Labels.
I feel like I should start with an introduction, so you know that I am a real, true, existing person, and not some straw person to further an agenda.
Hello. My name is Atlas Etienne. I am 23 years old. My pronouns are they/them. I’m a junior at the University of Michigan. I am also disabled, neurodivergent, queer, fat, a non-traditional student, the child of an immigrant, and many, many other things. I’m also a musician, a writer, an amateur activist, a video game enthusiast, a sibling, my parents’ child, and more. What do these labels tell you about me? Well, some of those labels tell you what to call me, but they dramatically oversimplify my overall experience. Some of these things are obvious to the people who walk past me every day on campus. Some of these things surprise my friends.
Do these labels tell you that much?
No. So let’s get onto the story, about labels that can help you understand who I am. I was born at the tender age of— Oh, we’re not doing that? Alright. Let’s talk about my disabilities. I have seen people accuse others of faking their disabilities... because they have more than one. Some neurotypical and/or able-bodied people don’t always understand that disabilities come in bulk; some show up at the same time, and others come as a result of a pre-existing condition. For example, I’m autistic with ADHD. These are neurodevelopmental, so I was born with both. I don’t know if my generalized anxiety disorder and germaphobia came with those two, or if they showed up later, like the depressive episodes, complex trauma, and chronic pain. Surprise! They had a buy-two-get-17-free sale when I was shopping, and I took full advantage of the bargain. That was a joke, in case you couldn’t tell.
I was labeled “gifted” when I was five, which is funny, because I could read, write, and do math at an early third grade level, but I wasn’t solid on tying my shoes, and I had to be taught how to bounce a ball. Anyone around my age can tell you that if your first “different” label was “gifted,” it meant one thing for sure– nobody was going to diagnose any of your ongoing issues until you figured out what they were.
Looking back, I can see clear evidence of Autism and ADHD. I had texture sensitivities. I could walk past a room and hear when an electronic was on even if it was muted. I had no clue how to socialize. I was the most gullible person to ever exist. This, of course, led to a lot of problems. Being desperate for friends meant I ended up with some very terrible friendships, including an abusive friendship that left me with chronic pain and a lot of issues.
The internet was, for me, what it was for many other disabled or neurodivergent kids: a refuge where you could make friends by interest instead of by appearance and region. It was a resource I got really good at using for figuring out the problems my doctor wouldn’t listen to, at the time. It was where I learned about myself, and found the information I needed to understand myself. The internet helped me gain some confidence, even though I still struggle with keeping that confidence. Once I had answers, the internet helped me find resources to work on what my ADHD medication wouldn’t fix, accept the fact that I’m autistic, and find some stretches for my chronic pain. I joined groups, communities, and other similar spaces specific to my disabilities, and got to interact with other people who had similar identities and struggles. My labels helped me find those communities.
The internet helped me prepare to transfer to the University of Michigan. I’m nearing the end of my first semester at the university, and I wish I could say that it’s been perfect, but nothing ever is. I have found clubs for neurodivergent students, and I attend meetings for one of them every week, which has done a lot for me. It’s a place where I feel accepted. I can stim freely. Plus, since most of us have other disabilities as well, I found acceptance for more than one of my issues in that space. My teachers are understanding of my differences. At the same time, orientation was a nightmare for me, and I still occasionally feel judged by my classmates. But I have hope because I feel that I can help people understand my experiences.
I hope that the student organization I attend (and others like it) will help other neurodivergent students to feel more accepted and understood on campus. I hope our advocacy and activism, however big or small, will lead to better spaces and resources on campus for neurodivergent students and staff. I hope my in-depth review of my orientation experience, of being left behind by two separate orientation groups because I walk slowly and have to take breaks, will help future chronically ill incoming students. I would like to believe that one voice can make a difference, but even if it can’t, I know I’m not the only one. I’m not the only person who notices inaccessibility. I do believe that the University of Michigan is doing the best it can with its current knowledge and resources, but the people in charge need to know what’s going on for them to have any chance of fixing it.
To end on a more positive note, let me give you a recap of the last club meeting I attended, so you can understand what autistic student culture means to me.
The room that was reserved didn’t have tables, but floor time is good for autistic people anyway. I said, “Floor Time!”1 Others repeated me. A few meetings ago, I brought a bulk pack of Boink fidgets and a bulk pack of snap-and-click fidgets to the club meeting, and have had the remainder in my backpack ever since. I pulled them out again. Most of the relatively-small group played a board game, while I and two others sat around flinging Boink fidgets across the room and talked about life, our interests, and whatever highlights or complaints we had from class that week. When the first board game was done, some of the players swapped out. Now there were four of us who chose not to play, sitting around talking about whatever came to mind.
We stim freely. We infodump without embarrassment. We have rules to avoid certain topics, but otherwise, we’re free to talk about almost anything. And we happily show up as often as we can, because it’s fun to be in a space with people who understand you. So when I think about disability culture, whether I think about neurodiversity, mental illness, physical ability, or any similar topic, I guess what I think about most is the feeling of being understood. I’ve only ever felt that at home before. And that’s what my labels mean to me. My labels represent identities, many of which aren’t well-understood by other people. And that’s okay, because my voice gives me the power to help others understand. I use my labels to find community, but I also use them to build bridges and create understanding.
People have often asked me why I cling to my labels. I suppose those of us who are chronically online would like to consider them closer to “tags” on a post. I have these labels so that the right people can find me, and so I can find the right people and resources for me.
This is a bit of community knowledge that is widely discussed amongst Autistic people, but can be hard to find information on. Here’s one essay: https://thinkingautismguide.com/2016/04/when-chairs-are-enemy.html
by Atlas Etienne (they/them)
Image description: Atlas is a young light-skinned feminine person with mid-length hair that is brown at the top and blue near the ends. They are wearing glasses and a gray shirt with black stripes. They are smiling at the camera.
Atlas Etienne (they/them) is a Junior at the University of Michigan. They were born and raised in Miami, Florida, and are passionate about music, writing, and social justice. When they're not dedicating all their waking hours to schoolwork, they enjoy spending time with their friends, family, and their partner, Ryn.