"Positive psychoeducation" and ableism in academia

There has been quite a lot of discussion in academia recently about using “positive psychoeducation” to address the mental health crisis in students. The most headline-grabbing example of this is a module, offered at the University of Bristol, entitled ‘The Science of Happiness’. Here’s a video about it.

This clearly has a basis in solid psychological research and is delivered in a novel way which has demonstrably benefitted many of the students who have taken part. The science of happiness is also an intrinsically interesting topic that is relevant to a wide range of disciplines so, on the face of it, this would seem to be a welcome contribution. Surely, anything which improves student wellbeing has to be a good idea, right?

When this first came to my attention, alarm bells instantly rang. What would an autistic experience of this module be like? As I investigated further, I realised that my instincts were correct. This doesn’t just present autistic people with some challenges: it is actively ableist in a way which I am sure the authors do not intend. Let me explain.

The research which underpins the course is described in Hood, B, Jelbert, S., and Santos, L. R., ‘Benefits of a psychoeducational happiness course on university student mental well-being both before and during a COVID-19 lockdown’, Health Psychology Open January-June 2021: 1–12. This sets out both the evidence for benefits, which are significant, and the contents of the module itself. No mention is made of diversity in the paper and when it refers to a “university student”, it obviously means any university student. In other words, this is a ‘one-size-fits-all’ solution. We learn that:

“[…] in order to earn course credit, students had to participate in weekly ‘happiness hubs’ (maximum of 11 meetings total) which were led by a postgraduate student or senior psychology student mentor. During these ‘happiness hub’ meetings, students were encouraged to discuss the course content and to take part in a series of positive psychology interventions (PPIs). […] These interventions involved (1) performing acts of kindness (2) forming social connections (3) savouring an experience, (4) increased exercise, (5) trying to achieve several nights of at least 7 hours sleep, (6) meditation and (7) writing a gratitude letter. […]”.

I’m going to criticise this from an autistic perspective, but I think what I have to say also applies to other disabilities. As a person with Ménière’s, I can see several obstacles to achieving ‘happiness’ in this list. But let’s focus on autism.

Both “(1) performing acts of kindness” and “(2) forming social connections” immediately present a serious problem. The standard diagnostic criteria for autism refer to “deficits in social communication”. I dislike “deficit” language, so I would phrase that differently, but the point remains that social interaction is one of the most challenging areas for autistic people. I cannot imagine approaching a stranger to perform an act of “kindness” (what might that be?) or randomly strike up a conversation. That would take a lot of spoons and most likely be unsatisfactory or even dangerous.

“(3) Savouring an experience” and “(6) meditation” involve opening oneself up to sensory overload. In some circumstances, this may be possible or even desirable, but it would need very careful management. If done wrong, the damage could be considerable. Speaking personally, I find ‘mindfulness’ close to torture. I spend a lot of time and effort trying to avoid mindfulness!

“(5) Trying to achieve several nights of at least 7 hours sleep”. There has been a lot of research into the problems that autistic people have with sleep. The National Autistic Society has published some guidance about this. Obviously, it would be beneficial if everybody could get a good night’s sleep, but we should be realistic about what is possible. Making this a required component of an academic course is more likely to disrupt autistic sleep than encourage it.

“(4) increased exercise” seems relatively uncontroversial, inasmuch as increased exercise is likely to bring health benefits to any human being. Even so, this may not be straightforward. The point is that the many benefits of exercise for autistic people are not exactly the same as those for neurotypical people. This is another aspect of the module that would require careful monitoring, especially if it involves changing routines.

“(7) writing a gratitude letter”. Well, this may be beneficial to both writer and recipient, but I know that I would find it difficult to write such a letter unless I had a clear reason to be grateful. I would need to understand the social conventions of such a letter. My belief is that you write a gratitude letter when somebody sends you a gift. Beyond that, there seems to be no social convention for writing one, unless you feel a sudden surge of gratitude for some reason. This is unclear and could become quite a stumbling-block.

Overall then, it is the normalising conception of what the students are required to do that is ableist. The proposition is that an autistic person should do what they find most difficult, even impossible, in order to achieve happiness, just because neurotypical people find these things pleasant and easy. The requirement to achieve normalised happiness is likely to have severely negative repercussions. If autistic people are given an opt-out, then that is problematic too, because it will look like they are unable to achieve happiness at all.

