Polishing a Turd, Brush Included

I don’t know about you, but there are some days I just shake my head at the colossal level of freaking stoopid that exists out there.

I know, I know, I’m going to have to be a wee bit more specific.

Okay – mental illness diagnoses, like autism.

If I hear one more frigging stercum-for-brains say that people weren’t autistic in the past, therefore it’s fake, I’m going to lose my own stercum so badly that it will make some chimpanzees stare in admiration, and hail me the Jackson Pollock of stercum splats.

Naming a thing doesn’t mean it’s made up. Properly done science tends to weed out the attention-seeking fakers. But when stories talk about changelings in the past, and the “remedy” of holding their feet to the fire to prove they’re human, I flinch. Sounds to me like a worried mama saw the early warning signs of autism, and some authoritarian idiot gave her asinine advice.

My mom was a teacher, but like the military, you can take the teacher out of the classroom, but you can’t take the teaching spirit out of the teacher. Mom taught me everything she knew, thinking I would go into the family trade (seriously, we have a lot). Unfortunately, while I’m an excellent teacher one-on-one, I saw what she had to go through – entitled parents, parents who didn’t want to actually parent, incompetent misogynist management. Foisting off the jobs of therapist and disciplinarian onto teachers, but without the power of enforcement, and yanking it away when it was needed the most.

Screwed up in the extreme. Would have lost my stercum early and often.

ADHD was studied early in our area, and with it came the first Ritalin prescriptions. Mom, and therefore I, saw the results, and though it finally brought the poor ADHD sufferers down to earth, holy cow was it prescribed far, far too much. Seeing normal kids, some of them my peers, stoned into oblivion, was a hard lesson to swallow.

And made me staunchly anti-pill, which really stings, now that I have to take diabetes and heart meds.

College finally brought a bit of balance. I met another student who was dealing with some serious stuff (bipolar? ADD? ODD?), and also didn’t want to take his meds. “I’m afraid it will change my personality!” he screamed, and we all screamed back at him, “We don’t like your personality now, we’d welcome a change!” He left for a semester, and came back medicated, and I really liked the new him. Looking back, and knowing what we know now, I’m sure he had a breakdown, and had to be hospitalized. I’m sorry it got to that point, but wow, was he completely out of control beforehand.

And Mom and I look back on the times before diagnoses, and we wish we’d known sooner. Taking the ones who didn’t need it off the meds, but the ones who did need it to focus, being able to adjust the meds properly. How many times did Mom subject a kid to a beating at home, with the words “If only they’d apply themselves”? You did what you could, Mom, you really did. We know better now, despite the idiots who’ve tried to get rid of the science.

But autism? Other described mental illnesses? Oh, come on, all you have to do is take a cursory look at history or religion, and the examples pop.

If the rules for describing heraldry aren’t from the minds of Medieval nerds running some odd OCD-driven D&D campaign, I’ll eat my hat.

If the rules surrounding religion – especially the prayers, which must be made with precision, and proper mindset, and at exactly the same time every day (looking especially at you, ancient Egypt, but there are myriad examples in all the other religions), aren’t thought up by an autistic or OCD or Tourette’s person, I’ll be shocked. (The three conditions can bleed into each other, so from this distance, it’s hard to pinpoint who had what.) Notice I’m not talking about faith, I’m talking about religion. Faith is the true, core belief; religion is all the crap rules and regs slapped onto and around faith to keep people from figuring out that most religious figures are full of crap. What, manipulating people to take their stuff and keep them in control? Yeah, I said it, did you hear me, televangelists? CEOs of marketing companies? Go shove it up your own arse, ya predatory cannibals.

Switching prongs of an argument for a moment, I’m also thoroughly disgusted with the ones who do believe in things like heart disease, kidney disease, even freaking gout, because they were named before they were born, but don’t believe in things like asthma, or allergies, or COVID. What, too newfangled for the troglodytes? And yet they knew someone who wheezed when they tried to play, or died young of something after they ate it, or know of people who died of flu or pneumonia. (Walk through an old graveyard; a quarter of the graves are child-sized.)

Who will take the cancer vaccine when it rolls out, but refuse to take the COVID shot. Yeah, of course, because that makes sense…

We have quite a collection of fidget toys in our house. For me, they’re mostly toys, I play with them occasionally. For my husband, they are a lifeline when he’s working out a fiendish math or computer programming problem.

All of these things came together in a perfect storm of amazingness the past two years.

I went to an SCA event in New York, as a favor to a good friend. (The SCA – well, this one – is the Society for Creative Anachronism, a Medieval re-enactment society. We do our best to re-create the arts and sciences of the Middle Ages, as accurately as we can afford, but still keep it open for newcomers to join and play without dropping a bunch of cash and effort for a period kit right away.) I brought my glass bead kit, because this event was concentrated on making the neurospicy feel welcome and included. I can teach glass beads, and neurospicy doesn’t phase me. When teaching, you meet your students where they are; that’s what being a good teacher is about.

