The Tomatoes and the Bad Men
I recently listened to a podcast on my football team, Manchester City. In it, Dr Gary James, the well-respected historian of football, claimed that Aguero's injury time winner didn't win City the league [in the 2011/12 Premier League season]; the league was won as a culmination of the rest of the season.
That's a really interesting philosophical perspective. I'd love to pick apart his extended philosophical outlook. Do we, humans, and all other organic life forms, exist, or are we simply the latest iteration of cosmic matter, bound to reform at the whim of the universe, and time, along a continuum that approaches infinity? Do 'moments', as such, exist? And do they--
"Excuse me, mate."
The train of thought whistling through my mind comes to a screeching halt. Was that a question?
"Excuse me."
I put down the tray of salads I'd been decanting. If a tray is put down on the floor, it should align perfectly with the outer edge of the cooling racks where all fresh produce is kept. This isn't company policy. It's an effort to order my surroundings in this maelstrom of a store, where just one thing out of place can lead to sublimely shrill, metallic-tasting, all senses-engaged demands from the Karens of Stockport to speak to our department manager. Perfectly tesselating shapes are fundamentally satisfying to most people, I reckon. Maybe not the Karens. I hope they don't mind that the tray is on the floor. Their little Karens-in-waiting, who will no doubt be chomping on the free oranges they're offered on entering the store, could go flying. "Hi mate, welcome to Morrison's, can I help you?" I ask.
"Yeah, sure. I've just picked up these tomatoes, but the sign doesn't match what's here. What's the price of these?" He holds in his hand some vine-ripened The Best Morrison's tomatoes, but the sign points him towards what should be in their place: The Best Morrison's piccolo tomatoes. The boxes are roughly the same size. This is where, I expect, most of you will guess that the spectre of missing tomatoes will send me into a convulsive meltdown. It will shake me to my very core, it will cause me to verbally retreat, become reticent and break down in profuse apology to this man.
But none of that happens, because there's a more fundamental truth underlining this exchange. Every single The Best tomato product, on the same product line, is priced at £1.75. Any sense of order above this baseline, such as labelling each product individually, seems abstract, and wasteful. This is one of the anomalies of autism. My autism, anyway. What's the need for extremely explicit signposting if, logically, we can all work out that every single product in this product line in £1.75? What's the need for artificial order if there's a baser order? It constitues nothing but mental waste.
"Its £1.75."
"Ah. You should take more care to signpost these. Just look at it."
"I think, perhaps, all The Best stuff is £1.75?"
The confrontation becomes absurd very quickly. He starts gesturing wildly at a rack of well-stocked tomatoes as if he was lamenting the ruins of Dresden after its firebombing in WWII. "Do you see what I mean, though? Do you? The signs are just everywhere!" The irony of what he just said was, indeed, lost on him. The entire rack was well labelled, even if the signs didn't correspond exactly to where the produce was. But he missed the deeper point. They were all linked by an underground nexus, all priced at £1.75, and it really didn't take much mental legwork, or logical faculty, to work that out. "Yeah, I guess," I say. I stand motionless as the clump of grey matter in my head responsible for logic and reason whirs. I don't give voice to any of these thoughts that consume me, whilst I try and abide by the social rules. He'd probably just laugh. I hate that. I hate people laughing at my frankness, or my mental gymnastics, or inability to navigate stairs properly, or at the fact I don't "seem autistic." It's out of my control.
"What's the matter? You look upset. Sorry, I didn't mean to upset you." Was it only a moment ago that I wondered if moments actually exist? They do. Because in this moment, he's trying my patience. He wears a contemptuous smirk, and I wonder why. Nothing is funny. You're the fool here, because each The Best product has its own livery, and under each tomato product line there's a huge black sign reading '£1.75.' You're the simpleton here, you dope. You can't spot patterns. You'd probably laugh at me because autistic people can spot patterns. You're the one deserving of an eddy, a vortex, whirling around and about your conscience over how you should interact with others, or how you should present yourself. Or how you should cope day to day, knowing you're different. Because I have that affliction. Yet, I don't try and belittle supermarket workers because I feel agitated, or bored, or in desperate need of attention.
