disabilities are somehow contagious, so you keep a social distance from the person regarded as contagious. Hinshaw added that we are now being told that in the age of COVID-19, social distancing is a good thing, but we have to be aware of the hidden meanings of that term.
Hinshaw acknowledged that the new normal for the good of the group in order to prevent the spread of the coronavirus is to practice social distancing. He wished that a different term had been used, however, as he had been fighting social distancing through his work on stigma for the last 20 years.
Alastair Iles, associate professor in the campus Department of Environmental Science, Policy and Management, points out that the disabled community has often been regarded as the “other,” a group to be stigmatized and isolated. This is more so for people with more visible disabilities such as wheelchair users, a blind person using a cane, a deaf person signing or those with intellectual and developmental disabilities associated with childish looks and off-beat mannerisms.
According to Iles, disability has often been understood to be God’s punishment or, “as a possibly contagious disease in itself, and … people who perceive themselves as normal feel they must avoid disabled people to be safe.” Though his own disability is not visible, Illes has encountered unwillingness by some people to further engage with him once they know he is deaf, which is essentially a form of social distancing.
Iles feels that what is now being termed “social distancing” is more of a “spatial distancing,” for which you have to be both six feet apart from others and cut back on all interactions that could spread microbes. He said we really need that spatial distancing now, and it is effective, as seen in other communicable disease outbreaks. He is quick to point out that while spatial distancing could help protect people with disabilities in the current situation, it could also deprive them of vital support and connections when they need it the most.
Iles also wonders about the way distancing is being understood and practiced now when he goes on his walks. Some pass him at a distance, make eye contact or smile, thus maintaining both social connection and spatial distance. On the other hand, he finds that younger people in their 20s and 30s seem to excessively avoid him by deviating across the road or ignoring him altogether. For Illes, it felt like a denial of the existence of interactions and shared community, which resonates with how disabled people are treated. He believes you can practice distancing in very different ways.
I spoke with a few other students with disabilities on campus to get their take on “social distancing.” It was all done online or via email, of course, given our current climate.
“I think now that social distancing is necessary, neurotypicals will get a glimpse of what living with non-speaking autism is like,” wrote David Teplitz, a political science major.
Incidentally, I feel social distancing is often confused with social interaction skills that some autistics may struggle with and which can lead to the mistaken impression that all autistics like to be left alone or “socially distance” themselves. For some autistics such as those who are nonspeaking or minimally speaking, social interaction skills may be impacted due to communication challenges. It is not lack of desire for interaction, it’s just that it can be a somewhat dampening experience when, for example, you can’t quite keep up with the rapid pace of the back-and-forth spoken communication of your peers when your typing is slow and awkward.
For other autistics, social interaction skills may be affected by challenges in fully grasping the nuances of social norms, which makes them the “outgroup.” For that matter, even the able-bodied, neurotypical introverted person has a harder time with social interaction skills than the neurotypical extrovert.
For Anna Bernick, an American studies major, the current situation is “automotive. We already surround ourselves with screens for hours on end and now we have to for most social interactions. It sucks.”
Brian Liu, who studies integrative biology and applied math, also had a hard time fitting in while growing up due to his autistic traits such as taking things too literally.
“I was unable to tell that a friend didn’t want to talk to me when they literally said they enjoyed talking with me. It is when I have something in mind, but the way I express it is misunderstood,” Liu said. “Social distancing happens, which leads to more social distancing. It leads to rumors being spread, as you sit there fixed, watching it unfold because your experience goes unheard.”
Liu feels that perhaps nondisabled people find it hard to distinguish between social distancing and physical distancing, as they tend to think of social gatherings as physical gatherings, “whereas to certain disabled folks, it feels like an honor to even be included in an online group, which they would consider a social gathering.”
Even with the current “social distancing” norms in place, Liu found that after checking in with a group, many people had actually caught up socially with a lot of their friends online. Liu, on the other hand, has had to initiate almost all his conversations.
It is clear that the disabled community’s perceptions of social distancing are very different from the current usage of the term. Words matter, and other terms that have less historic connotations can be used. Perhaps a good place to start is to rebrand the current “social distancing” to the more accurate “spatial distancing” or “physical distancing.”
Perhaps a good place to start is to rebrand the current “social distancing” to the more accurate “spatial distancing” or “physical distancing.”
