The AutSide Podcast

Jaime Hoerricks, PhD

AutSide: A podcast from an autistic trans woman that explores critical issues at the intersection of autism, neurodiversity, gender, and social justice. Dive deep into the realities of living as an autistic adult, critiques of education systems, and the power of storytelling to reshape public narratives. With a unique blend of snark, sharp analysis, and personal experience, each episode challenges societal norms, from the failures of standardized testing to the complexities of identity and revolution. Join the conversation on AutSide, where lived experience and critical theory meet for change. autside.substack.com

  1. 2d ago

    What has to happen for meaning to become language? How do I actually get from Stage 0 to Stage 1?

    A new school year means new students, new relationships, and a Script Garden filling with meaning. But how does any of it become usable language? I’m starting with the question between Stage 0 and Stage 1. It is the beginning of another school year, which means I am back in the Script Garden. New students on my caseload. New students in the Maths classes I support. New teachers, new classroom dynamics, new relationships, and an enormous amount of information arriving all at once. I am paying attention to all of it. Rather spectacularly so. But thinking about something and having usable language for it are not the same event for me. At Stage 0, there is already a great deal there: scripts, patterns, memories, sensations, observations, language, relationships, notices, wonders, and things other people have said. It isn’t empty. There is something almost superpositional about it—multiple possibilities remaining simultaneously alive whilst new information keeps arriving. A student may understand. They may not. They may understand the mathematics but not its language. They may understand both and not yet trust me enough to show me. I don’t necessarily want to collapse those possibilities too early, because sometimes that is precisely how I get a student wrong. Meaning is forming. There just may not be a sentence yet. But eventually I need one. I am an RSP teacher. I have students to support, teachers to collaborate with, IEPs, meetings, documentation, and decisions to make. At some point I have to step out of the Script Garden carrying a word. And that has left me with a wonderfully inconvenient question: How do I actually get from Stage 0 to Stage 1? What has to happen for meaning to become language? Sometimes I know the whole before I can find its parts. Sometimes I know that a sentence is wrong before I have any idea what the right sentence would be. What, exactly, is happening in between? This is very deliberately N = 1. I am not speaking for all autistic people, all gestalt language processors, all RSP teachers, my colleagues, or my employer. I am following my own problem of practice. My ASD Level 2 diagnosis matters here because much of the support I need has to be constructed by me: externalising information, collecting it, parking it somewhere safe, returning to it, moving it around, letting patterns emerge, and eventually developing words and scripts stable enough to use when I need them. That is accommodation, but it is also simply part of how I make my work possible. So this video is a prologue, not an answer. I don’t know where the question is going yet. I’m going to do what I tend to do on Substack: collect things, park them, play with them, and see what grows. Somewhere inside that rather overgrown Script Garden, I am hoping to understand a little more about what has to happen before all that meaning becomes something I can actually say—and, with any luck, come out the other side with enough usable words and scripts to remain employed for another year. The AutSide is a reader-supported publication. To support my work, consider becoming a paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit autside.substack.com/subscribe