What could be done instead? How about a module that is based on autistic joy? One that actively encourages specific interests. That allows for repetition and embraces stimming. That accepts social isolation and non-standard communication. That removes barriers such as the need to use body language. That develops sensory spaces that autistic people find pleasant. That addresses anxiety by observing and analysing its causes. That reduces demand and translates autistic neurology so that neurotypicals may understand. That accepts autism as a reality rather than problematising it.

Universities are full of autistic staff and students. It is high time that this group be  properly included when developing new approaches to wellbeing.

Emerging from lockdown

A year in lockdown has affected everyone in ways which will only become fully apparent over time. There are the immediately obvious issues of mental and physical health, loneliness and grief, which are a sharp reality for many. But beyond those is a profound change in every aspect of human society and culture. Returning to ‘normal’ is not only undesirable, it is actually impossible.

From my autistic perspective, one of the biggest changes has to do with ‘masking’, that is: performing or presenting as neurotypical in order to fit into society. I learned to do this as a child and have been doing it ever since, to the point that it is impossible for me to remove ‘the mask’ because I do not understand where it begins and ends. Most of the time, I pass as assured and socially capable. People never see the mask, which is a sign of just how well I have learned to wear it.

Since being professionally identified in 2018, a few close friends/family have commented that I seem to be acting more autistic. This is a complicated thing to unpick, not least because I don’t feel my behaviour has changed much, if at all. It may be that their awareness of the diagnosis makes them see things in me that they did not notice before, or it may be that having acknowledged my autism I am now trying less hard to appear non-autistic, or it may actually be that I am indeed ‘acting more autistic’ or performing my autism in the same way that I used to perform neurotypicality. Probably it’s a combination of all three. 

But this is where the lockdown has had an effect. A year of interacting face to face with very few people is making me forget how to do it. I am losing confidence in my ability to behave appropriately. I have a strong suspicion that, when I do start returning to the neurotypical world, people will notice a difference, not because I am ‘acting more autistic’ but because I am not acting so non-autistic. Eye contact, for example, was something that I did with relative ease before lockdown. Now I am finding it harder to do again, in a way which harks back to childhood. Similarly, my ability to read facial expressions has been  compromised both by online interaction and by the wearing of physical masks. When I observe body language on TV or in the street, I am once again starting to struggle with deciphering what it means.

There have been occasions recently where I have been very aware of echoing back to people the way they are talking to me. It’s something I have always done. In the past, once I have felt confident enough with the person, I can move out of that mode and even redirect the interaction somewhat. But now I have forgotten that skill and will probably come across in ways that are not ideal, just because I am reflecting back the mannerisms of my interlocutor.

It’s not that lockdown is making me more autistic. Autism is a steady-state kind of thing. It’s just that masking requires constant practice and I have always had plenty of opportunities for that over the years. The university recently sent me a request to come to campus when lockdown ends, in order to show prospective students and their parents around our splendid new computer labs. I have to admit I find that prospect very daunting. I am getting anxious about my ability to cope in that kind of social situation. I think I need some less ‘mission-critical’ practice before I start re-engaging with the world in that way.

In ten days from now my second vaccination (which happened last Saturday) will have given me full protection. Covid is at a low level locally, so there is really nothing to stop me re-emerging into the world. But I am unsure about it. I think some limited forays will be a first step. Perhaps a visit to the office for an hour, maybe with a coffee thrown in, to get familiar again with that environment. Some low-anxiety social interactions with trusted colleagues too. 

During lockdown I have barely been out of the house. I have only visited the chemist once a month to collect my prescription and, on fewer than five occasions, I have gone to the Co-op to buy one or two items. I have always had a shopping list and have entered and exited as quickly as possible. Although the pubs have reopened, at least outside, I have avoided going back there, even though I do enjoy a pint. I have even become reluctant to consider moving house, something that actually would be a good thing because the present place is inadequate in many respects. I think I want to protect myself from the world. I know this has to change, but the anxieties of doing so are considerable.

