I am not Adam Lanza's mother.
Over a year ago, something really terrible happened in Newtown. It launched our nation into an often vitriolic conversation about mental health, autism, and violence. The media tended to focus on the wrong things, like the fact the shooter may or may not have been diagnosed with an autism spectrum disorder. When, you know, autism does NOT cause violence; it does not lead to mass murder. Ugh, I'm still angry as I think back to some of the uninformed things I read in the news last year.
In the midst of all of this, a mother opined her $.02 on her blog. You know the one, you all read it--the "I am Adam Lanza's mother" manifesto by The Anarchist Soccer Mom.
Did she raise some important points about the broken mental healthcare system in the United States? YES. We need more people to call the system out so that we can begin to change the system and change lives.
But here's my issue, the issue that eventually led me to stop blogging--The Anarchist Soccer Mom didn't use a just pseudonym to identify herself. Right there on her own blog, next to a picture of her, is her full name, Liza Long. And she didn't out herself, and by extension, her son, on just her blog. She published the post under her own name on The Blue Review. And then, as her post gained viral traction, she went on the morning talk show circuit. I got to see into her life, in depth, on PBS--I saw her, the inside of her home, her neighborhood, her all.
Long made no attempt to keep herself anonymous, which means her son was never allowed to keep himself anonymous. Sure, she didn't use his name. But when a mother has her face a personal details all over the TV and the Internet, it's pretty easy to figure out who her son is, who the "monster" is that she has to hide the knives from (yep, she proudly showed off the container she hides the knives in on PBS).
Forget HIPAA; this child now has no chance of having his healthcare information kept private. Everyone in his community now knows of his mental health diagnoses. How many whispers and stares did he get because of his mother's actions? How many people turned their grocery carts the other way and went down a different aisle to avoid him in the local Safeway? How severely has this scarred an already fragile child?
People began forwarding Long's piece to me as it went viral, at least one person commenting that it reminded them of my experience with Beh.
Um, what?
I was stopped in my tracks. How on earth could someone see a parallel between my son, who doesn't have language to express his fears and sorrows so he at times turns to screaming and pinching to communicate them, and a child who deliberately threatens and attempts to murder people? Are you kidding me?
I know my friends are well-intentioned and shared the article in love. But I couldn't get passed the fact that this was how the world saw my son. Even worse, that I had a role in that perception. How often had I violated my child's privacy with my words?
So I stopped writing, completely.
In the time that has passed since that sad December, I've had a lot of time to think about all these things. The truth is, we need to be having conversations about autism, healthcare, mental health, and (dis)ability, and those conversations need to happen in the public sphere. There are so many ignorant misconceptions about neurodifferences, so many backwards medical and governmental policies, that we have to talk about these issues loudly enough for others to hear if we hope to make a change.
But we also need to protect our kids.
I hope to do both. I'm reminded of bell hooks and her discussion of the challenges of being publicly private, bringing the personal into the public sphere. In the end, she decides the challenges are worth it.
So I write. Carefully, cautiously. You never saw my full name on this blog, and you won't now. There will be no identifying pictures. You will not see my sons' names. They will just be N, Beh (the pseudonym his brother gave him nine years ago still fits), and L (yes, there is a third now--it's been awhile since I've blogged!).
And if I'm ever foolhardy enough to attempt to appropriate somebody else's experiences as my own--whether it is pretending I know the experiences of the now voiceless mother of Adam Lanza or my own children--I hope you'll call me on it.
Here's to continuing the conversation.