  2. 2d ago

    Episode 586: Weight of the Field–Redefining Educational Workload Reduction

    What if reducing workload is not about doing less? This episode explores Quantity, Concurrency, and Content—and how real support can give unfinished information somewhere else to wait. I put yesterday’s AutSide piece into Gemini Notebook because I wanted to hear what happened when the argument was handed back to me in another form. The resulting conversation begins with the deceptively simple arithmetic of workload reduction: if twenty problems become ten, surely the work is now half as heavy. The hosts quickly discover the problem I was trying to name in the essay. Once we move from physical quantity into cognition, the arithmetic stops behaving so neatly. A single problem can carry directions, retrieval, intermediate results, formatting expectations, uncertainty, and unresolved information simultaneously. Cutting the page in half does not necessarily cut any of that in half. What I particularly enjoyed hearing them work through was the distinction amongst Quantity, Concurrency, and Content. Quantity is what schools can easily count. Content is what I actually need a student to know or demonstrate. Concurrency is the less visible part between them: how much information must remain alive at once for the student to continue. The episode reaches for the image of fifty browser tabs—not fifty extraordinarily difficult things, simply fifty things that have not been permitted to close. The discussion becomes most interesting to me when it turns from explanation towards practice. If retrieval is not the Content I am assessing, I can provide the formula. If an intermediate result needs to remain available, I can give it somewhere outside the student to wait. If several instructions are competing simultaneously, I can change their arrangement. The student still has to understand the mathematics, science, history, or language in front of her. I have not necessarily reduced the intellectual demand at all. I have changed where the unfinished information has to live. The episode puts this rather nicely: the human does the processing; the tool can do some of the maintaining. And I was glad that the conversation followed that idea into special education itself. This is why the work cannot be reduced to sitting beside a student and keeping her “on task.” To reduce a workload without accidentally reducing the learning, I have to understand what is load-bearing in the assignment in the first place. The episode describes that as finding the load-bearing walls of the Content—knowing what can move, what can be externalised, and what must remain. That is specialised intellectual labour, performed across students, teachers, subjects, and an entire school day. A style note here, because I know this will matter to some readers: yes, I know Gemini Notebook is AI. I have disclosed my use of it before, and I am disclosing it again here. This episode is another demonstration of why the tool has become valuable in my life. I put my article—my research, my argument, my thoughts, my writing—into Notebook, and it explains the whole back to me in another form. Sometimes I need that. When I have spent days working from inside an idea, hearing an automated system reconstruct the complete gestalt helps me check whether the whole I thought I had written is actually the whole that made it onto the page. It can expose a missing relationship, an ambiguity, or simply reassure me that the architecture holds together. The tool is not originating the thought for me; it is giving my thought back to me so that I can inspect it from outside. I can error-check that reconstruction against what I actually wrote, and then choose to share the result with subscribers and followers. For me, that is not an embarrassment to hide behind euphemisms about technology. It is support. The AutSide is a reader-supported publication. To support my work, consider becoming a paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit autside.substack.com/subscribe

  3. 3d ago

    Episode 585 - More Than One Door

    I do not use Gemini Notebook because I need it to think for me. I use it because too much thought remains alive at once. Essay, timeline, infographic, podcast—different doors into the same relational whole. I keep returning to Gemini Notebook because it does something I genuinely need—not because I need it to think for me, but because I need support moving through the world of words once too many of them become alive at the same time. My difficulty is rarely the absence of thought. It is almost embarrassingly the opposite. Sukhareva is there. Peters is there. Prizant, Nelson, Kanner, Shaqaman, contemporary Chinese scholarship, developmental psycholinguistics, the Naysayers, my own nine essays, their citations, the disagreements amongst them, the historical changes in terminology—all of it remains available simultaneously. I know the shape before I know how to walk another person through it. As I wrote in the piece, the expensive part is often moving from that relational whole into the selective, sequential form through which somebody else can encounter it. That is where I require substantial support. Notebook has become part of that support infrastructure because it gives me several different ways of moving through the same material. I can give it my own articles, research, arguments, and sources, then ask it to help me reorganise what is already there. An infographic lets relationships coexist spatially. A timeline lets chronology become the organising structure. A mind map lets me move amongst relationships without pretending they arrived sequentially. And now there is this podcast—a conversational rendering of the same informational field. None of these replaces the scholarship underneath them. They are different entrances into it. The original experiment was precisely this: could something that exists for me as a large relational whole be made available to somebody else without requiring them first to reproduce my entire journey through thousands of words? And I rather love what the podcast notices about the actual argument. It begins with the absurdity at its centre: a century of researchers can repeatedly encounter recognisable patterns in autistic language, but those observations become remarkably easy to erase if we search backwards demanding contemporary vocabulary. Sukhareva did not need the term gestalt language processor for the children she observed to be there. Neither did Kanner, Peters, Nelson, or Prizant. Different researchers brought different questions, theories, disciplines, languages, and desired outcomes, but the humans did not vanish between those frameworks. The podcast compresses this beautifully: “The humans didn’t change, just the lexicons did.” That is very close to the historical gestalt I have been trying to make visible—the lexicographers change; we remain. What becomes especially striking, though, is that the podcast itself eventually turns towards the reason I am using Notebook in the first place. It describes the problem as trying to take a vast web and force it into a single straight piece of string—the researchers, dates, clinical disagreements, frameworks, and relationships all informationally alive together, whilst academic prose demands that I select one thing, then another, then another, paragraph after paragraph. Notebook can hold some of that intermediate organisational labour for me. That matters. My support need does not disappear because I can eventually produce fluent prose. Successful language can conceal an extraordinary amount of machinery. Here, some of that machinery is external, visible, and twenty dollars a month. Perhaps that is why I find this podcast so delightful. I wrote the research. I followed the citations. I made the historical argument. Then I gave that body of work to a tool that could return it through another doorway—and, listening to two synthetic voices discuss why an autistic researcher might need multiple representational forms to move a relational whole into communicable language, I find the form becoming part of the argument. Essay, infographic, timeline, mind map, podcast: not five different thoughts, but five ways into the same one. Accessibility does not mean finding the single simplified version through which everybody must enter. Sometimes it means allowing the whole to have more than one door. Here’s the link to the source article with the complete reference list: https://autside.substack.com/p/we-have-been-here-all-along Let me know what you think. The AutSide is a reader-supported publication. To support my work, consider becoming a paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit autside.substack.com/subscribe