Designing autistic spaces

One thing that my identification/diagnosis has revealed to me is my mostly unwitting role in designing autistic (or, more precisely, autism-friendly) spaces.

During my academic career, I have often been in the fortunate position of being asked to create spaces. On every occasion, I have been the Director of a Centre or an Institute, or the holder of a large capital grant that has given me the right to dictate how the space should be designed. To give some examples, I have built: two recording studios, a multidisciplinary research lab, a performing arts space, a usability lab, and an enormous institute full of digital technology and experimental equipment. Furthermore, I have frequently been asked to advise on the construction and design of spaces outside the university. Back in 2009, for example, I designed a digital gallery/workspace in a local arts centre, and I have recently been consulted on the design of a laboratory in a science park. 

Now, I should stress that I have no qualifications for building and designing spaces. However, I do have some quite strong opinions about how it should be done and since I was “in charge” in these situations, I took some key decisions. What I now realise is that every one of those decisions arose directly from my autism. Of course, I had no idea at the time what was going on!

In my life, I have always navigated the world by trying to find autism-friendly spaces. So, for example, on arriving in an airport, the first thing I would do is to seek out the multi-faith room. This is generally a quiet space with low-level lighting and low stimulus colours, often wood. It would have a transient population, so there was no real danger of unwanted social interaction (unlike churches, where there is always someone who wants to chat). As a child, at school, I created a “war gaming club”, which had only two members. The reason was that I could then take occupancy of a basement room that was otherwise unused. After a time, it became apparent to the other member that this was really about something other than “war gaming”, so he left. I had a silent room all to myself. There are many more such examples. 

When designing spaces in universities, or elsewhere, my main priority was to control the environment and especially the sound and lighting. All my spaces had the kind of sound-proofing that would be used in noisy industrial spaces. In other words, they were as close to silent as I could get, whether they were recording spaces or not. The colours would be simple - a white, or a pale blue - and uniform. This would extend to the ceiling and even the floor, but with differences in shade or texture making it clear where the boundaries were. This is important for me, because my proprioception requires location points to be able to function. Lighting would be LED and not fluorescent. As with many autistic people, I can see the flickering of fluorescent tubes and find it very disturbing. There would be no irregular patterns, no asymmetrical features, no irrelevant “features”. The spaces needed to be predictable and functionally elegant. They also had to be flexible and have technology built in, including silent air conditioning to remove any smells (again, my autism means that I have always found certain smells intolerable) and moderate the environment to a steady temperature. 

Now, when I look at the BBC’s Sensory Environment Checklist https://bbc.github.io/uxd-cognitive/ I see that these spaces of mine all conformed to those standards. I used them for my personal wellbeing, but what was interesting was how much neurotypical people also liked them. It is often that way: the environmental changes that suit autistic people also suit neurotypicals. Luke Beardon wrote: autism + environment = outcome. I now understand that I have somehow been aware of that formula all my life. 

Most recently, a local media/arts centre started talking to me about extending a space that I had designed back in 2009. This is a digital gallery. It is set off from the main area by a corridor, so many people do not go into it. I created a beautiful autism-friendly environment in complete contrast to the bright, buzzy café nearby. It has a floating floor, silent aircon, LED lights, and buff walls that can easily be repainted. Over the years it has hosted many superb exhibitions and installations and the directors of the centre obviously assumed that its purpose was solely digital art. Little did they, or I, realise that it is also a space for autistic people to retreat to when they arrive at the centre. Interestingly, they are now asking my advice once again about how to extend it. This time they are talking to me not because of my academic position or expertise in digital arts so much as my identity as an autistic man. I’ve been very frank with them about the purpose of the space, how it could attract a new autistic audience, what is required of the extension to make its dual purpose clear. We’ll see what actually emerges, but it is a sign of how far we have come that such things are now being openly discussed and in a most positive way.

Looking back on lockdown

Over a year of lockdown has passed, so I thought it would be interesting to reflect on my experiences from an autistic perspective. Needless to say, these are only my experiences. I do not speak for all autistic people, many of whom have had a very different time, as I well know.

There are many things I like about lockdown. It has made me realise just how challenging it has been to travel into work each day, for example. The sensory issues in commuting alone have drained me far more than I realise. I’ve got used now to ending the day with more spoons, which is a welcome relief. Some days I used to get home from work practically unable to speak or think, or I’d catch the wrong train and end up in Kettering, or some other disaster. Now I end the day tired but relaxed in a familiar environment, which is lovely.

