This Is the Week Autism Speaks Meets Its Downfall

"If three million children in America one day went missing – what would we as a country do?"

What would we do if three million people in the United States were being told that they are missing?

Missing from where, I'm not sure.  Missing implies that there is a place that they are supposed to be.  Missing implies that something is lost.  The remote control can go missing.  The umbrella you left in a taxi can go missing.  But people who are living and thriving and loved, people who have their own agency, people who are exactly where they want to be - they can't go missing.

"And, what about their parents? How much can we ask them to handle? How long will it be before the exhaustion makes them ill? How long before they break?
And, if they do – who cares for these children?
There is no national plan to build a city for 500-thousand people."

Somehow, we have fallen into a time warp and have been whisked away, back to the days where leprosy was feared above all else, and leper colonies were set up on remote islands.

Except it's not leprosy anymore.  It's autism.

Scared yet?

"...we’ve for the most part lost touch with three million American children..."

No, Autism Speaks.  NO.  YOU have lost touch with millions of American children - AND adults.  I'm really not convinced that you were ever in touch with them in the first place.  You have repeatedly failed to listen to what THEY want, what they need, as opposed to what you think they need.  The images portrayed in your media - of stolen children, burdened by a grave illness - is not their reality.  It's not MY reality, as a friend to many Autistics.  Your words are not just insulting.  They're not just untrue.  They're terrifying.  And if there is someone out there reading this who is not scared of Autism Speaks, I suggest you read...and reconsider.

These families are not living.

Oh really?  Because I see living everywhere that I look.  Spinning, stimming, dancing, singing, flapping - that's all living, despite your statements to the contrary.  Autistic people are living.  Family members of autistic people are living. And they are all living with the knowledge that diversity is rich and beautiful.  That autism may present some struggles but the far more pressing problem is the attitude that an autistic life is not a life.  An attitude that you have perpetuated again, and again, and again.

Autism Speaks, you have made a grave error in judgment.  Your words intended to invoke terror have backfired.  Because we're terrified, all right.  But not of autism - of you.  You have the money and the power to shape the views of every American and you are using it to advocate segregation and genocide.

But your power is waning.  People are breaking out of the hypnotic haze you have put them in.  Self advocates and parents who were once bitter enemies are united now, in calling for your destruction.  John Elder Robison, the only Autistic to ever have some sort of role in your organization, has resigned.  You now cannot claim to have any Autistic representation in your organization at all.  The world has shifted on its axis as more and more people rally against you.

This week is the week America will fully wake up to the autism crisis.

This is the week America will fully wake up to the Autism Speaks crisis.  Guess what?  They already have.  This is the week you meet your downfall and I couldn't be happier.  The times, they are a'changin - and you better get with the program or else you'll be left behind. 

Read More

An Open Letter to the Staff of the Long Island Doctor Who Convention

To Ken Depp and the Long Island Doctor Who Staff,

During the weekend of November 8th - 10th, 2013, I was thrilled to attend the Long Island Doctor Who convention at the Clarion Hotel and Convention Center Ronkonkoma.  As an avid Whovian, I was eager to go to my first convention and meet like-minded people.

I was not prepared to find that the convention was inaccessible to me.

I was born with cerebral palsy, a disability which impedes my mobility and causes chronic fatigue and pain.  I also have an anxiety disorder which, in addition to generalized anxiety, manifests itself with panic attacks.