  4. 3d ago

    Sunday Mornings with Jaime & Cathy: When Meaning Has No Words Yet

    Cathy and I begin with workload and signal-to-noise, then arrive somewhere deeper: if meaning is already present before words are available, what conditions allow us to step out of the Script Garden with language? This week, Cathy and I began with workload—specifically, what we actually mean when we reduce it. There is a tendency in education to treat workload as quantity: fewer questions, fewer pages, fewer things to complete. But that is only one part of the load. A student may have ten questions instead of twenty and still be required to hold instructions, formulae, vocabulary, prior knowledge, shifting representations, and the purpose of the task informationally alive all at once. Sometimes the difficulty is not how much work exists. It is how much must remain simultaneously available whilst the work is being done. That brought us back to signal and noise. If the communicative signal is simply we are leaving at noon, everything surrounding that message may be meaningful in its own right without being relevant to the immediate communication. For me, the difficulty is that I may not yet know which information is signal and which is noise. Until the organising meaning becomes clear, too many things remain alive. The same thing happens in classrooms: teachers can flood a room with language, directions, explanation, context, encouragement, and detail, leaving a student to discover retrospectively what she was actually supposed to do. By the time the signal resolves, the lesson has moved on. And then the conversation turned towards the question that has been occupying me increasingly this week: what has to happen for meaning to become language? I can watch students manipulate a geometric figure until it reaches the correct position—they know what happened, because their hands can do it—then watch them stop when asked to name the transformation or write the proof. Meaning is present. Language is not yet available. That is the Script Garden problem for me: how do I get from Stage 0 to Stage 1 with a word? A sentence frame cannot solve that merely by existing. Somehow the internal meaning has to connect with the available language. Cathy brought that question back into relationship. Perhaps our task is not to make a child produce more language but to create the conditions within which language can grow. That distinction matters enormously to me. I increasingly struggle with calling this intervention, because intervention suggests something introduced from outside to alter an existing trajectory. What Cathy described was different: noticing, wondering, attending to movement and scripts, offering natural language models, building safety, and allowing connection itself to become part of the conditions for development. The Script Garden does not grow because somebody keeps demanding flowers. It grows because the conditions permit growth. Which brought us, unexpectedly but perhaps inevitably, back to evidence. My old forensic world taught me to ask whether an observation can be documented, repeated, and reproduced by somebody somewhere else. Cathy recognised Marge Blanc’s descriptions in the children she already knew; she used the framework in her own practice; parents recognised their children within it; other practitioners have done likewise. That does not answer every question about efficacy, nor does it remove the need for research. But it does leave me increasingly interested in a question beneath the argument about interventions: what architecture are all these people independently encountering? Before we ask whether we can make language happen, perhaps we need to understand what is already happening when meaning becomes language at all. The AutSide is a reader-supported publication. To support my work, consider becoming apaid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit autside.substack.com/subscribe

    Sunday Mornings with Jaime & Cathy: When Meaning Has No Words Yet
  5. Aug 30

    Sunday Mornings with Jaime & Cathy: What Would Count as Evidence If You Believed Us?