This has meant that I can be somewhat more flexible about routines. Before lockdown, I would follow a very strict sequence of actions every morning in order to conserve spoons for when I arrived at work. So, the morning routine has included the same ordered sequence of washing and ablutions, dressing and eating, packing up my bag and leaving the house, every day for years. My main problem in lockdown has been that Frank Cooper’s Original marmalade, which I eat in Spring and Autumn (Fine Cut in Summer, and Vintage in Winter) seems to be completely unavailable. So I am eating Fine Cut out of season, which is a bit disturbing, but in the grand scheme of things not a major problem.

I generally find social interaction online preferable to face to face. It is entirely predictable and managed. There are no unstructured meetings or casual encounters. Whether it is a management meeting, a class, or just a “zoom coffee”, I know about it in advance. I enjoy that I don’t have to work at reading body language. Again, it has been lockdown that has made me realise how much effort that took every day. People often say that autistic people cannot read body language. I’m not sure that’s entirely true. I spend a large amount of time reading body language, because I understand that it is an important method of communication amongst neurotypicals. I’m not saying that I really understand it, but I am pretty good at spotting details and often notice things that others miss. It does require a lot of effort, though, so it is a great relief not to have to do it.

However, this absence introduces a new anxiety: have I now lost the skills to be able to decode body language and facial expressions? Those would take an enormous amount of work to rebuild. I have noticed that I am losing the ability to pretend not to be autistic. Now, many people will say that’s a good thing because masking is bad and we should be authentically ourselves. I would not disagree with that point of view, but the problem is that I then lose confidence in my ability to interact socially and start to become anxious about meeting people at all. Over the last few months I have started to get nervous before I meet someone. This is unusual for me and potentially a big problem in my line of work. 

There has been a major downside in interacting online with my students. They simply refuse to switch on their cameras, so I would not recognise any of them if I met them face to face. This is very strange. They know exactly what I look like, but to me they are just circles with initials inside. This creates quite a pressure on what will follow when we finally do meet. One other problem with online interaction is automated captions. Because of my hearing impairments, I do rely on these quite a lot. But the error rate is quite high and they can create as many barriers as they remove. An example of technology not being good enough for its intended purpose.

One benefit of all the extra energy I have saved up is that I have become much more active as an autistic advocate, both at work and in the world at large. Again, I think lockdown has contributed to that development. It has been easier to sign up for things, such as advising the NHS in Birmingham, or giving a presentation about my experiences to an EDI conference at Edinburgh University (both things in my calendar for this month) when I know that I don’t have to travel to a new place, meet people, etc.

My main anxiety at the moment is the end of lockdown. I really do not want it to end. I am not looking forward to going back onto campus with its chance encounters, random events and sensory challenges. My university’s campus is pretty typical. Every building is a mess of flickering fluorescent lights, asymmetrical patterning, haphazard “design”, high arousal colours, confusing signage, noisy spaces, drifting smells, bizarre heating, reflective surfaces, and so on and so on. On the plus side, my office is nice and quiet and hidden away, so I can be fairly surreptitious. If all the buildings were more autism-friendly it wouldn’t be so daunting, but I’m afraid they are pretty horrid. I’m trying to change that through my work on the disability action group, but it is not easy.

Overall, then, I find lockdown quite agreeable, and I am not aware of any negative impact on my mental health - quite the reverse, in fact. But I do have some anxieties and I am noticing some changes in myself. To what extent these will become a major problem remains to be seen. My survival bag, which would never leave my side before lockdown, has now been gathering dust in a corner for over a year. I am going to have to get it out soon and check that everything is fully charged up and up to date, from the noise-cancelling headphones to the personal air purifier, from the sunflower lanyard to the clip-on shades, and so many more bits and pieces that I use to make life tolerable. That will be a big moment!