I know what a little voice in your head may be saying. "Life isn't as black and white as that. You can't expect everybody to pick up patterns, as obvious as they may be." I understand that. I am a professionally trained historian and will, hopefully, be soon in receipt of a doctorate. I know reality has shades, if there's even a reality to speak of at all. But in moments such as this, autistic people rely on such distinctions being, rationally or irrationally, made. Events that hit a nerve so sharply can only really be negated by two things: a) physically stimming, or b) reductionism. I hid my autism at work for 5 years. I couldn't stim as usual. I could rattle my fingers, and chew my tongue, because they could pass as "quirks" or weird idiosyncrasies.
I had to reduce reality to 'good' and 'bad' people. It was the only way in which the constant and relentless forms of stimuli could be processed. A typical shift might involve me unloading stock, taking a stock count, labelling, reducing to clear, arranging flowers, putting some calls out and facing-up. My head is on a pivot constantly, checking space, checking spaces, people walking, people talking, bags rustling, heads spinning, trollies clattering, people clammouring, produce rolling, nuts shaking, people shouting, people running, managers prowling, wheelers lying, wheelers rolling - my mind is permanently in overdrive. I can't make any sense of it all. After 5 years, after almost every single shift, I would leave work with a kind of exhaustive and disturbing fatigue that I can only assume new mothers share. New stimuli, and sources of worry and anxiety, some you won't have acknowledged or even conceived of before, drain your faculties.
New mothers, please find that as insulting as you please.
The way people would watch me at work seemed voyeuristic, and perverse. I don't mean literally. Though, because I have long hair, a lot of old men did put their hands on my waist from behind, only to receive a shock that would help them along their way in realising gender, most certainly, is socially constructed. One felt my arse. Is it perverse to say that I know, firsthand, what women experience? Or would that be some form of male voyeurism in itself and I should stop trying to co-opt feminism?
Back from that tangent: I'd often stack bananas in size order. People would watch me until I'd finished, before reaching and grabbing a fistful of yellow, potassium goodness. Sometimes they'd tear at the stalk and rip a couple from their bunch, like ravenous dogs or birds. They could not be any more forceful. "Sorry to have messed up your display, ha ha!" they'd exclaim. On the surface, I'd laugh along. But at my core, this felt like the most obvious display of consumer capitalism's cruel and psychologically demeaning qualities. These people watched me extol my labour, for which I am meagerly compensated, only to spoil the aesthetic fruits of said labour and in doing so, create more labour, of which people will also watch me carry out to eventually ruin? Bad men.
And I know, fully, that is irrational. But its how we cope. We have to be so reductive because to walk away crying does not fall under the rules that dictate social work. I'd tell people that I was a greengrocer, because I worked on the fruit and veg aisle. My role was not as all-encompassing as others', so to reduce my own title was to help other people, as well as myself. People would laugh and say "greengrocer?! You work at Morrison's!" But they miss the point. I have a very consequentialist outlook on the world, and to be superfluous about other things I may be asked to do in-store would be to negate what I feel my main duties are. Also, on the subject of capitalism, your work is fundamentally tied to your identity. That can be extremely comforting to an autistic person, as bad as capitalism is. It gives us something tangible and real to desperately hold onto. So I'm a greengrocer.
Moreover this sense of identity can help reinforce autistic peoples' expectations. I often got plucked from my department, put on the tills, sent back, called back to the tills, and so on until my shift ended. This really is not an ideal or ethical way to treat an employee with autism. I, and others, will build a very narrow, very specific mental picture to work towards over the course of our shifts. If the fabric of that vision is ruptured, it can be disastrous. Those who cannot process their thoughts or feelings as effectively will metldown. In my case, my productivity will unhealthily wane. I cannot work towards a future goal if, in the short or medium term, the means to that goal (through being plucked out of my department to man the tills, for example) are consistently and needlessly disturbed. It contributes to overwhelming feelings of persecution. Dramatic, but it takes its toll.
Even for me. It happened once too often one brisk September morning. My manager asked me to man the tills. Without even looking at him, I swivelled on my heels, marched into the back room, rang my mother and bawled down the phone, claiming I couldn't cope anymore. It seems strange, looking back, that this induced such a massive reaction. But such is autism. If I could explain it, I could remedy it.