I also worry about the way “social distancing” is used jokingly in memes as a temporary and infrequent phenomenon. Will this trivialize or normalize its use in the future, post-pandemic world? Will it just become the mainstream and acceptable “thing to do?” Will it be okay to socially distance any “group” (such as people who have disabilities) for any reason in the future, as everyone’s had to do it currently?
According to Iles, public health experts are saying we will go through a few rounds of “social distancing,” so it is possible that people will become accustomed to this behavior they currently find alienating and stressful. This might lead to a greater tolerance of distancing behavior in the future. He adds that like countless times in the past, power inequalities could well play out and result in distancing exercised toward certain marginalized groups with the claim that it’s justified for safety and well-being. It might also be considered acceptable for some groups to distance themselves from a problem while leaving vulnerable populations more exposed. Relating to this topic, Illes is currently working on an article about agricultural workers and the disease.
“What might be a bit different is that the virus threat will be invoked in the future to stigmatize various groups — as those who are supposedly more likely to be “carriers” of the virus. Or, the memory of the virus will be used in this way,” Illes remarked. “But you shouldn’t assume that it will happen; there are strong social bonds between people — we are social beings for the most part.”
Times of crisis often bring out the best in people too, as demonstrated by the countless stories of generosity during this time of need. Even in the midst of the coronavirus pandemic, people have been quick to offer free resources online such as yoga classes or access to educational materials. There has been a quick restructuring of business and educational models so that life, studies and work can continue from the isolation of home. People are finding ways to socially connect with strangers in many small ways. Let’s not confuse our current spatial distancing with social distancing.
I want to believe Charles Darwin’s take on the human species as one of “survival of the kindest,” and not just “survival of the fittest.” I want to believe our human society has great capacity for goodness and compassion for all its members. And now that more of society has had to experience the pains of isolation for themselves, dare I dream that society will rethink social distancing against marginalized groups such as the disabled community in the post-pandemic world?
Headline: First transitions
The first semester at a vast university such as UC Berkeley is hard for most students. We all fear the unknown, which brings about its own set of anxious thoughts. When you factor in my type of autism challenges, the process is even more nerve-racking.
We autistics fundamentally have difficulty with handling transitions. A transition is like a doorway: The other side is full of potential unknowns, and our unpredictable autism bodies may not cooperate with us even if we have crossed this doorway before. It’s the idea of change itself in addition to the actual change that comprises transition. The doorway latches on to our anxiety.
As a child, I really did have a problem entering a building or a classroom. Even now, I rush through physical doorways. The metaphorical doorways for me now are the transitions that occur in everyday life, at college, at home and especially during travel. Interactions with people, trying new food, navigating the campus walkways and buildings all involve crossing a doorway.
Last fall, a day before Golden Bear Orientation, or GBO, the Disabled Students’ Program, or DSP, had thoughtfully organized its own all-day event at Zellerbach Auditorium. But within half an hour of the program, I was completely overwhelmed at the thought of all the transitions I would potentially have to face. I rushed out and sat in the lobby for almost two hours before attempting to go back in.
GBO was a hectic eight-day program with events and discussions that often started at 9 a.m. and ended at 11 p.m. I was surprised that I was able to handle most of them as well as I did. I think what helped was that I was able to return to Zellerbach Auditorium that first day, even if I had to miss two hours, rather than give up and go home — that gave me confidence.
I had to stand in line outside Memorial Stadium for more than three hours on the first day of GBO, but I still went in. The incoming class was breaking the Guinness World Record for the largest human letter C. The systematic immersion at GBO helped prepare me for the semester.
Then came the first day of classes. I was in Psychology C19: “Drugs and the Brain,” which is a popular class — there must have been about 800 students in Wheeler Auditorium that day. I was a nervous lone figure right at the back, very close to the exit, ready to bolt anytime. But at the same time, part of me was absolutely thrilled to be there.
There is really no other way of handling transitions than systematic desensitization — repeatedly walking through the doorway and thinking through the steps before going in to reduce that unknown factor.
I sat in the same seat at the back of Wheeler Auditorium for nearly half the semester before moving up row by row. I made it all the way to the fourth row by the end of the semester.
I also realized that a large class offered lots of anonymity, which was a perfect cover for my offbeat autism mannerisms. There was enough ambient sound to cover any noise I was making. I actually ended up really liking Wheeler Auditorium. It is also quite thrilling to be learning in a classroom that held a Nobel Prize Ceremony.
