You say to me:
"I support you.
I'm going to get hundreds of signs all over town saying,
'Autism Awareness.'"
I hear:
"I want everyone seeing you as the lion in my
circus,
how you're a lonely old ladies favorite past time that
her dog chewed up a lot of,
and I get a high out of letting us marvel about how
you're the sick little kitten,
while we're the human adults."
You say:
"I'm here for you.
I'm going to wear or light it up blue,
like the CN Tower, the White House, the Hotel Dubai, and
the Sydney Opera House."
I here:
"I believe in supporting autistic people based off
the first thing I hear off the streets,
and the people you listen to on how to support you
are the same ones who've segregated you, discriminated
against you, and shoved you into cages, and you can't make these decisions
about your life,
despite being on the Dean's List and twice promoted at
work."
You say,
batting your eyes at me from across the gym:
"I'm gonna stay by you.
I'm going to wear my shirt publicizing a celebrity or
locally-known individual lending their name to the autism cause."
I hear:
"I expect you to support my clique's,
which probably doesn't over represent autistics in their
numbers,
line about people like you at any cost,
which we'll peer pressure people like you into doing,
take the recognition of your struggling autism project's
work for ourselves,
and try to get liked by appealing to the lowest common
denominator,
which is the only real thing we've done for autism,
while for our fifty-fifty relationship,
I don't have to hear your opinions on yourself,
while you're expected to listen to me ramble on about
student parking."
You say:
"I'm on your side.
I've liked Autism Speaks on Facebook,
just so I can know what they’re doing,
and plus, they are the most well-known name in
autism,"
when I have repeatedly pointed out ways they're
financially irresponsible,
use ignorant people's emotions to tell them what's best
for us,
and treat us like children who can never know as well as
they do how society should accommodate
people with similar needs to our's.
I hear:
"By my logic, Rain Man's Dustin Hoffman and
Playboy's Jenny McCarthy know autism best
not like Temple Grandin or John Elder Robison,
so I'm supporting you by clicking a button to let the
world know I approve of their didactic, self-absorbed rambling,
and that I expect a financially murky organization like
them to tell me the truth of their activities."
You say:
"You're twisting my words,"
make some subtle plea for me to absolve you of these
things.
I hear nothing.
I'm this close to unfriending you.