My friend Meg (who also has cerebral palsy) and I took the Long Island Railroad to the Ronkonkoma station early Saturday morning.  We planned to meet up with our friend Oscar there and take advantage of the courtesy shuttle to the convention site.  But when we arrived, we discovered that Oscar had been sitting in the cold, watching as the shuttle pulled up and pulled away multiple times.  Oscar uses a power wheelchair and the shuttle, despite statements to the contrary on the convention website and in the convention program booklet, was not wheelchair accessible - a direct violation of the Americans with Disabilities Act.  The shuttle van had three small steps and no ramp or lift.  Upon hearing of the situation, the shuttle driver spoke to his supervisor, who suggested that Oscar take a medical transport to the convention for $85.  This suggestion is ludicrous and insulting.  Besides the fact that segregated transportation is inherently unequal, a perfectly healthy wheelchair user should not have to utilize a medical transport which could be better served transporting people who are actually in need of medical assistance in order to get to an event.  In addition, it is blatant discrimination to have a disabled person pay $85 (which, incidentally, costs ten dollars more than a three-day pass to the convention) for transportation when able-bodied people receive transportation free.

Because Meg and I are capable of climbing steps with assistance and our walkers folded enough to fit in the van’s trunk, we were granted access to the shuttle and the rest of the convention.  Oscar was not.  Faced with no other option for getting to the convention, he was forced to turn back and head home, wasting the money he had spent on a convention ticket.

We arrived at the convention to find the “Disability Services” desk mysteriously unmanned.  The people at the general information desk seemed puzzled that the shuttle had not been accessible and said there must have been a miscommunication.  They assured us that something would be done.  To my knowledge, nothing was done and no formal apology was issued.  The “Disability Services” desk remained unmanned throughout the entire time we were at the convention.

The convention venue itself was physically inaccessible.  There were many heavy doors separating hallways from each other that were difficult for someone with limited strength to open, let alone navigate a mobility aid through.  The rooms where the panels and events were held were crowded with chairs, leaving only narrow space for people to walk.  Meg and I constantly were pushing through, trying to make space for our walkers.  There were no spaces in the panel rooms for someone using a wheelchair to sit, if they could even fit into the room in the first place.  I began to feel like my walker and I were a nuisance, a bulky apparatus clogging up the hallways and small rooms.

On Sunday afternoon, Meg and I spent some time in the Vendor’s Room on the lower level.  While attempting to get back to the elevator, we were caught in a crush of people moving from Panel A to Panel B, as well as people streaming in and out of the Vendor’s Room.  The artist tables set up in the hallway drastically narrowed the already limited space, once again making it difficult for Meg and I to navigate with our walkers.  Surrounded by people, I began to panic.  I was gasping for air and extremely dizzy.  We made our way back up to the lobby, where Meg explained to the woman at the information desk that her friend was having a panic attack and asked if there was a quiet room away from people where I could calm down.  The woman seemed confused and said that no, there was not.  We ended up sitting in an empty hallway until I felt like I could breathe again.

Many conferences have a designated “Quiet Room”, where people who are feeling overwhelmed can go to relax and calm down.  Given the amount of rooms at the Clarion Hotel, it would not have been difficult at all to orchestrate a quiet room from the beginning or at the very least have your staff find and open up a room when they were told that it was needed.  None of these things were done.

When I go to an event, I expect to feel valued, as a paying attendee.  I did not feel that I, as a person with multiple disabilities, was respected or valued at your convention.  I know that Long Island Doctor Who 2 has already been scheduled at the same venue.  I fear that the same inaccessibility will result.  Because of these concerns and my negative experiences at Long Island Doctor Who, you will not be receiving my money next year.  I refuse to support and attend a convention that held my needs in such low regard.

The Doctor says that he’s never met anyone who wasn’t important.  But your convention and apathy towards accessibility made me feel like my fellow disabled Whovians and I were not important enough to be worth considering.  I am saddened and disgusted that a convention representing such a diverse fandom failed to include people with disabilities.

I would be happy to discuss accessibility further with you and help to ensure that Long Island Doctor Who 2 is more inclusive.  You can reach me at caraliebowitz@gmail.com.  I sincerely hope that accessibility will now become a priority.

Sincerely,

Cara Liebowitz

With input from:

Meghan Mertens

Oscar Ortega

Read More

Strong (Disabled) Female Characters

I recently came across an article entitled "I hate Strong Female Characters".  The article argued that "Strong Female Characters" are often one-dimensional, thrown in there purely to prove that we as a society have moved beyond the damsel in distress trope, a mere distraction from the real (male) characters.

