[Note: This is prose-poetry.]
I’m not going to lie when I say that I don’t know what to say, that I’ve recycled all my words for autism acceptance and neurodiversity until I have nearly nothing left to say
and I know remixing scripts is very autistic, echolalia and pallilalia and all the little things we do when we say anything, whether spoken or movement or using AAC devices.
Maybe I know. Maybe I know. Maybe I know there’s always something left to say, always an argument worth having, a blog post worth writing, an action worth taking.
Maybe I have my own reasons for not always having something to say, having that argument, writing that blog post, taking that action.
I have always loved this community for its rich complexity, despite all its all flaws and imperfections, its exclusions and inclusions and its failures to do justice by swaths of us, but sometimes its championing of all of us and trying to do better.
For all the pride that lights up screens across the globe. How we have worked to take what wasn’t for us and tried to make it for all of us.
I have, often, nearly nothing left to say. Maybe I know. Maybe I know. Maybe I know that I don’t always have something to say, have to have that argument, write that blog post, take that action. I know I have always loved this community and sometimes that means
nearly nothing left to say.