They know what words mean...

rambling about how way too many people have assumed that my book and my presentations are not DEI because I didn't center race

Welcome to Fidgets and Fries!

Mostly free. Somewhat not.

If you’d like to honor my writings with a monetary contribution, thank you. If you already have, thank you. Your support allows me to invest in my writing in a way I hadn’t thought possible as well as pay for my son’s communication lessons. And if you are still an unpaid subscriber, thank you. Cause in a world where everyone wants their eyes on their work, you still chose to put your gaze on mine.

This newsletter rests at the intersection of the unserious ramblings of a woman full of buttered rice and dad jokes and the somewhat sophisticated stories and essays of someone who knows just enough “smart” words to sound super intelligent and insightful.

What will today’s newsletter be? Hmm…

I am going to ramble here. Could make sense. Could also NOT make sense too. Either way, I’m serving. You eating. Ain’t gotta like it but you gon’ get fed.

A Day with No Words is many things:

A story. A teacher. A guide. An invitation to an experience many are not familiar with. 

It is DEI.

This is a book that follows a day in my life as I navigate the world alongside my nonspeaking autistic son, who uses a tablet with a communication app instead of spoken language. And on this day, I do the same. Although my own autism is never explicitly mentioned in this story, it shapes my experience. Through this narrative, I aim to humanize my son’s disability. Some might argue that disability is an inherent part of the human experience—a natural variation within humanity. I would make that argument, but time is not on my side, especially in a world that views disability as something faulty or defective. Instead of embracing us, society distances itself, clinging to a perspective that ignores the reality of human life. The truth is, disability is a part of being human. If we live long enough, we will all experience it.

I wrote a picture book aimed at children because I wanted to heal my younger self. Not the little Tiff with fuzzy plaits who sat alone in open fields during recess because her classmates thought she was too weird to be around, but the younger version of Mama within me—the one whose children left for summer break one year, leaving behind curious children with open hearts and minds and returned that fall to classmates filled with animosity and fear. Harsh stares, pinched noses, and hushed whispers had become the landscape of my children’s school experience. 

This book was first and always meant to sooth my aching heart. Perhaps, it would help other families not feel what we felt? 

Perhaps. 

I wrote this book to reach both children and those who read to them. If I can teach them, I can reach them, and coming from someone who has never wanted to be academic in my work, this book was one of the most academic things I have done. 

Disability representation is woven into the pages of this book. It’s bold, in your face, and you cannot deny it’s there. It’s also a love letter to this skin I’m in. A celebration of autism recognition within this darker body. And a soft apology for not making more of a fuss about it within the 600 words I put into that book. 

Maybe I should have placed Blackness at the center of this story, made it undeniable, undeniable in a way that could not be ignored. But even so, incidental representation is representation. Blackness may not be the focal point, yet it is a thread woven through the very fabric of this book, just as it is woven into the fabric of our lives. It is not spoken of explicitly, but it is present, as natural as breath. That identity is acknowledged in the art of this work, even when it is not named. The encounter at the park—how could it not be shaped by our race? But I wrote it as though that truth had no place, as though I could erase its weight. I suffocated the truth of that moment, and I know why I did it. I don’t know that I will ever be okay with that choice. 

I cannot change the text now. I must live with the story. And trust me when I tell you that it’s not an insufferable existence to know the story is incomplete. It’s just…I know it’s incomplete. I took this partial, incomplete story and I shared it with the world. And the world responded. It took a book about a nonspeaking Black boy and his mama, communicating with each and the community with a tablet, and shot it to the top of bestseller lists. Many awards for the story of the boy who talks through his fingers.

I traveled the country with this book as my business card, this thing that solidified my place within the autism community as someone with something worth listening to. 

Workshops. Presentations. Keynotes. Webinars. Consulting. Brand Partnerships. Trainings. On disability. On autism. On communication. 

But also as it all intersects with Black. 

I have been traveling the country, invited into schools, libraries, businesses, colleges and universities to talk about our story. And our lives. 

However, we are facing some dark times. And what troubles me is that many of those you would expect to understand–those who profess that DEI is wrong, are ignorant to the fact that DEI includes the disabled. I speak of parents of autistic children, therapists, educators—those who invited me into their spaces with open arms to discuss autism, nonspeaking individuals, communication, and disability itself. And yet, they seem to forget, or worse, ignore, that disability is integral to the very fabric of diversity, equity, and inclusion.

What makes Co-President Trump so dangerous is not merely his disregard for truth, but his deliberate manipulation of language and meaning. He knew exactly what DEI represented and who it served. He allowed this nation to believe that DEI was a term synonymous with Black people. He knew that the quickest way to rouse his base—already steeped in suspicion and resentment—was to frame DEI as a scheme to give undeserving privileges to Black folk. He knew the power of sowing division and discord.

And when he turned his venom towards the disabled, he played a sinister game—one where the suffering of one group is used to justify the suffering of another. He knew how to exploit the hatred of one marginalized community to fuel his agenda against another. His supporters, already enraged by DEI's association with Black communities, now direct that rage toward the disabled. And in doing so, they make it easier to dehumanize them, to strip away their rights, their humanity, and their very dignity.

When the case for hate is being built, it's not long before other marginalized groups are thrown into the fire.

I have witnessed the rightful anger of many disabled people, who feel abandoned in these conversations about DEI. But let me be clear: ableism and racism are not separate, isolated forces. They are intertwined, bound together in a long history of exclusion and degradation. And right now, the forces of hatred and oppression are using DEI to attack both communities, and others. They have successfully tied DEI to Black people, weaponizing it to further their agendas. They come for others.

Those who rail against DEI, who call for its eradication, often claim that it is “racist”—and yet, in the same breath, they turn that hatred toward the disabled. This is not an accident. It is a strategy. They know that once they have succeeded in demonizing one group, they can add others to the list. And when you create a narrative of injustice, it becomes all too easy to perpetuate it, to build upon it, to use it to crush anyone who dares to resist.

have been denied opportunities recently because of the climate we're living in right now. Many are so afraid that simply having me in their schools, businesses, libraries, and other spaces will cause them serious problems. Some even had the audacity to say, outright, that they didn’t understand why this was an issue because I wasn’t coming to talk about "race," I was coming to talk about "communication."

In other words, they believed that because I wasn’t going to be “Black” that day, I wasn’t engaging in DEI work at all. They couldn’t fathom that disability is just as much a part of DEI as race.

But let me be clear: my very existence is political. The book I wrote, the work I do, promotes diversity, equity, inclusion, and access. When I step into your schools, your businesses, your communities, or even when I present virtually, I am actively participating in DEI. And those who invite me are doing the same—they are part of the larger DEI movement.

For activists like me, these are complicated times. But if you are committed to building a world that honors and supports all bodies—no matter their shape, form, or function—keep seeking us out. Keep inviting us to share our stories, our experiences, our truths. Don’t let fear push us backwards. We must keep moving forward, together.