Access Rider

 I have recently been asked to complete an Access Rider. This is an easy way to communicate your needs to colleagues, employers or organisations, especially in the arts. It was a very interesting exercise. I thought I would share mine with the wider community, in case people are preparing their own and are looking for examples. There are many other examples, along with a template and instructions here https://weareunlimited.org.uk/creating-your-own-access-rider/

Name

 

Andrew Hugill

 

Intro Paragraph

I am a composer, musicologist, and author. I'm a Professor at the University of Leicester, where I lead the Creative Computing programme. I frequently speak at international conferences and give public lectures.

 

I have three invisible disabilities which affect my work and life: 

1. autism (includes social and sensory issues, but no learning difficulties);

2. severe hearing loss (includes tinnitus and diplacusis);

3. balance disorder (Ménière's Disease).

 

I often find a typical concert or conference situation overwhelming. Foyers and registration areas, communal break-out spaces, anywhere with strip lighting, unclear signage, background music, unstructured social interactions, reflective surfaces, lots of information, and general hustle and bustle, can cause me to shut down or have a vertigo attack.

 

My Access Needs

I have divided my access needs into Essential and Desirable. Essential needs are those that are completely necessary for me to do anything at all. Desirable are those which I can manage without but which could have negative consequences for my spoons. See the supporting information for an explanation of spoon theory.

 

Essential

a.   I do not drive, but will travel on public transport.

b.   My dietary requirements are: gluten-free, low salt, no caffeine.

c.    I require disability support in airports.

d.   I cannot balance in the dark, so some kind of low-level lighting is always necessary.

e.   I need a dimly lit quiet space to retreat to at any venue (doesn't need to be anything special).

f.     I need occasional short breaks to avoid loss of spoons, and I cannot listen to music for long.

g.   Speakers at conferences and events must use microphones, or live captioning.

h.   I must avoid fluorescent lighting, irregular patterns on walls and floors, and spaces with too much information/bustle.

i.      I must avoid floral perfumes, air fresheners, and other artificial smells.

j.     I need captions on videos and in live conferencing.

k.    I follow routines, so need to be able to take lunch at 13.00, for example.

 

Desirable

a.   I prefer natural light and spaces with clear edges/corners.

b.   Please avoid shining lights directly into my eyes, especially when I'm speaking from a podium.

c.    I prefer to see in advance pictures or videos of the places I am going, to reduce anxiety.

d.   I prefer low-arousal room colours (see autism-friendly environments below).

e.   I like to have advance warning of any fire alarms or other unpredictable and loud events.

f.     I prefer there to be no applause (but I can quickly put on noise-cancelling headphones to mitigate this if necessary).

g.   I lip-read, so prefer to be able to see people's faces when videoconferencing.

h.   Free-flowing "networking" events are very difficult for me. I prefer one-to-one or private contact.

 

In general, the social model of disability applies to me very well. The environment disables me more often than my conditions. For that reason, my access needs focus a lot on environmental factors.

 

Emergency Information

In any emergency, please contact [redacted].

In the case of a vertigo attack, please do NOT call an ambulance. Provide a quiet, dimly lit place, with water and a receptacle for vomit, then leave me alone. 

In the case of a shutdown, please communicate simply and clearly. Again, find a quiet, dimly lit place and leave me to recover. 

Supporting Information

 

An article on Spoon Theory: 

https://butyoudontlooksick.com/articles/written-by-christine/the-spoon-theory/

 

An explanation of the social model of disability:

https://weareunlimited.org.uk/resource/the-social-model-of-disability/

 

A description of how to create an autism-friendly environment

https://livingautism.com/create-autism-friendly-environment/

 

 

 

Why I don't drive

 

Autistic people can be perfectly good drivers. Some recent research shows that they are, if anything, safer than non-autistic drivers (with thanks to @AnnMemmott). But I am one of those autistic people who chooses not to drive. The world is a better and safer place without me driving in it!

I was 26 years of age when it occurred to me that I should learn to drive. I had resisted it at a younger age, explaining away my objection as a deep dislike of cars. In fact, I had a problem with the whole idea of bodies in motion and not knowing exactly where the edges of things are.

By the time I reached my mid-20s, this became too hard a position to maintain, both to myself and others. I felt that everybody else was driving so I really should learn to do it too. This was a mistake.

I passed my test first-time without a problem. I am extremely good at following rules and giving the appearance of being in control of the situation. Driving seemed to be all about that. I learned the highway code, found out what was expected of me, and performed very well during the test. No problem, right? Wrong!