Though I found myself nodding along and agreeing as I read the article, something concerns me.  Though I certainly agree that Strong Female Characters are a stereotype unto themselves and we need more realistic female representation in movies, books, and TV, I can't help but beg for a Strong Female Character who is also disabled.

This is the problem with mainstream feminism.  Mainstream feminists advocate for more realistic female characters, a noble goal for sure, but they conveniently forget that we're begging for any disabled characters at all, especially disabled female characters.  A strong disabled female character would be a dream come true.

Even throughout history, disabled women's stories have been tweaked and manipulated to cast them in the weakest possible light, poor helpless creatures who need to be rescued from the plight of disability. Think of Helen Keller.  The mainstream narrative casts Annie Sullivan as the heroine who rescued Keller from the depths of darkness and silence.  Helen is given virtually no agency of her own.  Almost no one knows that Keller was a radical socialist and a fierce activist.  And it is never mentioned that Sullivan herself was a disabled person, with poor eyesight from glaucoma that progressed as she got older.  When disabled women who have played a prominent role in the disability rights movement, like Judy Heumann or Nadina LaSpina, are mentioned, they are usually unheard of.

Most female disabled characters in fiction are one-offs, created and utilized solely for a Very Special Episode about disability.  Those with any sort of recurrence at all are often painted with the damsel in distress brush that has plagued nondisabled female characters for decades, sometimes even centuries.  Clara from the classic novel Heidi is described as an "invalid", "confined to her rolling-chair".  Heidi is sought specifically as a "companion" for Clara, because obviously there's no way Clara can have an honest to god friend.   It is implied that Clara focuses on her studies because she is unable to leave the house.  Heidi, instead of simply accepting Clara for who she is, disability and all, teaches her to walk, the feel-good moment of the novel.  She is the heroine for helping Clara "overcome" her disability.

Nessarose from Wicked (both the book and musical adaptation) is another good example of this, demonstrating how this mindset has spanned into the modern times.  Nessa is always having to be cared for, by her grandmother in the novel and later by Elphaba, especially in the musical.  In "What Is This Feeling", Elphaba sings "But of course I'll care for Nessa!" Nessa has no drive, no personality of her own, and she never does things for anyone else - she is constantly being done unto.  Boq is convinced to ask her to the dance out of pure pity - it doesn't matter what she wants.  Only when Nessarose obtains the ruby slippers that allow her to walk does she have any sort of agency or goals.  These two examples seem to suggest that it is impossible for disability and strong will to coexist - once disability is out of the picture, the character comes into their own and becomes a proper person.

And then we have Toph Beifong, from Avatar: The Last Airbender.  Toph can be described as your stereotypical Strong Female Character - she's a gritty tomboy who flings sarcastic one-liners as often as she flings rocks - which, if you think about it, is representative of the way she was written.  She has all the usual qualities of a man, including being the Avatar world's equivalent of a professional wrestler.  In fact, Aang and the gang are shocked to find that the Blind Bandit is not only, well, blind, she's also a girl.  She looks like a boy, acts like a boy, talks like a boy.  She serves as a foil to the more reserved, feminine girl of the group, Katara.  It's almost as if the writers wrote her as a boy first, then hurriedly changed her gender when they realized there was only one recurring female character in the show.  Oh, look, they did!

But when it comes to the star of the show, that is undoubtedly Aang.  Toph backs out of the way for the male character to save the day.  Typical of a Strong Female Character, who can't seem to save the day all by herself (though Toph does cross that boundary several times in the show, most notably when she escapes from her kidnappers by inventing metalbending).  Despite all that, I have a deep undying love for Toph Beifong.  Why?  Because her disability is just one of the things that make up who Toph is.  She's witty and wonderful and caring underneath her gruff exterior.  Her blindness isn't ignored and there are still ways it limits her, even with her ability to "see" with her feet.  She is still disabled, and her earthbending does not negate that.  It aids her, much like a crutch assists someone to walk, but it does not magically cure her disability.