    Cathy and I ask what counts as evidence in gestalt language processing—and who gets believed. Across lived experience, families, clinicians, and research, perhaps the evidence was never absent. We were looking for the wrong thing. Cathy and I began this week with a question that has been following much of my recent writing: what do we actually mean when we say evidence? Not simply whether evidence exists, but who gets to decide what counts as evidence, who is permitted to produce it, and whose observations are allowed into the record. Around gestalt language processing, those questions have become particularly sharp. Again and again, people ask, Where is the evidence? Yet gestalt processors are describing our experiences, parents are describing their children, clinicians have accumulated decades of observation, and researchers across different disciplines and countries have encountered related patterns. At some point, the question begins to change. If all of these people are telling you something is happening, what would you need before you were prepared to believe them? For me, that question is inseparable from my own life. I am autistic, with substantial language and pragmatic support needs, yet I can sit with Cathy and have this conversation, teach high school, write, research, and speak publicly. Those things can look contradictory only if the support underneath them disappears from view. I remain a gestalt processor. I can take the whole that arrives and disassemble it into increasingly precise language when the conditions and supports allow me to do so. Under enough emotional or informational load, however, I can lose access to that granularity—sentence structures become unavailable, then smaller structures, sometimes until I am relying upon a handful of familiar scripts. That is not regression into some earlier kind of person. It is the same architecture operating with different levels of available support. This led us towards another way of asking about evidence: what became possible? I came to occupational therapy relatively late, at a time when there were few obvious language services for an autistic adult who already had a career and children. A creative occupational therapist eventually led me towards theatre and improvisation. Where is the randomised controlled trial proving that improv theatre would improve my pragmatic communication? I do not have one. What I have is the life afterwards. Conversation became easier. Teaching became possible. Standing in federal court and being cross-examined about scientific evidence became possible. Refusing something I did not want to do became easier. Eventually, even performing in a musical became possible. Nobody needed me to disappear in order for those things to happen. The evidence is partly in what the support made available. Cathy brought the same question into her work with children and families. Parents know things because they are there: they see how their children communicate across days and years, what changes when they feel safe, what supports communication, what closes it down, and what becomes possible in relationships where someone is genuinely curious about the person in front of them. Clinicians and educators accumulate another kind of knowledge through repeated encounters. And autistic people bring knowledge from inside the phenomenon itself. None of these perspectives is infallible, but dismissing them because they do not resemble a controlled clinical trial does not make the resulting position more scientific. It simply narrows in advance the kinds of reality science is prepared to notice. By the end of our conversation, the scale had widened considerably. Gestalt processors are finding one another across countries, cultures, disciplines, languages, and writing systems, and the similarities are difficult to dismiss as an internet fashion. Psycholinguists, philologists, speech and language practitioners, teachers, parents, and gestalt processors may enter through different doors, but we keep encountering pieces of the same problem. That does not mean every claim made about gestalt language processing has been proven, nor that frameworks such as NLA should be exempt from empirical scrutiny. It means something more foundational: evidence does not begin only when somebody designs an intervention study. It begins with noticing, describing, listening, comparing, and asking what changes because this knowledge exists. Cathy and I kept arriving back there. The evidence is distributed amongst us. The harder question may be who has been taught to recognise it. The AutSide is a reader-supported publication. To support my work, consider becoming a paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit autside.substack.com/subscribe

    Sunday Mornings with Jaime & Cathy: What Would Count as Evidence If You Believed Us?
  6. Aug 23