So don't accost young workers over a tomato display. It doesn't matter. None of us do. Let's enjoy being alive, and love, and happiness, rather than losing control of your spasmodic eyebrows in incandescent rage over a red foodstuff that doesn't give a sh*t about your existence.
That's a really interesting philosophical perspective. I'd love to pick apart his extended philosophical outlook. Do we, humans, and all other organic life forms, exist, or are we simply the latest iteration of cosmic matter, bound to reform at the whim of the universe, and time, along a continuum that approaches infinity? Do 'moments', as such, exist? And do they--
"Excuse me, mate."
The train of thought whistling through my mind comes to a screeching halt. Was that a question?
"Excuse me."
I put down the tray of salads I'd been decanting. If a tray is put down on the floor, it should align perfectly with the outer edge of the cooling racks where all fresh produce is kept. This isn't company policy. It's an effort to order my surroundings in this maelstrom of a store, where just one thing out of place can lead to sublimely shrill, metallic-tasting, all senses-engaged demands from the Karens of Stockport to speak to our department manager. Perfectly tesselating shapes are fundamentally satisfying to most people, I reckon. Maybe not the Karens. I hope they don't mind that the tray is on the floor. Their little Karens-in-waiting, who will no doubt be chomping on the free oranges they're offered on entering the store, could go flying. "Hi mate, welcome to Morrison's, can I help you?" I ask.
"Yeah, sure. I've just picked up these tomatoes, but the sign doesn't match what's here. What's the price of these?" He holds in his hand some vine-ripened The Best Morrison's tomatoes, but the sign points him towards what should be in their place: The Best Morrison's piccolo tomatoes. The boxes are roughly the same size. This is where, I expect, most of you will guess that the spectre of missing tomatoes will send me into a convulsive meltdown. It will shake me to my very core, it will cause me to verbally retreat, become reticent and break down in profuse apology to this man.
But none of that happens, because there's a more fundamental truth underlining this exchange. Every single The Best tomato product, on the same product line, is priced at £1.75. Any sense of order above this baseline, such as labelling each product individually, seems abstract, and wasteful. This is one of the anomalies of autism. My autism, anyway. What's the need for extremely explicit signposting if, logically, we can all work out that every single product in this product line in £1.75? What's the need for artificial order if there's a baser order? It constitues nothing but mental waste.
"Its £1.75."
"Ah. You should take more care to signpost these. Just look at it."
"I think, perhaps, all The Best stuff is £1.75?"
The confrontation becomes absurd very quickly. He starts gesturing wildly at a rack of well-stocked tomatoes as if he was lamenting the ruins of Dresden after its firebombing in WWII. "Do you see what I mean, though? Do you? The signs are just everywhere!" The irony of what he just said was, indeed, lost on him. The entire rack was well labelled, even if the signs didn't correspond exactly to where the produce was. But he missed the deeper point. They were all linked by an underground nexus, all priced at £1.75, and it really didn't take much mental legwork, or logical faculty, to work that out. "Yeah, I guess," I say. I stand motionless as the clump of grey matter in my head responsible for logic and reason whirs. I don't give voice to any of these thoughts that consume me, whilst I try and abide by the social rules. He'd probably just laugh. I hate that. I hate people laughing at my frankness, or my mental gymnastics, or inability to navigate stairs properly, or at the fact I don't "seem autistic." It's out of my control.
"What's the matter? You look upset. Sorry, I didn't mean to upset you." Was it only a moment ago that I wondered if moments actually exist? They do. Because in this moment, he's trying my patience. He wears a contemptuous smirk, and I wonder why. Nothing is funny. You're the fool here, because each The Best product has its own livery, and under each tomato product line there's a huge black sign reading '£1.75.' You're the simpleton here, you dope. You can't spot patterns. You'd probably laugh at me because autistic people can spot patterns. You're the one deserving of an eddy, a vortex, whirling around and about your conscience over how you should interact with others, or how you should present yourself. Or how you should cope day to day, knowing you're different. Because I have that affliction. Yet, I don't try and belittle supermarket workers because I feel agitated, or bored, or in desperate need of attention.