First there were the intrusive thoughts. Noticing details all the time. For example, as a passenger I had this habit of memorising number plates. Now as a driver, I was taking my eyes off the road to read the plates. The same went for the patina of paint on road surfaces, the alignment of painted lines, any text on any vehicle (hyperlexia), and a hundred and one other distractions. 

Then there was the perturbation created by rule-breaking. Any driver knows that you have to bend rules sometimes for safety’s sake. Some, even most, break rules just because they feel like it! I would notice every infringement but worse I was incapable of breaking rules myself. This was highly dangerous in some situations.

Next was getting overwhelmed at junctions. As I approached the junction, I would start to anticipate it by imagining the various other roads that intersect that junction. I would then imagine the roads connected to those roads and their junctions. And so on and so on until my brain was occupied by an entire map of the local road network. Meanwhile, I was not paying any attention to the vehicles around me.

Another problem was literal interpretations. For example, there used to be a sign at yellow-hatched crossroads that said “enter only when box is clear”. Now I know that that referred to the entire hatched area, but my mind would not get past the idea that each small parallelogram was a tiny box and I should enter each one separately. To overrule this idea was exhausting. I had to try to drive smoothly when my instinct was to stop and start at every box.

Navigation was also always a major problem. I would memorise the route map before setting out (even on very small journeys) but would be unable to cope if the route was changed for some reason. I can remember shutting down on a major road, for example and even deliberately driving the wrong way up a one-way street when I thought that it would get me back onto my envisaged route. Big conflict with rule-breaking there.

Finally, I should mention the overwhelming sensory aspects, with lights, noise, colours, and objects in motion. The combination of these frequently became too much when overlaid on the sense of responsibility for others. This combined with my dislike of unclear borders to complete what was a highly over-stimulating environment. 

To anybody else, it looked as though I was driving just fine, but the truth of the danger of all this was brought home to me when I had a minor accident at a junction. There were suddenly no road markings (I think they were resurfacing) and I found myself completely without rules to follow, at which point the habitual confusion I experienced at any junction took over completely leading to bad decision-making that ignored the physical realities all around me. I’m just glad nobody was hurt.

I gave up driving six months after I started. Several years later, I remarked to my mother that I thought I might take it up again. She shuddered and said “it’s probably best if you don’t do that”. The world is a safer place for that advice!

The 'Neurotribes' conference, Sound Festival Scotland.

Yesterday I attended the 'Neurotribes' conference that was part of the Sound Festival in Scotland. It was really great to see an event like this and it was a pretty interesting and eventful day. Full credit to Ben Lunn, Drake Music Scotland and the Sound Festival for staging such an inclusive conference (complete with BSL and live captions). Great efforts were made to enable people to take part and to consider every viewpoint. The day included a concert of music by the neurodivergent composers Joe Stollery, Ben Teague, Rylan Gleave, Ben Lunn, Siobhan Dyson and Jason Hodgson, as well as spoken presentations by each of them. There was a special tribute to the late Lucy Hale in the form of a performance of her piece ‘Snap and Sustain’.

It struck me that this was the first time since my diagnosis three years ago that I have identified as autistic in such a public setting. Consequently, once I started to speak in the final discussion I became surprisingly nervous. There was that familiar “imposter syndrome” feeling that most late-diagnosed autistic people know. Also, I had some things to say that were rooted in personal experience, which always makes me nervous. I’m more used to speaking in academic conferences where nobody is much interested in personal statements.

The day began with a performance, or more accurately a screening, of Siobhan Dyson’s audiovisual piece ‘Listen Carefully’. The great value of this work was its instructive effects for non-autistic, or neurotypical, people. It emerged in the discussion afterwards that they had been strongly affected by this powerful depiction of the way the world is experienced by autistic people. The National Autistic Society and others have tried over the years to convey this in short films or animations, but apparently not with the same force that was achieved by Siobhan Dyson.

