A poem about the darker side of science today, and in particular a scientist whose name makes me very uncomfortable
So I’m sitting in this absence disciplinary
(Sorry. Return to Work Support Meeting
You have to use the right vocabulary…)
Because my absence record is higher than the targets they set me
(Sorry. Key Performance Indicators.
“Targets” sound harsh and unreasonable
When you start trying to apply them to sick people
But KPIs, they’re somehow less evil.)
And my employee file is thick with sick notes
(Sorry. Fit notes.
As in fit for work.
A sick note is a letter to say that you’re shirking.)
And that’s what this meeting’s about. The ever lurking
Accusation. I’m faking. I’m lazy.
And somewhere in there in that sheaf of notes is
my official diagnosis.
High Functioning Autism
And everyone knows that first bit is bullshit.
I’m barely functioning
And they wish I’d hand in my notice
And I wish I’d hand in my notice
But what that distinction means is
This person can probably hold down a job
They’re fit for work.
Maybe not too high paid. Nothing special,
But they can earn a wage even though they are lesser.
Let them do the spreadsheets.
They’ll like that better.
And although yes, they can say they’re disabled
Demand reasonable adjustments like maybe a table
In a quieter corner.
If they say they can’t cope, they can’t work at all…
Well.
They’re “high functioning.”
No metric on a DLA form will find them wanting
Let alone needing help.
So this job? I have to do it. It will have to do
Even though I know and they know I’ll break down at my desk tomorrow
The day after, and next week too.
And I say to my boss as she looks at my notes
“There’s some things in my workplace I struggle to cope with
Because I’m autistic.”
Her head jerks up like I’ve just accused her
Of something horrific.
“But you’re not!” She snaps
Well that’s news to me.
And my brain doesn’t like me to contradict people
It sees as official. And this woman’s holding a clipboard
But I’m pretty sure about this one so I try again.
“I am. You’ve got the letter from my assessment.
I have autism” At this point it’s just guesswork
What magical phrase must I use to impress her?
“No you haven’t. What you’ve got is Asperger’s Syndrome”.
Now let me rewind.
You’ll have to excuse me it’s something my mind likes to do
No tangent unfollowed. But this information might well be new.
Asperger was a Nazi. And that’s not hyperbole.
I’m autistic, remember? I’m talking literally
Austria. Third Reich. Master Race. Nazi.
This is a man who sent disabled children
To their deaths because think of the burden
They must be to their parents.
But he apparently made the groundbreaking discovery
That some of us weren’t quite as bad as we seemed to be
That we might have our uses. Some social worth
And while the best thing for a drain on the state is euthanasia
To euthanise us might actually be a waste of labour.
And this man gave his name to a syndrome
A euphemistic, neat semantic trick that meant
“Yes, you’re autistic, but one of the good ones.”
Or “No, you’re not autistic, that’s only the ones
Who can’t work. The ones who are really disabled.”
A measure of worth
If your worth can be measured in wages.
And I listen to her:
The distinction she’s making
The language she’s choosing
The boxes she’s ticking
And my throat is aching
With the scream that I’m swallowing
My shoulders are hunching
Holding in the panic attack
Because that’s what they mean by high functioning.
That you can look without flinching
Right in the eyes of someone
Who’ll give you the name of a Nazi
To make the linguistic distinction
That you should be useful.
And able to work
Because really, how else are you supposed
To prove your worth?
Tom Juniper Poetry 
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