    Sunday Mornings with Jaime & Cathy: Field Report from the First Weeks of School

    A new school year has left me tending new script gardens. Grammar does not make language context-free. What looks like fluent independence may rest upon scripts, routines, relationships, and a field built first. Going back to school this year has made something visible to me that competence usually hides. My Learning Centre is gone. I no longer have that stable place where relationships, routines, language, and expectations can accumulate over time. Instead, I move between classrooms, pushing in for 40 minutes here, an hour there, supporting a new caseload across multiple curricula. I know the mathematics. That is not the problem. The problem is that I do not yet have the scripts for these students, these teachers, these rooms, these particular versions of the curriculum. I am tending a new script garden—and, in each new field, I am beginning much closer to the beginning than anyone watching my language from the outside might imagine. That matters when we talk about gestalt language processing and particularly Stages 4–6. There is a seductive assumption that once someone has grammar, language has become generally available: you have language now, so use it. But language does not exist outside context. Put a student into a new classroom, beside someone they have never met, present unfamiliar mathematical language, and tell them to “turn and talk to your partner about normal distributions,” and what exactly are we measuring when they stare silently at one another? They may understand the mathematics. They may have grammar. What they do not yet have is a script for this. I recognise that because, despite everything I can apparently do with language, I experience the same thing. Stages cannot simply describe something possessed by the person. What is available is partly a property of the field. Cathy made the connection beautifully from her own work. A child arriving at the Speech Den comes with reports, histories, diagnoses, information from parents—but none of those is the child. Knowing begins in the encounter: noticing, becoming curious, establishing routines, learning one another, planting those first seeds from which something relational can grow. And the gestalt begins long before the child crosses the threshold. It contains the morning, the journey, sleep, medication, home, yesterday, previous classrooms, previous failures, previous experiences of being misunderstood. The behaviour we encounter now is only the visible edge of something already underway. A head on a desk does not inherently mean disengagement. Silence does not inherently mean refusal. The surface does not tell us what produced it. Yet schools are increasingly being organised as though context were expendable. Larger classes, fewer special education teachers, overloaded caseloads, disappearing Learning Centres, brief push-in services—and then we call the resulting arrangement inclusion. Full inclusion may be presented as pedagogical progress, but increasingly there is an economic reality beneath it: there simply are not enough qualified people to provide the structures we once provided. The terrible contradiction is that we are requiring children to become more context-independent at precisely the moment institutions are becoming less willing or able to provide context. Perhaps that is also why my own Level 2 diagnosis can appear contradictory from the outside. People can hear me speak for thirty minutes, read what I write, watch me teach mathematics, and reasonably wonder where requiring substantial support for language could possibly be hiding. But perhaps they are looking for support in the wrong place. The support is not necessarily another person standing beside me helping me form a sentence. It is everything that has to become sufficiently organised for language like this to become available—the scripts, histories, searchable information, routines, relationships, technologies, and relational fields that allow the whole to resolve. The fluency is real. So is the infrastructure beneath it. The AutSide is a reader-supported publication. To support my work, consider becoming a paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit autside.substack.com/subscribe

    Sunday Mornings with Jaime & Cathy: Field Report from the First Weeks of School
  7. Aug 16

    Sunday Mornings with Jaime & Cathy: Who Holds the Classroom?

    The first days of school build more than routines. They build the relational field that determines who feels safe, what meaning can accumulate, whether an IEP can travel, and what students and teachers can access. This week’s Sunday Mornings with Jaime & Cathy begins with something apparently mundane: my iPhone informing me that school has started because I am suddenly walking 2.8 miles a day and climbing eight flights of stairs. But underneath that logistical change is a much larger one. For the first time, I am working entirely as a push-in RSP teacher, without the Developmental Maths Learning Centre that previously gave my students and me a stable relational home. I am entering other teachers’ classrooms, learning new territories, new expectations, and new relationships—and I realised sometime during the week that I am at Stage 0. I do not yet have scripts for this. I am beginning again. That experience changed how I watched the first days of school unfold. We tend to think those opening days are about procedures, expectations, bathroom passes, phones, grading, and where everyone sits. But students are also reading the relational field: Does this teacher see me? Can I be confused here? Who gets protected? Who gets believed? What happens when somebody gets something wrong? In August, the classroom has almost no accumulated history, so every interaction carries enormous architectural weight. A teacher learning a student’s name is data. Ignoring cruelty is data. Receiving help without humiliation is data. The field is being built from tiny samples—and that field will shape what students can subsequently make available for learning. Then the question turned around on me, because I realised that I am reading those classrooms too. Some teachers immediately create a shared field: we are teachers, these are our students, and the IEP is part of how we think about instruction. In other rooms, the RSP teacher may be physically admitted whilst her function is effectively foreclosed—come in, help the student, but do not alter the lesson, pacing, or existing architecture. That exposes a problem with how we sometimes understand push-in special education. Proximity is not a relational field. Minutes in a room do not necessarily produce specialised instruction, continuity, or access. The deeper question is whether the classroom itself can hold the IEP—whether what we know about a student can leave the PDF, enter third period, survive Tuesday, and still change what happens on Friday. There is another layer to that field for me. I am a trans woman entering other adults’ classrooms, and there are colleagues who will not use my pronouns or with whom I cannot assume that my humanity will be recognised. So I find myself asking some of the same questions students are asking: Am I safe here? Will this person protect my dignity? How much cognitive capacity must I spend monitoring myself rather than teaching? That matters because relational safety is not something teachers dispense to students from outside the system. We are all inside the field. Power is distributed unequally, but everyone’s capacity is affected by what that field requires them to carry. A student monitoring for humiliation is spending attention that cannot simultaneously go towards algebra; an RSP teacher negotiating whether she is permitted to perform her role is spending capacity that cannot simultaneously go towards instruction. So the question I am carrying into this school year is no longer simply, How do I become good at push-in? It is: How do I make the field portable? How do I bring enough relational continuity with me that Wednesday is still present when I sit beside a student on Thursday, even though we are now in somebody else’s room? Losing my classroom made me realise that I had partly mistaken the room for the field. The room helped cultivate it, but the field was always the accumulated history of recognition, trust, repair, expectation, and meaning. Inclusion does not happen merely because the door opens. Understanding is not complete because the words arrived. The field has to be able to change, and that change has to accumulate—because tomorrow must inherit something from today. Children cannot build an education entirely out of beginnings. Neither can teachers. The AutSide is a reader-supported publication. To support my work, consider becoming a paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit autside.substack.com/subscribe