I know what a little voice in your head may be saying. "Life isn't as black and white as that. You can't expect everybody to pick up patterns, as obvious as they may be." I understand that. I am a professionally trained historian and will, hopefully, be soon in receipt of a doctorate. I know reality has shades, if there's even a reality to speak of at all. But in moments such as this, autistic people rely on such distinctions being, rationally or irrationally, made. Events that hit a nerve so sharply can only really be negated by two things: a) physically stimming, or b) reductionism. I hid my autism at work for 5 years. I couldn't stim as usual. I could rattle my fingers, and chew my tongue, because they could pass as "quirks" or weird idiosyncrasies.
I had to reduce reality to 'good' and 'bad' people. It was the only way in which the constant and relentless forms of stimuli could be processed. A typical shift might involve me unloading stock, taking a stock count, labelling, reducing to clear, arranging flowers, putting some calls out and facing-up. My head is on a pivot constantly, checking space, checking spaces, people walking, people talking, bags rustling, heads spinning, trollies clattering, people clammouring, produce rolling, nuts shaking, people shouting, people running, managers prowling, wheelers lying, wheelers rolling - my mind is permanently in overdrive. I can't make any sense of it all. After 5 years, after almost every single shift, I would leave work with a kind of exhaustive and disturbing fatigue that I can only assume new mothers share. New stimuli, and sources of worry and anxiety, some you won't have acknowledged or even conceived of before, drain your faculties.
New mothers, please find that as insulting as you please.
The way people would watch me at work seemed voyeuristic, and perverse. I don't mean literally. Though, because I have long hair, a lot of old men did put their hands on my waist from behind, only to receive a shock that would help them along their way in realising gender, most certainly, is socially constructed. One felt my arse. Is it perverse to say that I know, firsthand, what women experience? Or would that be some form of male voyeurism in itself and I should stop trying to co-opt feminism?
Back from that tangent: I'd often stack bananas in size order. People would watch me until I'd finished, before reaching and grabbing a fistful of yellow, potassium goodness. Sometimes they'd tear at the stalk and rip a couple from their bunch, like ravenous dogs or birds. They could not be any more forceful. "Sorry to have messed up your display, ha ha!" they'd exclaim. On the surface, I'd laugh along. But at my core, this felt like the most obvious display of consumer capitalism's cruel and psychologically demeaning qualities. These people watched me extol my labour, for which I am meagerly compensated, only to spoil the aesthetic fruits of said labour and in doing so, create more labour, of which people will also watch me carry out to eventually ruin? Bad men.
And I know, fully, that is irrational. But its how we cope. We have to be so reductive because to walk away crying does not fall under the rules that dictate social work. I'd tell people that I was a greengrocer, because I worked on the fruit and veg aisle. My role was not as all-encompassing as others', so to reduce my own title was to help other people, as well as myself. People would laugh and say "greengrocer?! You work at Morrison's!" But they miss the point. I have a very consequentialist outlook on the world, and to be superfluous about other things I may be asked to do in-store would be to negate what I feel my main duties are. Also, on the subject of capitalism, your work is fundamentally tied to your identity. That can be extremely comforting to an autistic person, as bad as capitalism is. It gives us something tangible and real to desperately hold onto. So I'm a greengrocer.
Moreover this sense of identity can help reinforce autistic peoples' expectations. I often got plucked from my department, put on the tills, sent back, called back to the tills, and so on until my shift ended. This really is not an ideal or ethical way to treat an employee with autism. I, and others, will build a very narrow, very specific mental picture to work towards over the course of our shifts. If the fabric of that vision is ruptured, it can be disastrous. Those who cannot process their thoughts or feelings as effectively will metldown. In my case, my productivity will unhealthily wane. I cannot work towards a future goal if, in the short or medium term, the means to that goal (through being plucked out of my department to man the tills, for example) are consistently and needlessly disturbed. It contributes to overwhelming feelings of persecution. Dramatic, but it takes its toll.
Even for me. It happened once too often one brisk September morning. My manager asked me to man the tills. Without even looking at him, I swivelled on my heels, marched into the back room, rang my mother and bawled down the phone, claiming I couldn't cope anymore. It seems strange, looking back, that this induced such a massive reaction. But such is autism. If I could explain it, I could remedy it.
So don't accost young workers over a tomato display. It doesn't matter. None of us do. Let's enjoy being alive, and love, and happiness, rather than losing control of your spasmodic eyebrows in incandescent rage over a red foodstuff that doesn't give a sh*t about your existence.
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