Lydia Brown, the author of the Autistic Hoya journal, recently published a photo on Fudgebook. This, in itself, is unremarkable, of course. People post photographs on their Fudgebook pages all of the time. But what makes this particular photograph worth noting is the content. In the photograph, both arms are crossed at angles across her torso. On the upper arm is a message in Arabic. On the lower is a message in English. According to Lydia, both have the same meaning. Being that I do not speak Arabic, I can only take her word for it. Whilst I have only been reading her work for a handful of weeks, I have yet to encounter any evidence of dishonesty being in her nature. But all waffling aside, the English version of the message reads “I don’t understand how many people can hate”.
As so often happens when one outputs a message like that, it was only a matter of timing before I came sniffing around, saw it, and found the rabid dog in the soup of bad that makes up me having a quiet growl. Conversation ensued. One position that I put forward awkwardly in my initial commentary, and still stand by, is that people who do not understand why others hate encounter such failure because they have never understood the motivation others have to hate. It is one thing to be discriminated against. Unless you have membership in the top twenty or even top one percent of incomes, being discriminated against on the basis of your age, sex, height, weight, or even eye colour is something that happens at least once during just about every lifetime.
Primary to any discrimination case or issue, in my view anyhow, are two things. Specifically, who is doing the discriminating, and why. A secondary point tied in with the first of those is who the accomplices are.
When you are being discriminated against by employers or authorities, there are people one can go to. What those people can do is limited and varied on a case by case basis. But suffice to say that when one is very obviously of Aboriginal or Mediterranean origin (to name the two examples I most frequently encountered as a lad), the worst examples of discrimination tend to make reprisal easier to mount. When an employer is told by an owner, for example, to get rid of you because they “dun want them mud people around”, taking the employer and its owner to the relevant authorities and complaining that one is being discriminated against is relatively easy.
But when happens when one is being maltreated on the basis of their neurology by school teachers, their own family, or their neighbours? As they say in “ebonics”, you be fukked. A good analogy is that of the court judge who is not subject to any kind of review and thus can have any man he happens to take a disliking to hanged, to quote one film adaptation of a John Grisham novel. The discriminators, the abusers, the murderers, they have basically been allowed to set their own rules, and any objection thereto is dismissed as being the cry of the malcontent, of those who simply do not want to follow the rules. The rules that the top twenty percent have to say that child abuse is not acceptable simply do not apply in these instances. Behaviours that can be, and have been in the past, labeled as child abuse are simply allowed to continue without so much as a slap on the wrist. When retribution does come in the form of return violence from the child (who by this point is usually either fully grown or close enough), it comes as a genuine surprise to these people.
If one of James Packer‘s children was misdiagnosed with what I like to refer to as Credibility Deficit Disorder (as in the diagnostic label has no credibility), or several different variants of Schizophrenia, only to be told it was all a mistake and the child (now fully grown) is, in fact, autistic, well, it is like this. There is a quote by Bill Murray in Wild Things that sums it up perfectly. “They’ll settle. They’ll be begging to settle.”
(As an aside, you might be asking about why I use the words Credibility Deficit Disorder. The diagnostic label I am mocking was used as a catch-all when I was a boy, resulting in me spending weeks or months of one year hunched over with stomach cramps of such a magnitude that neighbours called the police and reported that I sounded like I was being murdered. It was a stopping barrier that helped prevent a correct diagnosis, and thus automatically earns anyone who so much as utters it a spit in the face. If you have a problem with me calling it such, then fukk you.)
But when your male parental unit is an ignorant factory floor worker (later supervisor), and your mother a secretarial staffer who was only twenty-one and change when you were born, the hammer of retribution for institutional medical incompetence becomes a love pat and a limp-wristed “uh-kay”.
And they never ask questions directed at themselves. Asking oneself “what did I do to make my child act like this?” is never on the options list, much less answering oneself honestly. By the time people like my parental units are willing to look at themselves in the mirror and tell themselves “my son will happily murder people if they so much as look at him funny because of what I did to him when he was a boy”, the damage is done. Youth, young adulthood, and even most of the age in which a person is supposed to be establishing themselves for the rest of their lives has gone. Meanwhile, members of the top one or twenty percent are being allowed to murder their autistic children for no other crime than being autistic. Do any of these inhuman herd retards ever stop to ask themselves what kind of message that sends to the adults that might have something in common with such children? Well, how about I have a go at translating the message so that normies can understand the severe deficit between what they think they have said and what they really say.
We consider your life less valuable simply because you were born different to us, normies are telling us when they murder children, and when they excuse the murders of children. We believe that no matter what you contribute to our society, no matter how valuable that might be, your life is not worth as much as ours. In fact, when this theory is contradicted by the people who might have more in common with you than us, we will mock you for believing those people have more in common with you than us and try to convince others that there is no way this can be the case simply because of our stereotype of you. If you raise objections, we will drastically alter the law, our own rules, and even the meanings of our own catchphrases, in an effort to shut you out.
That, in a nutshell, is what normies are saying to me every time that a child like Daniel Corby is murdered and murderers like Patricia Corby go scot-free. You can argue with me about that until your mouth begins to seize, but it happens to be the plain, simple, honest fact of the case. When you kill children who might begin to resemble me twenty years from now, when you excuse people for doing so, when you say it is okay to produce propaganda that leads to such murders, you are telling me that my mere existence is not okay with you. What is the matter, normies? Has stripping me of all of my hope, of most of my dignity, and any sense of community with the people around me, not been enough?