It also emerged that several of the autistic people had found the piece overwhelming, as indeed did I. Trigger warnings had been issued, but I foolishly ignored them and tuned in, thinking: it can’t be all that bad. It turned out that such strong depictions of my lived experience are intolerable for me! I lasted under a minute before I was obliged to bail out, on the edge of a shutdown and with my hearing disturbed in the kind of way that normally only happens when I visit the audiologist. I played chess for a while to restore my equilibrium, but the effects lasted all day to some extent. Some friends were concerned about me, which was very considerate of them, and Siobhan herself was clearly very worried that she had upset other autistic people. However, I would argue that it was much more important that the piece was heard by those who needed to hear it. My takeaway lesson is: heed trigger warnings!

The concert contained some very enjoyable and well written music. Because of my hearing, I cannot listen to music for very long, so I recorded the whole thing and listened to it in batches afterwards. One comment I would make to the organisers: it might have been a good idea to adapt to the online medium a bit more and edit each piece separately to make it available online for asynchronous listening. The format of a ‘concert’ didn’t work so well over the web. But the performances were clearly excellent.

The stated objective of the conference was to “bring together promoters, ensembles and composers on the autism spectrum” in order to “discuss the challenges facing composers on the spectrum and explore how to enable greater inclusion and facilitate effective and supportive working relationships”. This really came to the fore during the final discussion, when representatives from several music organisations, performance groups and publishers met with the autistic participants. 

My (quite challenging) contribution was to ask why it is that such organisations always seem to position themselves as the arbiters of what is worthy by having a competitive selection process judged by a panel whenever they call for new works? Could there not be a randomised selection process rather than this constant 'panning for gold' (as my friend Ashok Mistry calls it)? Can we not trust audiences and participants to judge what is good or valuable?

This caused a lot of discussion. If I understood the comments correctly, the neurodivergent people mostly agreed with what I said and felt it resonated strongly. The representatives of the organisations, possibly feeling attacked (which was not my intention) kicked back somewhat, explaining that they are always trying to be inclusive, but that they feel they must support certain individuals or groups, because they have a duty to the artists and have to meet certain requirements. But they also admitted the discussion made them feel uncomfortable. As someone remarked: “unsuccessful applicants may wonder what they have done wrong”. 

Speaking from personal experience: that is exactly the problem. I recently wrote a blog post about “getting it wrong” which argued that we often judge ourselves by neurotypical criteria, leading to a diminished sense of self-worth. For an autistic person, who has spent a lifetime trying to understand unwritten rules in an effort to fit into a society which makes no sense, it can be devastating, even traumatising, to be rejected in a way that seems to involve a set of unwritten rules. 

Of course, neurotypical people also feel fear of failure, despondency at rejection, and so on. But this commonality should not lead to the classic “we are all a little bit autistic” argument. The autistic experience is completely different and may range from a hyposensitivity in which a rejection is greeted with complete indifference, to hypersensitivity in which it is traumatising. Either way, it chimes with a lifetime of trying to fit into a world which is incomprehensible. 

Sometimes, success can be worse than failure, because it is achieved at the expense of others. Autistic people, contrary to received wisdom, are often hyper-empathetic. We think (care) more about the people who were not selected than about our own success. When you get a commission, everybody starts telling you you are marvellous, but all you can think is: why? And once the project is over, everybody stops telling you that, and your response is also: why? In other words, the selection process operates in exactly the same way as day-to-day society. Autistics are constantly trying to operate in a world which is apparently configured to make us fail, and in which any success arises from arbitrary social conventions. Music commissioning mimics that system with its Darwinian selection processes. 

If a random selection process would be too radical, then perhaps a process which is not based on perceived quality, but rather on some kind of clear mechanism, might work. Good and transparent feedback is essential, but is so often lacking. I take the optimistic view that all composers create work that has something good and interesting about it. But, we wouldn’t know that unless we get to hear it! If we assume that there is always insufficient time and resources to hear everything, then some kind of equitable system is the most desirable compromise.

So, all in all, this was a successful, stimulating, and sometimes challenging conference which left me with plenty to think about. Despite my nerves and the occasional difficult moments, I’m glad I went and it was very nice to feel that I am still part of the contemporary music scene to some extent. It would be good to see similar events organised elsewhere. There is a lot of interest in engaging with neurodivergent people at the moment, which is terrific, but the process is in its infancy and there is much more to learn about how this might best be done.