The first semester of college was tough, with its innumerable transitions, and it took a lot of kickstarts to get me going. I had introduced myself to my professors via email but it took me more than half the semester before I physically made it to their office hours just to say “Hi.”
Taking anticipatory steps when possible really helped me. For instance, I worried about how a nonverbal individual like me would participate in a debate during one of my discussion sections. But I finally took on the role of delivering the opening statement for my team — that way, I could prepare ahead of time and let the text-speech app on my iPad be my voice.
My exams are at a different testing site and in a room that was unfamiliar to me. DSP Proctoring took note of my concern and let me preview the exact room at Moffitt Library a few days prior to my first midterm. They also made sure that I was given that same room for all my exams last semester.
Life is going to be full of transitions for us autistics. The only way to move forward is to proactively seek transitions.
This semester, I have sought new doorways — writing this opinion column for The Daily Californian, for example, also entails attending staff meetings and editing sessions. I hope I can continue to attempt more doorways and become more at ease in stepping outside my comfort zone.
Headline: The women in my life
My autism has meant that I’ve been surrounded by therapists for most of my life. As it so happens, the field of school education, counseling and therapy is often dominated by women.
Thursday is International Women’s Day, so this column is a tribute to the amazing women in my life — especially one who literally turned my life around.
Up until middle school, I was going nowhere and learning nothing. I was nonverbal and had no means to communicate. I was in a series of short-lived special education classrooms — teacher after teacher was eager to hand off the “difficult” autistic kid.
I first met Janna Woods, with her purple hair and pink pants, when I was 13. It was chance when my parents attended a seminar and met Tyler Fihe, who was, at the time, a college-going and nonverbal autistic typer. Janna had been his therapist and, after meeting my parents, she came to work with me.
Janna changed my life by teaching me to type and, as a result, communicate. She loosened that first brick in my Berlin Wall of Silence, and she helped the world see the person inside.
As brick after brick was dismantled with one slow letter after another, thoughts poured out of me. I was able to have deep conversations with others for the first time in my life. I remember once telling Janna that typing had taken me from “personless” to “personhood,” and she replied that that was because communication is foundational.
Janna encouraged me to do creative writing. She believed in me and my potential with a confidence that even I had ceased to have. She became my Angel Janna.
With communication, I was able to enter the world of mainstream education. Janna trained other therapists to work with me and took me to weekly cognitive behavior therapy sessions to help me manage my emotions and anxieties.
Janna gave me my first job: taking care of her huge dog when she went on vacation. I was thrilled that someone would actually entrust me with such responsibility and pay me for it as well.
She had insisted, even back then, that college was a definite possibility for me. Janna, you would be so proud to see me at UC Berkeley today.
Unfortunately, Janna joined the angels above after fighting cancer two years back. She was too young to die. Janna helped many kids like me that the world had given up on by giving us a voice.
We can’t underestimate what the women in our lives do for us — especially if they are not family members, with no vested interest. I’ve been fortunate to meet a few wonderful women who have given me an unexpected leg up or helped guide me along the unclear path of my autism journey. They have shown me compassion and empathy. They advocated for me, which a differently abled individual such as myself sorely needed. Most importantly, they have had faith in me. I am amazed and grateful. Janna was just the beginning.
Cherie Azodi was the behavior therapist behind the dozen phrases that I am able to verbalize today — she would insist on having a conversation with me even if the phrases were rote. She did more than any speech therapist I’ve had ever managed.
Cindy Riley first noticed me in a park as a toddler and brought her three kids over to my home every week for over eight years so that this young, autistic only child could socialize with his peers.
Viji Dilip is the founder of Access Braille, a nonprofit that supports literacy access for the visually challenged. She showed up out of the blue and made me the editor of a Braille periodical, which accompanies free Braille teaching kits distributed in many countries in Africa and Asia. Madhu Krishnan is a co-founder of Inclusive World, a nonprofit that provides training and volunteer opportunities for the differently abled population. These two women sent many interesting internships and projects my way. They made me feel that I too was a contributing member of society.
The college counselors from the Disabled Students’ Program are the enablers of my path to higher education. Their open attitude and faith is a wondrous and refreshing change from the days of my district’s special education teachers.
