It was hard to pick a single day to attempt this on, because my days all tend to be very different from one another rather than having any one “typical”, but here is my December 6, 2018…
7:30am: It’s time to feed my cat. I know this routine. “Your turn,” I tell her. It is an echo, something I can say with my mouth voice most days. Echoes are usually easier than spontaneous speech (here’s a video about echolalia if you’re unfamiliar), and talking to my emotional support animal is usually easier than speaking to other people.
7:45am: Taking the trash bag out, I see a neighbor I recognize in the lobby, but feel no pressure to speak. My neighbors know that I don’t. Well, most of them are under the impression that I never speak at all, an idea I deliberately allowed to build up. It is just so much easier than needing to justify using AAC part-time. Unfortunately, knowing I use AAC means most of them ignore me most of the time. It is a little sad that due to my communication method people here do not get to know me, but still I feel much more comfortable here than at the last apartment I lived at, where every elevator ride necessitated spoken conversation.
8:00am: The cat, now, is very awkwardly trying to arrange herself on my lap. Getting impatient, I say, “what doing?”. She doesn’t know that sentence was supposed to be more fleshed out. That’s why I don’t mind talking to her so much.
9:30am: On the train ride I start this blog post, using my symbols app to compose sentences and then copy and pasting into Google Docs. Somebody hovers just behind my seat for a weirdly long pause as I work, and I have to wonder whether they are staring at me.
10:15am: I have a folder just for phrases I need for my weekly pharmacy trip – because the exchange is always so predictable, it is easy to make a complete script in advance. The staff there are familiar enough with me that they do not blink when I show up using whichever communication method I’m favoring that day. However, I find myself wishing that somebody there knew sign language. It would be a great situation to be able to just say what I need quickly, without having to balance my device against my stomach while juggling a bag of prescriptions.
10:30am: I stop by my clinic’s referral office to see if they can call the local specialist I’m trying to go see. I adore text relay, but it’s admittedly much quicker to have someone else make this kind of phone call than it is to attempt it myself. The person I find in the office says hello in response to my greeting but then goes back to working on their computer while I type my next message. At least they respond when I do finish rather than ignoring me completely.
10:45am: The receptionist at my therapist’s office seems to think I am ignoring them when they call me to the desk and I start typing. They’re relatively new here, but they have met me before – that time, they didn’t acknowledge my AAC voice at all. (To be fair, I am really bad at judging whether my volume is too loud or too soft, and people seem hesitant to ask me to change it, so it’s possible they really just didn’t hear me.) This time, though the interaction is successful enough to check me in, they misgender me in the process. The app I use only has one voice option that has a slightly between-typical-binary-voices pitch, but sadly that’s not enough to suggest to the average cis person I might be trans.
11:00am: My therapist is very familiar with my tendency to switch communication methods back and forth within the same conversation, so the whole fifty minutes my speech is interspersed with typing from my QWERTY app. I notice, amused, that some stims are easier with one method versus the other – use my communication device, and it’s easier to suck on my chew necklace, use speech, and it’s easier to flap. I do sign “sorry” at one point automatically before remembering he wouldn’t understand it.
12:00pm: I stop back by the referrals office to see if the staff person I was looking for has returned yet, and indeed they’re there to take my questions via my communication device. Since first meeting them they haven’t commented or questioned that sometimes I speak and sometimes I don’t, but this time they do say, “wow, you type so fast.” I’m tempted to reply “you speak so fast”, but, whatever.
1:30pm: A walk, train ride, and trip through IKEA later, I am sensorily overwhelmed and not very languagey. Hands too full to type, I ask the marketplace cashier, “find marzipan?” They ask me to repeat myself. Sadly, they’re out, but I get through the rest of the transaction wordless.
…my AAC-related life basically ended there for the day, because I proceeded to enter sensory overwhelm plus then got an upsetting email. I barely got myself home in time to crash. I didn’t have any more face to face interactions that day, but friends were incredibly helpful via texting and twitter in getting me through the crash. To be honest, that kind of communication is essentially AAC as well. It’s not called that because abled people use it, but it’s totally just a method of communicating that doesn’t use speech, so I think it counts.
Well, nothing like trying to write a “day in the life” post related to disability and having the day end up derailed halfway through by disability (or I suppose more accurately, by ableism/inaccessibility). But hopefully this post gave you, um, six hours’ worth of insight into my life as a part-time AAC user. As you can see, most days are a weird mix of increased access due to this assistive tool and simultaneously decreased access due to ableism. One of the most important aspects my communicative life is flexibility: I really value situations where I can switch between communication methods whenever needed. So one of the morals of this story is how crucial it is for me to have people and places that honor my communication needs and choices. That means training for professionals, more kindness from strangers/acquaintances, and relationships where I feel safe to unmask. Where I feel free to speak, if I’d like, the way I would to my cat. And where AAC is understood as a not a sign of failure or a lack of something to say but as a positive tool that helps me say all the somethings I want.