Friend, let’s call her P, set up on one end of the table, and I was on the other. We were chatting away, and she mentioned a good mutual friend, and that he would be coming later. We were soon giggling about B’s most recent dilemma, shipment after shipment after multi parcel after bulk boxes of… fidget toys.

Yes, it was a brushing scam, but what was B to do? He literally built a fun fort out of the boxes in his living room, they were taking up every nook and cranny! And no sooner did they get Amazon to stop sending, then the USPS and FedEx trucks were lining up down the block to deliver more!

When they finally stopped the madness, they had three thousand fidget toys.

Three. Thousand.

!!!!

Understandably, B was more than a little concerned. What would he do with all of them?

And I had a terrible, wonderful, idea. An IDEA.

When B got to the event, we brought up the topic. B once again wondered what to do with all these fidgets. And I said, hey, hand them to me, I’ll hand them out at our local Trunk and Treat!

And B’s eyes got a faraway look….

Halloween treats….!

Now, our Trunk and Treat was already over, it’s early in the October calendar. But Halloween was fast approaching. B and P sprang into action, getting ready for ravening hordes.

B handed out hundreds. P handed out hundreds. P’s parents, in a more posh area, handed out even more hundreds.

I got the leftovers. Over eight hundred of them.

P lives four hours away. So we met at a state park, halfway between here and there, to shift boxes and boxes of fidget toys from one car to another, like some demented reverse smuggling run.

And ride a carousel, because why not? It’s beautiful!

Now, I only need two hundred fifty or so for a night of Trunk and Treat.

Then, I got another IDEA.

One of my paternal cousins teaches neurospicy kids in a poor area of the country. One of the rewards that she has is a table of fidgets. Come to class, grab a fidget, fiddle with it while class is in session. If you misbehave, fidget is taken. Amazing how much firm but gentle rules work well to promote learning.

Cousin S was having a good year, with excellent classes, full of great kids. I had more than enough fidgets for her to hand them out to everyone. Why not?

I texted her, got her to tell me how many students she has. I have enough to spare! So I offered them – how should I get them there?

Within an hour, me and my husband were hauling four large tote bags of fidgets five houses over, to S’s parents. Who happen to be my aunt and uncle, living up the street. Who happen to be traveling tomorrow, going up to visit them.

We explained, because we beat the text from my cousin to her own parents. At least my aunt had such fun playing with them on the trip up there!

S told me at Christmas that she handed them out at the beginning of each class, and she had to take a ten to fifteen minute break each time to let them play. She wasn’t worried; the fact that they were getting presents from their teacher’s cousin just because completely floored them. And, she says, each and every one played with the ball spinner for a few seconds, then carefully set it aside in favor of putting the claw grabber together.

A claw grabber. With mini dinosaurs!!!

For weeks after, kids from other classes would sidle up, and ask if S had extras. “You got…?” “Yeah, I got, come on in, I’ll hook you up.” “I have a little brother…” “Come on in, pick one out.”

I was absolutely tickled that something meant for wrong could get flipped to be something good and positive.

Last month, it was my turn.

We held our town’s Trunk and Treat, and I showed up with the bags of fidget loot that I’d saved out the year before.

You should have seen their faces! Delight, shock, so happy to get a fidget toy of their very own!

Some adults were so jealous that I gave them one, too. Some were older, and asked about the claw grabbers they could see in my basket. They got one, with the strong warning that they have very small, easily swallowable pieces. Even the three “we’re too cool to do Trunk and Treat, but we’ll zip around on our electronic scooters while you all set up… wait, we’re not too old? We’ll be back, off to get a pillowcase!” And they did, and they “dressed up” as a car, and drove up in formation, to be parked with the rest.

Such fun! A few people got the whole story as the night wound down, and made sure to get an extra for themselves, to tell the story to their friends.

So. Freaking. Worth. It.

The drive four hours north, to learn the story. The second drive, two and a half hours, to get “the stuff” loaded from one car to another. The sorting, the idea to spread the joy.

Neurospicy exists. Has existed. Will continue to exist, be defined, further refined, but will persist, despite denial and ignorance. It is part of the DNA-woven fabric that makes us human, like it or not. And for myself, I’m rather glad that I took an opportunity to right the balance a little bit, taking a thing meant for monetary gain and turning it to a force for good.

Please keep me in mind, when an opportunity comes up. Because it will, that’s how life works. And when it does, remember this story, and let it (safely) spur you to action.

Fred Rogers’ mother said, "Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.”

I urge you to take it one step further, and be the helper. The reward is amazing.