All these women chose to believe in the possibility of individuals like me. All these women helped me build confidence and contribute to making the individual I am today. I want you to know that I truly appreciate and admire you, and I look forward to meeting many more such amazing women in my life.
What "Atypical" Means in Autism
In autism, "atypical" means having behaviors or traits that are different from what most people without autism (neurotypicals) have. These different behaviors can include things like:
We use the word "atypical" because these behaviors are not common in people without autism. But it's important to remember that "atypical" doesn't mean bad. Autistic people have special strengths and abilities that are different but still important and valuable. Understanding these differences helps us support autistic people better and appreciate their unique contributions.
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Read more on Atypical: [PlainSpeak Version] [For the Academic/Scientific Audience], [A Simple Definition]
Headline: Sensory walkabout
I have a rather curious relationship with my environment. You see, my particular brand of autism is accompanied by sensory dysregulation, which means that I often experience my environment in a different and quite extraordinary way.
A walk through Sproul Plaza is a testament to this unusual relationship. For many, Sproul Plaza is usually a fun and lively place to walk about.
Booths line either side of the Sproul walkway, promoting the various clubs and activities on campus. Musical groups on the steps of Sproul Hall, outside The Golden Bear café and under Sather Gate entertain passersby. A food delivery Kiwibot meanders through the crowd on a mission to feed a hungry student. Students protest near Sather Gate to make their voices heard. Vibrant energy rolls off the 200 or so chattering students milling around.
But my unregulated sensory system has a different take. I can hear conversations and music from near and far, except they are all at the same volume. I try, unsuccessfully, to filter through this deafening noise and focus on the music nearby. It’s like walking into a party and hearing all the conversations at once and being unable to focus on just one.
My senses cross over where my eyes can smell and feel, not just see. My eyes can feel the texture of the blue canvas that cover the booths. The white text on the blue canvas feels abrasive on the cool blue, and the canvas moves like a sine curve in the wind.
A student walks quickly by me, carrying a small blackboard easel. The words “Know your ...” are chalked on the board. I want to read but the rest is lost as she scurries right past.
The Kiwibot looks like a little dog — I want to touch it; I feel compelled to pet it. I reach down, but it just continues on. When I go behind it, it stops and simply stands there. I have a fleeting thought — did I just break the bot?
All these observations — and more — have happened in the space of less than a minute. Hundreds of minutiae flash through my senses.
I actually love the energy of Sproul Plaza. But my body is reeling and overwhelmed from trying to process it all. This kind of sensory bombardment is both exhausting and exciting for individuals like me, whose systems often struggle to cope with it.
For most people, the reliance on your sensory system for daily functioning is so automatic that you don’t even think about it. But most people have an inbuilt coping mechanism by way of filters. It requires some effort, but most of you are able to filter out noise and distractions so that you can focus on only what you want to see, hear or do.
But for people like me, these filters are less than efficient. Even the autism meltdown can be the result of sensory overload.
A sensorily disorganized body like mine comes up with its own set of coping mechanisms to drown out the sensory overload. These mannerisms are called “stims,” or “self-stimulatory behaviors” in autism. Flicking your fingers helps filter incoming lightwaves. Verbal noises can be an attempt to drown out external sound.
But stims that start off as a coping mechanism can also become habits that are hard to kick and look potentially inappropriate as we grow older.
What other students see is an individual who is constantly fidgeting, with an awkward gait and a bunch of offbeat mannerisms. I am aware of standing out, which adds to my anxiety and makes me appear to stim more.
The skin is the largest sensory organ in the body, so there is sensory input coming in literally from head to toe. It is both agony and ecstasy.
On the flip side, people like me pick up so many more cues compared to our typical peers, which makes our powers of observation that much more astute. The outward body may not exhibit it, but our minds are thinking, observing and inferring constantly.
Our atypical sensory system actually works to our advantage in the field of academics, especially in critical thinking and analytical skills. We have a lot to contribute to society since thinking out of the box is really second nature to us.
We notice things at the gross and subtle levels, even changes in energy levels. When we truly love something and are happy, we enjoy it at a different sensory level — to the point of bliss, at times. The rhythm of a waterfall can, for instance, touch the very soul. It is a heady sensation.
Even as I try to cope with a body that is often at odds with the environment, I also experience my environment in a most amazing and extraordinary way.