The Cure Mentality

How often do you hear it?
The cry as intense as a congregation to their preacher,
A message mixed into every other fundraising campaign,
Pamphlet,
Shout out for research-grants
And every attempt to appeal to the quick fix dreams of those
Who are disadvantaged.

We need a cure!
A cure for autism!A cure to help those totally abnormal kids become normal.
A cure against nature,
If they invented one for polio why can’t they invent one for this?
And how many…
How many…
How many people
Flock to this calling?
There are a couple of things
I would want to know first,
Before I jumped on this ill-conceived band-wagon.
What exactly is it that is being cured?
The spectrum of autism has grown exponentially
Periodically
What you would have called quirky in the 60s is now autistic
Introverted is now Aspergers
Quiet now antisocial,
Neuro-typical is now A-typical
Anyone who makes their way to a psych-evaluation will be evaluated as
having 1-3 disorders because those in that profession are trained to see
What they expect to see
And I want to know how you find a cure
For a line in the sand
Arbitrarily drawn by who knows who
From who knows where
And how do you expect to ever cure
What it is you can’t even define?
But despite this all, I do I agree
We do need a cure.
We need a cure for ignorance,
Ignorance by those who would presume to make decisions for an entire
population without being educated as to their needs.
We need a cure for labels
The notion that one characteristic of a personality means one is disabled.
We need a cure for the viewpoint
That those who don’t do as well in the artificial construct of a culture with
arbitrary rules and regulations are somehow inferior.
We need a cure, for the lack of compassion.
We need a cure for the concept that a cure is the answer--The notion that the
next new pill, the daring new breakthrough will some how bring an answer
Simple-wrapped in a box that will take this burden off our shoulders
because humans have been burdened since the dawn of time
And humans have been waiting for an easy solution
And humans have invented everything that could be imagined or couldn’t be
imagined
And now they have everything that they always said they always wanted
And still manage to find a way to be miserable
And blame the person to the left or the right
for why things aren’t just fine and dandy.
We still haven’t cured the sick
We still haven’t fed the hungry
We still haven’t used our shiny little tools to bring happiness.
Why play doctor
Why imagine ailments in people
Why try to practice medicine
When you don’t even understand the concept of disease
If we are all so concerned about making a strong lasting
Mentally healthy society
Why don’t we start focusing on our own
mental
physical
and spiritual Health
first.___________________________________________________________________

This was published in Perspectives, Poetry Concerning Autism and Other Disabilities Volume 2.
www.perspectivesanthology.com

Deficit Attention Disorder

This is my second poem in the first Perspectives, Poetry Concerning Autism and Other Disabilities Anthology.

www.perspectivesanthology.com

www.localgemspoetrypress.com

 

________________________________________________________

You say I have a disorder that constitutes a deficit of attention,
I appear, unable to stare,
for countless hours
forcing my focus on the frivolous frustrating formulas floundering before me,
on the black board.
Can’t do it without, shaking the leg,
bobbing the head,
looking around aimlessly,
My disorder constitutes a deficit of attention?
Perhaps the deficit is in what you would have me be paying attention to?
Biologically speaking,

omnivores have carnivorous tendencies,
like a cat shoots after a mouse
or a mole,
or a bird,
darting by faster than eyes can register.
What if those adolescent young men who make up the majority of the diagnosed
are just in conflict with their
personal primal personas?
Calling them beyond the classroom window into the no longer existing wild,
itching to move,
run,
chase and catch the quarry fleeing before them.
The leg, shaking,
the head, bobbing,
body moving,
the pent up, unused energy nature intended for us to use to spring out,
obtain and bring back our catch to the clan.
Your contradicting class room etiquette,
rules designed for simplicity of the structure rather than the welfare of the students is no match for mother nature.
And mother nature tells me,
I want to be outside…
That the answer is out there!

Not on your blackboard.

