Driving out the darkness

My daughter and I go to a lot of concerts and musical theater events together. She is always concerned that I won’t be able to handle all the noise, people, and lights. Believe it or not, I love going to concerts, although I never leave home without my earplugs.

One of the things I love most about music is how it brings all types of people together. I was once again struck by this phenomenon while attending a Queen + Adam Lambert concert recently. Legendary British guitar player Brian May and drummer Roger Taylor were joined by American Idol runner-up Adam Lambert on lead vocals. There’s no question that Freddie Mercury is irreplaceable, but Adam gave an amazing performance. He didn’t try to imitate Freddie, yet still paid homage to the voice of Queen.

There were obvious differences among the concert-goers, such as age and ethnic background. And there were undoubtedly not-so-easy-to-spot differences. Political persuasion, sexuality, religion, ability/disability, etc. Yet we all sang and clapped along together to the songs we know and love so well. We will never all agree on everything, and frankly oftentimes it feels like we don’t agree on hardly anything. But for a few hours, we can come together and agree about something, even if only for a little while, and being a part of that feeds my soul.

When I ordered the tickets, I wasn’t able to get two seats together, so I opted to get one seat right behind the other. Needless to say, my daughter wasn’t thrilled with this arrangement and I admit it wasn’t ideal, but it was the best I could do at the time. Fortunately, there was a nice family sitting next to me who offered to switch seats so that my daughter and I could be next to each other. I thanked them profusely and repeatedly, yet still felt that my gratitude was insufficient for what they did for us. Thanks to their generosity, we were able to enjoy the concert so much more.

At one point in the show, Brian asked each person in the audience to hold up their phones and every corner of the arena filled with light. Surrounded by the glow, he said, “We need more light in the world right now.”

Brian May sits in the spotlight, surrounded by our light

As children around the country get ready to return to their classrooms, my thoughts anxiously drift to those students who need a little extra light from their peers and teachers to help them through the day. School is challenging enough as it is without having additional hardships to endure. Sending a child with special needs off to school is especially difficult, in part because there’s no way of knowing whether your child will be on the receiving end of someone else’s rush to judgment or their exercise in acceptance, and you can’t be there to help navigate any situation that might arise.

My son has been very fortunate so far to have had extremely understanding teachers and staff who have been able to see what a great kid he is in spite of his frustrations and challenges. I’m not sure how many of his peers are able to grasp that, though, and I worry as much about how they will react to him as much as how he will react to them.

Every school day around lunchtime, I think of him and wonder what he’s going through at that moment. Is he sitting by himself, or has he found a friend? Will his classmates accept him as he is, or will they decide he’s not enough like them to bother trying to get to know him? Will they invite him to join their table, or will they ignore him?

He’s allowed to eat lunch separately from everyone else if needed, in case he’s feeling anxious or just can’t handle all the activity going on in the cafeteria. If he starts feeling overwhelmed during class, he’s allowed to take a break and return when he feels ready. Little things like this have made an enormous difference in how he functions at school. It took us several years to figure these things out, and it took him quite awhile to be able to recognize when he needs help before things spiral out of control, but his situation would never have improved without the cooperation and determination of his teachers and administrators. We will never be able to show or articulate our appreciation to them sufficiently, although we do keep trying.

All this talk of light has reminded me of a quote from a sermon that Dr. Martin Luther King wrote while in jail for non-violent protest and later delivered in November, 1957.

“Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.”

May we strive to fill the dark corners of the world with our light and love.

This one time, at band camp …

I really did go to band camp. Twice, actually. This first time was in the summer of 1992 when I was 14. It wasn’t my idea and I really did not want to go. Spending several days with total strangers was not (and still isn’t) my idea of a good time, even if music is involved.

I spent two weeks living in a dorm at the University of Kansas where I didn’t know a soul. All I remember about my roommate was that she was from Falls City, Nebraska, and was in training for cross country. We didn’t exactly hit it off.

Fortunately, there were two girls in the room next door who befriended me and took me under their wing. Claire and Kate were best friends and both played double-reed instruments. I learned about Claire’s love for Billy Joel and the Carpenters, and Kate’s sister who had the exact same first, middle, and last name as my cousin. They showed me how they made their own reeds and let me tag along with them for the week. The following summer I went to a different band camp that my new friends invited me to attend with them.

Me at age 14 with my dog, Dixie

The friends-by-adoption strategy is how I’ve operated socially my entire life, whether it was with a neighbor child, someone I sat next to at circle time in kindergarten, or people in the room next door at band camp. Although I have had friends over the years, I never make the first move at developing a relationship with someone else, and I hardly ever invite anyone to do anything with me unless I know for sure that they will say yes.