Though Toph has her flaws, she's the one of the best representations of disability on TV that I've ever seen.  That's the type of disabled character we need - someone whose disability is just another part of their identity.  Of course, it would be incredible if we could get a female disabled character who breaks out of multiple stereotypes, but lets face it, we have about as much chance of that happening in the near future as we do of having a female, disabled character of color anytime soon.  I have to settle for what I can get, unfortunately.  It shouldn't be that way, but it is.

So I'll take a disabled Strong Female Character.  Until and unless we get more Toph Beifongs on our screens, I cannot, in good conscience, demonize Strong Female Characters who are perpetually nondisabled.

Read More

Disabled Is Not An Insult

"Eh?" said Hagrid blankly.  "No, don' go!  I've - I've never met another one before!"
"Anuzzer what, precisely?" said Madame Maxime, her tone icy.
"Another half-giant, o'course!" said Hagrid.
"'Ow dare you" shrieked Madame Maxime.  "I 'ave never been more insulted in my life!  'Alf giant?  Moi?  I 'ave - I 'ave big bones!"

-Excerpted from Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire by J.K Rowling (pgs 428 - 429 in the printed version)

Poor Hagrid.  He's desperately trying to find community, just as I have on so many occasions.  He knows that he's finally met someone like him.  I know that feeling, that wonderful feeling of sameness, of solidarity. He reaches out only to find his advances rebuffed and the target of his affection insulted.

Though J.K Rowling has often said that Remus Lupin is her metaphor for specifically HIV/AIDS and disability in general, I see a parallel with Hagrid and Madame Maxime as well.  To Hagrid, half-giant is an identity, albeit a lonely one, something that he's carried with him his whole life without ever meeting another.  To Madame Maxime, it's the height of shame.  She, like so many disabled people, has internalized the stereotypes about her people and distances herself from the label as much as possible.  She insists that she is not half-giant, merely "big boned", much like many disabled people insist that they're not DISABLED, of course not!  They're merely "differently abled".

Disabled is not an insult.  It's a stop on the subway lines of the human condition.  It's a rainbow shining through shards of broken glass.  It's a new view on life, one explored by stimming fingers and unseeing eyes and silent ears and seen from the lovely vantage point of butt-level as you're rolling down the street.  It's an identity, a culture with pride flowing through its veins while the taste of shame still lingers in its mouth.  It's words like crip, gimp, freak, words that slash open our war wounds like badges of honor.  It's music and dance and poetry and art from the inside looking out.  It's free our people and our homes, not nursing homes and nothing about us without us.  It's hope and fear and cowardice and love, love among people who are deemed incapable of feeling.

Disabled doesn't mean suffering or brokenness.  It doesn't mean that you will never love, or be loved in return.  If you stumble into big-D Disabled land, it doesn't mean that your life is over - it means a new one is just beginning.  Despite what society would have you believe, it doesn't mean inferiority, or a fate worse than death.  It shouldn't be a scarlet letter on your chest.  It's simply another way of being - a turn of the kaleidoscope in a different direction and suddenly all the colors and patterns line up in a way you've never seen before.  Different, even new, but just as beautiful nonetheless.

So when I call you disabled, you better be fucking proud.  Because it means that I hold you in high enough regard to say that you're one of my people, for better or worse.  It means that you can be the cruelest person who ever lived, but you've got something inside of you that resonates with me, that tells me we are the same.  Some of the kindest, smartest, funniest, best people I know are disabled.  You should feel pride that you share an identity with them.  I sure as hell am.