That’s one possibility, for the lack of attention.
Maybe…it’s your boring monotone,
your pitiful pedantic postulations presuming to judge a mind
on a number

that has lost our interest.
Or the fact you have us memorizing minute miniscule details
micro and macro
learning not for knowledge sake,
but to not fudge the statistics
on the tests decreed to be handed down to us by who gives a crap from
who the heck even knows land?
Now that,
could lose anyone’s interest.
But of course, that’s where our focus should be right?
not outside, at why the temperature is changing,
or looking at the oil spills.
Not at the billions
going hungry,
or the countless people below the poverty line, right here in our backyards.
Not at the fact that more than two and a half million people are incarcerated in the land
of the free,
Or that people are too afraid of lawsuits to help each other in the home
of the brave,
Not at the hunger or hatred,
the unemployment,
the pollution,
or the war.
Not at everything happening right here, right now, under our noses,
all of it going by, unnoticed and ignored,
for staring at the board 8 hours a day,
or at the computer screens in the cubicles, focused in on a single solitary
task with all the focus in the world,
ignorant of what’s going on out there in the real world,
and we,
the ones with A.D.D.
are the ones not paying attention? You say, I have a disorder constituting a deficit of attention.
Well, maybe, just maybe
the deficit, is in what you would have me, be paying attention to.

 

His Disability

This poem is the one that inspired the Perspectives Series.
www.perspectivesanthology.com


It started out as a letter to my former best friend's mother, and eventually turned into this. As always, it is for you, Matt.

_______________________________________________________________
His Disability
by
James P. Wagner (Ishwa)


His disability was your excuse.
His disability
was why you did everything for him,
after his father left.
Woke him up,
Made his bed,
Breakfast, lunch and dinner.
Did his laundry,
ironed his clothes.
Cleaned, scrubbed,
took a second job so he wouldn’t have to work one,
even though he’s 24 and you’re 65.

But he can’t work, right?
He can’t clean, he can’t do his laundry,
he can’t cook…
“He’s autistic! What do you expect?!”

What do I expect?
I don’t expect anything,
but I remember:

I remember him, in the marching band,
playing that trombone with more enthusiasm
than more than half of his fellow musicians.

I remember his dramatic readings,
in English class.
Iambic pentameter flowing out of his mouth as
naturally as each breath.

I remember, in history, he never forgot a date, could
name all the presidents backwards.
In science class…they might not have let him handle the
chemicals anymore,
after that…unfortunate incident with the eyebrows,
BUT…he has the entire periodic table memorized.
Gym!!
When he got hold of the football,
everyone,
myself included,
parted like the Red Sea
for Moses.
No one wanted to mess,
we all stood out of the way, of THAT charge.

I remember his room, spotless.
I remember him cleaning, taking the garbage.
I remember him making his own dinner.
I remember him…being, social…as best as he could.

I remember
early in eighth grade, when he did something wrong, you’d punish him.
I remember later on in eighth grade…the punishments
stopped.
I remember in the middle of eighth grade,
When he would hum to himself,
and twiddle his fingers non-stop, and not realize,
when the other kids were making fun of him for it.
I remember they, the teachers, couldn’t handle
that he couldn’t sit down
for the entire period.

I remember
that they were clueless concerning him, and when it came time for a convenient classification, a consistently
competent yet callous teacher aid uttered the possibility
“Maybe he’s on the spectrum.”

His disability, you say,
you proclaim…

Was his disability the reason
he could calculate faster and in higher denominations than
our TI-83’s?
Was his disability what put him on the honor roll,
was his disability what got him more scholarships to more
colleges than our graduating class’s valedictorian?

Free tuition,
free dorm room,
Meal plan, books, all bought and paid for in a package fit
for a king,
before he set foot there, only so you could tell him,
“It’s ok, you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,
you can drop out.”

So he did:
his disability.
So now, he sits in his room,
all day long,
and you make his bed,
breakfast, lunch dinner,
wash his clothes,
clean the bathroom after him,
while he
does
NOTHING.

Gaining fat, gaining weight,
on the computer,
video games, 24/7
No friends to speak of,
No responsibility, productivity,

Life to call his own?
What happens to him
when you’re gone?
Now that you’ve taken off his gloves,
taken him out of the ring,
his muscles have atrophied,
no longer able to go ten rounds, with life.

Will he relearn all that you made him forget?
Or will it be KO in round one?
I don’t know,
but don’t talk to me
about his disability
because I remember
what I didn’t stop him from doing.

His disability,
you exclaim,
his disability.
Disability defined as what gives one a disadvantage.

His disability.
His disability.
His disability…is…you.