Of course, questions come to mind about exactly what a society that treats people whose only crime is to vary a bit from the expected norm is hoping to accomplish. Do they hope to use me as an example of what they will do to those who do not endeavour to “think” exactly like them or how they wish? Or do they just simply want to see how much indignity and total non-fulfillment I can take before I finally go crawl in a hole and die? None of the possibilities that correspond with the facts really paint a very good picture of the people around me. When a person comes to you telling you that they want to work to earn money to leave a society that has treated them like something stuck to their arsehole for decades, “you can’t work” is not an appropriate response. In fact, if I can be perfectly blunt for a moment, “you can’t work” in the face of that is not that far removed from Holocaust denial. And let me tell you something. I have seen the photos, and the piles of documents, and all of the other evidence (usually in the forms of photos, officially-made copies, and so on). When I start to put you in the same categories as Holocaust deniers or Holocaust negationists, that means that my contempt for you knows bounds only in the same sense that the suffering and misery that overpopulation promises inflict this time next century knows bounds.
Which brings me to a bit of a point about my male parental unit that needs going over at length. I know very little about my grandfather on that side. In fact, prior to the funeral of my grandmother on that side, all I knew about him was that he had serious problems both with alcohol and with paying his bills. Given that the 1950s were a fiscally liberal time in which the middle class were not being bent over a barrel and raped for the benefit of the richest twenty to one percent of the populace, it takes a bit of looking for an explanation of such a problem. And one hint that I heard during grandmother’s funeral referred to him serving in the Australian army during the second World War. Mind you, that is all of the information I have at this juncture. For all that I know, he could have been a supply clerk for the duration of his time in the armed forces. But given how consistent alcoholism and resultant difficulties in making ends meet are with what we now call Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, I have doubts about that. And to be extremely blunt about it, I have no difficulty believing that if my grandfather saw that I was suffering from similar symptoms merely as a result of attending a school and having parents who all made the wrong assumptions and stuck to them no matter what, he would be overwhelmed with disgust. “THIS? THIS is the society I helped to defend?”, I envision him as saying to his fellow ghosts now.
I have tried everything I can think of in an effort to reconcile with my male parent. I have tried begging, pleading, and even showing him examples of what the problem is. Not to mention showing him examples of solutions that have worked for others. But his unwillingness to pull his thumb out of his arse and offer any real, meaningful help, combined with his willingness to blame me for the effects of the manner in which he (among others) abused me has gone on long enough. I have said this to my mother at least once now. I do not have a father, or a dad. I have a bully who used to live in the same house. I have a roadblock, a stopping barrier whom I would pay to see die of AIDS, cancer, diabetic gangrene, and typhus all at once.
Which all brings me to the point I am trying to make here, for the benefit of other autistic advocates, and hopefully for the benefit of mankind in general. I will make a few statements here that should be treated as absolute fact in the sense that the sun goes down and comes up periodically. Respect is not something you are automatically entitled to. If you treat a person like they are to be taken for granted, they will reflect it back at you. And if you treat other people with sufficient disrespect, and that includes disrespect for their rights as Human beings, they will reflect that back at you, too. Hence, people are not born to hate others. The hatred of people one does not know from Adam or Eve is something that takes time, effort, and a lot of patience to learn.
But when a person addresses you in public, or before the view of others, learning to hate them can be a lot easier. Still easier is when the person is treating you in a parasitic manner. When a person is draining the life right out of you, yet reacts like a spoiled child upon being asked to change their ways, that gives you more than just a right to hate them. If you value your cognition sufficiently, you have an obligation.
This is not an easy thing for me to write. I did not just wake up one day and decide that I hated my male parent so much that my educated opinion compels me to believe his male parent would be disgusted with him. This took years of trying to find another way, even as I was experiencing problems with breathing that caused me to call for emergency medical aid no less than fourteen times in December of 2011. Simply put, I can stand this person no longer, to the point where I feel my life would be drastically improved by his demise. That, in my view, is what it means to hate.
So if the question is why so many people can tell themselves that they hate someone else, it is a complex answer. Different people obviously have different levels of tolerance to negative interactions with others. Over time, this level can be raised and lowered according to how one responds to varying stimuli. But in the majority of cases, most of the people who profess hate are, I am sorry to say, exactly like I heard someone say in that weird little time before my adolescence. Basically, they are like overgrown children who lack the emotional experience to understand how to properly express emotions. But every once in a while, you encounter what I will call the Blade Runner type here. Someone who is unafraid to say that they hate someone, and understands the full implications of it. I have said that I hate a few people at varying stages of my life. Teachers top the list by some margin. People presuming to call themselves doctors or other kinds of health professionals come next. But anyone who tries to tell themselves that the specific individuals on this list who fit into any of these groups did not earn it is kidding themselves. David Shuster, for example, knows full well that he met a boy in Western Sydney twenty-plus years ago who would now see how many pieces they can cut off him before he dies, and it is for a very real reason.
So as a final point to this post, I would like to give some advice. Especially to just-getting-started parents like my little sister. Never, ever kid yourself that something you do now will not reflect back at you ten, twenty, or maybe even fifty years from now. Whilst not every child born today has the long memory of a Powell Aspie, with the extent to which this planet is overpopulated, it is only a matter of time before they meet someone who does. The way in which people remember things is highly varied, but one constant remains. People remember things that cause them pain and distress far more easily over time than things that produced indifference.
I must confess at this point that I do not really understand the question posed. If it is a failure to understand the number of people who can profess to hate, then unfortunately we are on the same page there. But if one is looking for an answer concerning why people hate one another, then hopefully this answer formulated by a person who could do a PhD in the science of hatred will clarify the issue somewhat.
To everyone that last statement was not directed to, thank you for reading this far. May this writing prove enlightening for future endeavours.
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