Julia Bascom juststimming.wordpress.com Our Story: The Loud Hands Project is a publishing effort by the Autistic Self Advocacy Network. Currently, we are raising money towards the creation of our first and foundational anthology (Loud Hands: Autistic People, Speaking) and accompanying website. Loud Hands: Autistic People, Speaking features essays, long and short, by Autistic authors writing on autism acceptance, neurodiversity, Autistic pride and culture, disability rights and resistance, and resilience (known collectively by the community as having loud hands). Questions posed to the contributors might include what does autism mean to you; why does Autistic culture matter; what do you wish you had known growing up Autistic; how can the Autistic community cultivate resilience; what does “loud hands” mean to you; and how do you have loud hands? The anthology is the first of a projected series featuring contributions from Autistic writers stressing the preservation and celebration of Autistic culture and…
Tag: Julia Bascom
The holidays are upon us, and that means hanging with folks who might need a nudge or a gentle reminder about holiday kindness and accommodation for autistic kids and adults, on being nice about understanding autistic behaviors versus assuming naughtiness. One thing we’ll be seeing in our house as my son adjusts to an atypical schedule is stimming. Lots of stimming. Some of Leo’s stimming needs redirecting, but most of it is functional and self-soothing. Our friends and family get why Leo stims and what he needs, they have his back; Leo will be fine, we’ll be fine. But if you or your child need stimming functionality backup or want to help understand why stimming doesn’t just matter but can be very necessary, I suggest citing Zoe’s About Stimming, or Julia Bascom’s The Obsessive Joy of Autism. Or, you could just sing folks this song, which I came up with…
Julia Bascom juststimming.wordpress.com Explaining my reaction to this: means I need to explain my history with this: 1. When I was a little girl, they held my hands down in tacky glue while I cried. 2. I’m a lot bigger than them now. Walking down a hall to a meeting, my hand flies out to feel the texture on the wall as I pass by. “Quiet hands,” I whisper. My hand falls to my side. 3. When I was six years old, people who were much bigger than me with loud echoing voices held my hands down in textures that hurt worse than my broken wrist while I cried and begged and pleaded and screamed. 4. In a classroom of language-impaired kids, the most common phrase is a metaphor. “Quiet hands!” A student pushes at a piece of paper, flaps their hands, stacks their fingers against their palm, pokes at…