  8. Aug 14

    The Whole of It: Autistic Capacity Is Relational

    What if autistic capacity does not reside entirely inside the person? A conversation about gestalt processing, language, relationship, assessment, employment, and the conditions that make what we can do available. I have spent much of this summer following what initially appeared to be several different questions. On AutSide, The Absent Field became an inquiry into the conditions surrounding autistic capacity—schools, assessment, employment, clinical encounters, relationships, and the peculiar confidence with which institutions observe what happens under one set of conditions and convert that observation into a statement about the person. On Sensual Residue, The Architecture of Fracture followed the same territory from somewhere much closer to the body: what happens to language when relationship changes, when generativity becomes expensive, when something I can ordinarily do remains possible yet ceases to be reliably available. Eventually, I realised that these were two views of the same landscape. This conversation is the whole of that landscape expanded. Gestalt language development gave me the architecture through which I could begin seeing it: stored language becoming transferable, transferable language becoming generative, and increasingly complex language requiring something to be assembled now, with this person, under these conditions. Once I began asking what generativity requires, the question escaped language development almost immediately. An employment interview asks for generativity under uncertainty and evaluation. A classroom asks a student to demonstrate knowledge under particular arrangements of time, sensory demand, relationship, and power. A clinical assessment does the same. Change those conditions and sometimes what appears to be the person’s capacity changes with them. That creates a methodological problem before it creates an explanatory one. The distinction I keep returning to is possible, available, dependable. Something may be possible without being available at a particular moment; something may become available under particular conditions without becoming dependable across them. That distinction has enormous consequences for how we understand autistic people because so many of our systems quietly collapse all three into can. Can she speak? Can she work? Can she maintain a relationship? Can she demonstrate what she knows? Can she cope? The question sounds as though it belongs entirely to her. Yet the moment changing the room changes the answer, the room becomes part of the phenomenon we are trying to understand. That is the larger gestalt connecting these two bodies of work. The Absent Field takes the outside view: what happens when institutions treat the conditions surrounding autistic performance as empty space and locate every observed difficulty inside the autistic person. The Architecture of Fracture takes the companion view from inside: what happens when the relational field itself changes and capacities that remain mine become harder to reach, sustain, or carry between encounters. This conversation holds both orientations together. It asks what becomes visible when we stop treating context as background and begin examining the relation itself—person and condition, capacity and availability, language and the circumstances under which language is being asked to become. The question underneath all of it is therefore larger than whether an autistic person can do something. It is what happens when we finally include the field in our account of the person. That shift changes how I understand language, masking, assessment, employment, education, relationships, and parts of my own history. It also changes where responsibility can be located. There is an enormous industry devoted to teaching autistic people how to perform more successfully in systems built to measure them under hostile or inaccessible conditions. I find myself increasingly interested in something upstream of that work. I am interested in the door. I am interested in the room. And I am interested in what becomes possible when the conditions surrounding autistic capacity cease to be treated as empty space. The AutSide is a reader-supported publication. To support my work, consider becoming a paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit autside.substack.com/subscribe

3.6
out of 5
7 Ratings

About

AutSide: A podcast from an autistic trans woman that explores critical issues at the intersection of autism, neurodiversity, gender, and social justice. Dive deep into the realities of living as an autistic adult, critiques of education systems, and the power of storytelling to reshape public narratives. With a unique blend of snark, sharp analysis, and personal experience, each episode challenges societal norms, from the failures of standardized testing to the complexities of identity and revolution. Join the conversation on AutSide, where lived experience and critical theory meet for change. autside.substack.com

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