I’m a teacher by profession, and I have amassed high qualifications. I have two Master’s degrees. 43 500-level credit hours in my content area, when the minimum for college teaching is 18. Over a decade of experience in education. I was an adjunct professor for two years. One of my master’s theses is required reading for a course at my alma mater. I received the ETS Recognition of Excellence for my near perfect score on my Praxis exam. I’m a member of the national honors society for education. I write at a measured level of postgraduate when the national average is 6th grade. I have a verbal IQ in the upper 140s.
I look fantastic on paper. Every resume I submit receives an almost immediate request for an interview. I always go in confident and self-assured that I bring a lot to the table.
But that’s not all I bring to the table. I also bring a brain with a damaged frontal lobe and executive dysfunction that has made life an endless struggle since I was five years old and suffered a TBI. I am on a ton of meds that give me as much stability as I’m able to attain. But I have limitations. I have differences. One of them is the fact that my symptoms manifest as ASD, Asperger’s, and this shows itself in ways that I can’t mask.
I love interviews because education is one of my special interests, and if you know about those of us on the spectrum, special interests are intense for us sometimes.
I go in and I’m bubbling over with an abundance of zeal and enthusiasm because they’re going to ask me about things I not only know a lot about, but things that really, really excite me.
And that’s hard for me because, I open up my mind and I spill out everything. Its called info dumping. It’s how I am wired. I kind of can’t not.
It’s all relevant, deeply understood and believed in stuff. But I know I’m being intense, overwhelming. I’m acting like a kid on her birthday because I’m that thrilled to be sharing how much I know and how much it means to me.
Calm the fuck down, I try to tell myself. Speak slowly. Stop using ten syllable words. Just simply answer the question. Stop staring at the floor, make yourself look in their eyes, you know you’re supposed to do that.
Cease, pause, they’re asking another question and ooh do you ever know the answer! Wait, collect yourself, don’t info dump, don’t info dump, don’t…and you’re info dumping. Again.
Are you still talking? Yep, of course you are. More like, you’re gushing. You’re a broken dam. Words, words, words, they’re coming and won’t stop.
Finally, I’ve reached the end. I look up at the panel with a bewildered shiver bc I realize I haven’t looked up at them since the questions that triggered the info dumping started and… that’s not good. That’s not what I’m supposed to do. That’s not good masking.
I can tell by the way they’re looking at me that I’m not getting this job. I’ve seen that look my whole life: mild amusement coupled with a gaze that’s processing me accurately in the deduction of: damn, you’re fucking odd, aren’t you?
And I am. I have a different brain. I’m on the spectrum. And you know what? This shouldn’t be a bad thing. I am deeply knowledgeable and passionate about the inner workings of my profession. I have a near genius level proficiency in my content area. I have several advanced degrees; hell, for one of them, I wrote the thesis that’s used as a teaching tool at my university in 72 hours (not even on adhd meds yet). I’m a brilliant, exuberant,eccentric, talented person, yet…
Rarely to never do I get job offers. I’ve only ever gotten positions because there was a desperate need for them to be filled. And considering how highly qualified I know I am for these positions, how little success I achieve in being offered them doesn’t sync up.
After this has happened so many times, I’m left only to conclude that it’s obvious after I interview that I am wired differently. I can’t mask it or hide it. And despite the awareness months and ribbons these places love to put out, they don’t want zebras on their staff. They want plough horses. Zebras are different and thereby unpredictable; plough horses are docile and safe.
Despite everything I’ve done and learned and attained to be a seasoned, formidable entity in my field, in the end, it doesn’t matter. Unless I hire an acting coach who can train me to mask my autism and pass as neurotypical, it all feels frustratingly pointless.
Discrimination in many forms is still alive and well. People who are on the outside are very quick to claim this isn’t so, but anyone in any marginalized group can speak to this. The bigots have simply learned to do a better job of hiding it.