"Jumpstart my kaleidoscope heart
Love to watch the colors fade
They may not make sense but they sure as hell made me"

-Uncharted by Sara Bareilles 

Read More

Screw A Cure, *I* Want Equality: A Letter to Rachelle Friedman

Dear Rachelle,

I recently read your article on the Huffington Post titled “Rachelle Friedman, 'Paralyzed Bride,' Speaks Out: More Than Equality, We Want a Cure”.  I applaud you for speaking out on what is undoubtedly a difficult topic.  However, your article raised some trepidation for me that I would like to take this time to address.

As a disabled person myself who does not desire a cure, I am concerned that you profess to speak for "99 percent of us" (not sure if you meant strictly paralyzed people or people with disabilities in general; the latter would concern me even more).  It is your choice to want a cure.  However, please don't speak for the rest of us - you admit yourself that there are people out there who don't want a cure.

Additionally, I am concerned that you may be "throwing the baby out with the bathwater", so to speak.  Things like muscle spasms and skin breakdown are only part of paralysis, though I don't mean to downplay the impact they have on your life and the lives of many others (muscle spasms and chronic pain, as someone with cerebral palsy, are something that I have to deal with as well).   Those are parts of disability that have a negative impact on our quality of life, and I would not hesitate to accept treatment to mitigate or completely alleviate these symptoms.  But desiring treatment for those parts of disability that are painful or even dangerous is not the same thing as desiring a cure.  Just like wheelchairs and other mobility aids, medication and other treatments are simply tools to help us get along in the world – not cures that will eliminate disability entirely.

Lastly, the title of your piece makes me profoundly uneasy.  “More Than Equality, We Want A Cure” implies that finding cures is more important than ensuring that people with disabilities like you and me have equal opportunities and civil rights.  And once again, it implies that all people with disabilities (or at least all people with paralysis) agree with your point of view – something that you, yourself, admit is misleading.  As someone who has been a wheelchair user for several years, I am sure that you have experienced the daily inequalities and microaggressions that come with being disabled in public.  From inaccessible buildings to preconceived notions about our abilities, we face a myriad of obstacles just to get through our days.  None of these obstacles are our fault.  The social model of disability says that our individual impairments (such as paralysis or cerebral palsy) limit us, but it is societal attitudes and barriers that disable us and prevent us from functioning.  A truly equal and accepting society would remove these barriers, so issues like health care, funding for medical equipment and accessibility, issues that you cited in your article, are all wrapped up in the fight for acceptance and equality.  This is the reality of ableism, and a cure won’t change that.  Desire for a cure should not eclipse our desire to fight the very real injustices we face every day, and the two are not mutually exclusive.

Though cure research is important for those who desire a cure, it is still simply research, research that will not affect us personally until it transforms into something that will be available commercially, or at the very least in clinical trials.  What’s important is concrete issues that affect us in the here and now – employment, transportation, the marriage penalty for those on SSI or SSDI, the disturbing trend of parents and caregivers murdering their disabled children...these are all issues that we should prioritize over a cure.  I will keep fighting for equality, acceptance, and simple basic human decency until the day a cure for me is found, and beyond.  Because disability is so much more than just a medical condition – it is a rich, nuanced culture intertwined with complex sociological concepts that come together to create the reality of disability today.

I hope you join the disability rights movement and fight alongside us.  Because at the end of the day, cures mean nothing when there is still not justice for all.

Read More

Putting Education First

TW:  mention of the r-word, discussion of ableism in the school system

Back in high school, I habitually missed class.  Not because I wanted to, mind you, but because my bus was always late.  I took the short bus, the butt of immature teen jokes everywhere.  The retard bus.  The bus whose riders are commonly assumed to be drooling sacks of shit who don't have a brain in their heads.

