The highlights of part one for those who have stumbled upon this post are: I refused to be complicit in my department’s protection of a sexual predator who was teaching speculative garbage in the guise of evolutionary psychology in order to justify his own depraved beliefs and behaviour. Unrelated to this, but central to my story are my adult diagnoses of autism and ADHD. My attempt to stop masking led to the breakdown of my marriage. This was playing out around this same time period as me writing a thesis.
I’m in a field that is predominately occupied and shaped by white men. Academics are discouraged from activism in this country (Australia), which I find surprising because Indian academia is intrinsically shaped by and linked with grassroots activism. Reputation takes precedence over values and performance of competence has a very specific shape and form. I can’t possibly be competent if I present differently to those who have gone before me. So, of course, my ex-supervisor, The Eye, dismissed my sketch of ideas as unworthy of consideration.
He had previously dismissed my diagnosis. He had been travelling and had not made an effort on his part to actively supervise my writing, because of his travelling and teaching commitments overseas. He had failed to manage my work entirely. Unrelated to how I’m supervised, is the fact that I work best when under pressure of a looming deadline. I have done it before, over and over. To him, however, such a working style and the output he saw, translated into deluded idiocy. The reality of my “disability” dawned on me during this period. I hadn’t seen my disability coach at uni for this period, because my mental health plan had run out, and I had other more practical considerations that had built up during the year like accomodation and daily provision for my daughter and I. Neither had I seen my psychologist because of the cost involved – my psychologist had become a luxury I had dispensed with as a result of making choices that led to me leaving my marriage and supporting my daughter and myself on a very modest research stipend.
However, the narrative that was forced upon me was – woman unhinged from marriage breakdown, unable to perform, is incompetent. I was forced to apply for leave without pay and provide documentation to support this narrative that my marriage breakdown had left me incapable of performing. Humiliating, yes. Invalidating, yes. The extension I had asked for in the first place was granted eventually when the university discovered that what had transpired was in fact illegal. I had not been given the supervision I needed, the supports to complete my job, when I had asked for a lengthier extension, I had been told I would not be granted this extension and had been asked to apply for a shorter extension which worked within my supervisor’s travel schedule, but not for me. The university ombudsman on hearing about these details had offered the sage advice: suck it up if you want to continue in academia.
After the meeting with The Eye where things had spectacularly fallen apart, I had gone to see the emergency mental health services at my university. For the first time in a year, I had felt suicidal. It had felt like all the gains I had made in working through my challenges had come undone. A friend told me that The Eye had said the things he did because he cared for me. That if I was feeling suicidal, the problem was probably with me – a deeper problem that simple how The Eye had treated me. “Do you believe you can do this?,” the psychologist had said. “Yes,” I’d replied. “Do it then,” she had reassured me, giving me the one thing I had desperately needed. Belief and confidence in my ability to deliver what I knew I could. My mood slump lasted 48 hours – it had in fact been a result of the meeting – not a deeper problem as I had been forced to claim it was. I had asked The Eye to tone down the vitriol in our communications after a harsh email from him. I didn’t hear back. I realise now that he needed to paint a picture of me as a volatile person, in order to excuse himself from not having performed his responsibilities or duty of care as my supervisor.
I was then assigned a team of supervisors by the department to ensure I would complete my thesis. I reworked the document I had sent him that had ink ited his wrath, and this new team received it with more than passing surprise because it turned out that I had done what I said I would – write up a coherent document about my findings. Sure it needed work but it wasn’t the product of an unhinged mind.
To her credit, my new primary supervisor listened to me when I told her about my diagnoses and what it meant in practical terms. She worked with me to my strengths and even though my working style didn’t change – I still did the last minute marathon – she was my ally in believing that I could do what I said I would. Even though I worked differently from the way she did.
The point of this long ramble is creating a space for myself to present my defence. I have not been given a chance to.
I turned down the offer from the medical department that was waiting for me at the end of this thesis, because The Eye had been one of my referees. Even though that offer is still open to me, and the department has been happy for me to join them if I changed my mind, I don’t want to “play the game” strategically anymore. I was reminded of the anti racism conference where I was listening to an Aboriginal academic talking about how she had no choice but to advocate for her people in her work. I understand what she meant now. I might have the luxury of being able to pass as typical in certain circles of academia. However, after being baptised through fire into the code of silence and bullying that glosses the sarcophagus that is my department’s culture, I’m letting myself out, thank you very much. I had had another offer from a professor who studies autism with autistic people. Many researchers on her team are autistic and she actually walks the talk. I had previously thought that holing myself into a superspecialised research area would be sabotaging my academic career. I’m not so sure any more. Because I’ve asked to be invited to her party again. And she has agreed. If there is one thing I have learned from the events over the last few months, it’s that atypical voices and ways of being in the world need to be seen and heard more. It might not be worth the fight in the end – where I am measured against parameters that disadvantage me from the very start. But time will tell, and I still believe that research is my sweet spot. So here I am trying to figure out a way that I can make it work for me.
Thank you for bearing with my long ramble. I will distill my learnings from these events into a couple of shorter posts that might be relevant to other autistic scholars and mental health sufferers who are trying to carve a space for themselves in academia, so we don’t feel so alone.
The Uncultured Anthropologist 