Unfortunately, the transportation company seemed to share these views.  Every day was a gamble, waiting for the bus and wondering if it was going to show up today.  We would teeter on the cusp of late and not-late and wait til the last possible minute, when my mother, who worked in a school herself and would be late for work if she drove me to school, would haul me and my over-stuffed backpack into the car and speed off to school.  More than once, the bus would conveniently show up as my mother was pulling out of the driveway.  There would be no apologies, most times, from the driver and bus aide.  Sometimes there would be a different driver at the wheel entirely, with no explanation whatsoever.  Occasionally there would even be a random student sitting on the bus, who wasn't usually there, and no one would acknowledge the situation.  And then I'd just have to pray that we wouldn't take an unexplained detour to another school or place, because that happened more than once too.  My mother would come home from work, tired from a long day, and then she'd have to call the transportation company to complain about how they were late again, or how they didn't show up at all, or about how my driver was on his cell phone while driving.  Nothing ever really changed.

Once I got to school, depending on how late it was, I would have to go to the attendance office and try and explain why I needed a late pass, even though I wasn't late yet.  They didn't seem to understand that the lateness was inevitable, that I could not possibly drag myself up three flights of stairs (my school had an elevator, but it was dirty, creepy, and frequently broken.  Plus the proximity of the elevator to where I needed to go meant that it would take the same amount of time for me to drag myself up the steps as it would for me to take the elevator.), get my books from my locker, and go down a flight of steps to my classroom and still be on time for class.  By the time I finished arguing with the attendance dragons (erm, I mean "ladies"...), I would end up being late anyway.  My first period teacher would then yell at me for either being late or not having my textbook, because I'd skip going to my locker in a futile attempt to get to class on time for once.

During the school day, I was frequently pulled out of class for physical and occupational therapy.  Once my therapists realized that pulling me out of academic subjects wasn't a good idea, they started pulling me from lunch.  I'd either scarf down my lunch and rush to therapy, or bring my lunch with me to therapy and eat before starting my exercises, acutely aware that this was cutting into my already limited therapy time.  And my PT wondered why my "lunch" normally consisted of a chocolate milk and a bag of chips - it was portable, quick, and edible.  And that was if I had a lunch period at all, which wasn't a given.  So my therapists turned to pulling me out of resource room.  The resource room period that I had specifically written into my IEP to accommodate the need for extra time on tests.  Many days my therapists would come looking for me when I was trying to finish a test, and be annoyed that I hadn't shown up to therapy.  My therapy period would often run over and I'd be late to class.  Again.

My accommodations would often get messed up.  My test would get lost on the way to my resource room teacher's mailbox.  Assignments would be given that I simply did not have the motor skills for - like drawing a map of the world, for instance.  The students tasked with being my notetakers would decide they just didn't feel like taking notes for me that day.  My AlphaSmart, the keyboard that was my notetaking lifeline, would break in the middle of class.  Accommodations for standardized tests seemed especially prickly.  I was told that "Most kids who get accommodations don't take the SAT." The notion that I was both disabled and academically gifted seemed to boggle people's minds.  And these were the people who were supposed to be responsible for my education.

On top of all of that, I left five minutes early from each class to beat the hallway stampede and ensure that I didn't get trampled.  This averaged out to 45 minutes a day of academic learning I missed.  When you consider it was almost 4 hours missed per week, it starts to add up.  Frequently I would stay til the bell just to make sure I didn't miss anything important, risking my safety out in the wild high school jungle halls.  One teacher would constantly give out and collect homework after I left.  When pressed about it by my mother, she had the audacity to respond: "It's not my responsibility to remind Cara when to hand in her homework."

Despite everything, I graduated high school in the top quarter of my class, gained acceptance into a fairly elite college (though I ended up going to a less elite college), and earned enough AP credits to allow me to graduate college a year early.  I often wonder how much better I could have done had all those barriers not been in my way - barriers, it is important to note, had nothing to do with my actual impairment, but instead everything to do with the environment around me.  This is where the social model of disability comes in.  I had impairments in high school - I will always have impairments - but it is the societal barriers around me that actually disabled me and prevented me from reaching my full potential.

When and where did we get the idea that it is okay to give disabled students a sub-par education?  The Individuals with Disabilities Education Act (IDEA) states that all students are entitled to a free and appropriate public education (FAPE).  Was my education free?  Yes, and so was the therapy and other associated services I received - which is exactly why my parents didn't choose to have me go to therapy outside of school like many other disabled children.  We couldn't afford it.  But was it appropriate?  I don't think so.  Though many would say my high school education was a prime example of model inclusion, I tend to disagree.  My education was a dispirited attempt to show that my school was inclusive - nothing more.  I fear the same is true for many disabled children across the nation.

The education system in America is failing all children, but none more so than disabled children.  In our rush to secure equal rights and acceptance, we have skipped a crucial step.  We are arguing for inclusion, which is certainly a noble and just cause, and one that I advocate for often, but without having the necessary pre-requisites in place.  First, we must ensure that all children, including and especially those with disabilities, receive a quality education.  Inclusion means nothing if a child is not receiving a good education, which is, in fact, the very reason we have schools in the first place.  Therapy and other obligations overshadow a disabled child's day.  A quality education means all the tools are in place for a child to succeed in school - including safe and reliable transportation to and from school, an edible and nutrient filled lunch that's designed to help children focus, time to eat said lunch, necessary adaptations to curricula, and individual accommodations.  Notice that therapy wasn't in that list.  Therapy can be useful for minimizing pain and maximizing independence, but when it starts taking precedence over academics, there's a problem.  For children, school is their job.  We must ensure that they are allowed to perform the functions of that job to the best of their ability, just as they will be expected to do in the "real world" with a "real job".

It's time to go back to basics.  Let's put education first.

Read More

Murder is a Selfish Act

It is one thing to drown in your pain.

It is quite another to drown someone else in that pain.

I wish I didn't have to write this.  I wish this didn't keep happening.  But it does.

On September 3rd, Kelli Stapleton locked herself and her 14 year old autistic daughter, Issy, in their van, lit two charcoal grills, and waited to die from carbon monoxide poisoning.  Police discovered them both unconscious.  Issy is still unconscious in intensive care.  Kelli is facing possible murder charges, and rightly so.

The usual nonsense is being thrown about.  "The system broke and then it broke Kelli", "I feel bad for the father, his daughter is in intensive care and now his wife is facing possible murder charges", "We must have compassion for this mother, raising our kids can be extraordinarily difficult", "All she wanted to do was to put both of them out of their misery."

You know who I feel bad for?  Issy.  Because her own mother tried to MURDER her.

Yes, the system needs to be fixed.  It is not kind to autistic children or disabled children of any kind.  But I cannot sympathize with someone who thought the best option for her daughter would be death.

Kelli Stapleton made a selfish decision when she put Issy in that car.  She attempted to cut short someone else's life based on her own misery. That was not her choice to make.  But many are calling this an act of love, because she refused to leave Issy behind.

But Issy had a life, independent of her mother, as all children do, independent of their parents.  You can see her life, splashed across the pages of the blog her mother wrote.  She had friends.  She had a cat that she loved.  She had her own thoughts, feelings, and desires.  From the day we are born, we are no longer entirely a part of our mothers - we are out in the world, with our own individual identities, for better or worse.  Our parents must let us go, on many occasions in our lives, with the trust that they have provided us with enough to succeed in life - whatever the definition of success may be.  Kelli Stapleton could not cut that cord - and that's a problem.  If you cannot trust your child to have a quality life without you, you have failed as a parent - because part of being a parent is knowing that you have to let go. It's nowhere near easy, but it is necessary.  Kelli Stapleton didn't think about Issy's own life - she only saw her own struggles.  Seeing another's life only through the lens of your own is the epitome of selfishness.

People say that we should not judge until we know the facts.  But a mother tried to kill her daughter.  What else do we need to know?

Until and unless there is justice for the Issy Stapletons of our world, for the Alex Spourdalakis', for the George Hodgins' and the Tracy Lattimers, these tragedies will keep happening.  Because you can't get away with murder - unless your kid is disabled.

Read More