Let’s fast forward a few decades. In 2014 I attended my first national convention as a piano technician. I was new to the profession and didn’t know anyone outside of a few people from my local chapter who I’d briefly met at a few monthly meetings. On one hand, it felt really good to be around other people who spoke the lingo and had an understanding of what I do. But on the other hand, it was like trying to join a club when I hadn’t been invited. No one was rude or anything, but many of the people there had known each other for decades and attend conventions just to hang out with their old friends and socialize, unlike me who didn’t know anyone and was there solely to learn.

Although I did learn a lot, I felt like an intruder the entire time I was at the convention. I skipped the formal dinner on the last day, even though the meal ticket was included with registration. I didn’t want to spend an entire evening trapped at a table seated between strangers making small talk. “So where are you from? How long have you been a piano technician? What made you decide to want to do this for a living?” No, thank you.

I’m sure most people have some anxiety about being in an unfamiliar surrounding where they don’t know anyone. From what I’ve observed, people who are good at socializing seem to overcome any anxiety they might have fairly quickly as they become comfortable in their surroundings. But for people like me, it’s not just anxiety, it’s paralyzing fear and it doesn’t usually go away very quickly, if ever.

I have never been able to approach someone I didn’t know and strike up a conversation, unless I had a specific purpose for doing so. For example, I attended a regional political training session a few weeks ago and one of the speakers offered to come train local groups individually. After the session was over, I approached him and asked him to come speak to the people in my county. I knew he was going to say yes because he had just offered to do exactly what I was going to ask of him. That I can do, but if there’s no certainty of a topic of conversation and I don’t have a specific reason to talk to someone, I cannot do that. And by that I don’t mean that I just can’t bring myself to do it psychologically, I mean I can’t do it physically.

The best way I can describe it is that it feels like the thoughts inside my head get tangled up with each other and I can’t formulate the necessary words. Any words I do come up with get stuck somewhere in my throat and I can’t force them out. All the while my tongue feels like a heavy, immobile object.

This inability to speak at certain times is called selective mutism, which occurs when someone is fully capable of speaking and understanding language, but is physically unable to speak in certain situations. For example, a person with selective mutism might be able to speak comfortably and freely at home or with people they know well, but is unable to do so in an unfamiliar or pressured social situation. Although not universal, selective mutism is common for people on the autism spectrum.

If you don’t understand what selective mutism is and why it occurs, it’s easy to assume that someone who doesn’t converse in a normal way is shy, socially awkward, rude, or maybe even a pretentious snob. In reality, while he or she might in fact be any or all of those things, the person having trouble getting the words out might also be fighting an inner turmoil that you know nothing about.

She understands that there’s no way you would know this unless she told you, but, of course, she can’t. All she asks is that you be slow to judge and quick to understand.

A stimulating conversation

I can clearly remember the first time I was cognitively aware of feeling really different than everyone else. I was probably six or seven years old, standing in our backyard, looking at a maple tree. It was almost as though I was looking through binoculars, but instead of using binoculars, I used the outlines of my nose as though they were the curved edges of the sides of the lenses. I lined up the tree exactly in the center of my visual field and purposefully blinked, as though I were taking a picture of the centered tree in my mind.

At that moment, I was fully aware that what I was doing was unusual, and even thought to myself, “I’m pretty sure no one else does this.” Ever since then, I have had the habit of trying to center things in my field of vision and “taking pictures” of objects by blinking, almost as though my eyelids are camera shutters, so as to capture an image in my mind. I am most aware of doing this when I’m sitting in a room trying to center doorways and windows, although most of the time I do it unconsciously.

One of the characteristics of autism is displaying repetitive behavior of some sort. This can be either verbal or bodily movements, such as hand flapping, rocking back and forth, repeating certain words or phrases, counting, pacing, etc. Some of these behaviors are obvious to others and some aren’t. These types of behaviors are called “stimming”, which is short for self-stimulating behavior.

Stimming probably seems useless to the average person, but is used as a way for an autistic person to calm themselves by providing something familiar to focus on, help them cope with stressful situations and the uncertainties of daily life, or simply for enjoyment or pleasure.

Oddly enough, this strange behavior of mine helps me feel calmer, especially in uncomfortable social situations. Aside from taking mental pictures, I have done other types of stimming over the years. When I was very young, my parents told me that I had a favorite blanket with satin trim that I rubbed between my fingers in order to calm myself down before going to sleep. In first grade, I used to suck on my hair until my teacher told me to stop, so I started biting my nails instead. (She didn’t like that, either, by the way.) When I got older, I flipped pens during class and the TV remote control at home.

I took a typing class in sixth grade, and ever since then I “type” out things with my fingers even when not at a keyboard – things I hear people say, thoughts in my head, song lyrics, road signs, license plates, things I read in a book, really anything with words, letters, or numbers. It’s imperceptible to most people; at most it probably just looks like I’m very slightly wiggling my fingers. Most of the time I don’t even realize I’m doing it. When I’m listening to music or have a song running through my head, I also finger the melodies I hear as though I’m playing the flute. It’s not very often that my fingers aren’t moving in some way or another. I also get certain words or phrases stuck in my head, as if there’s a soundtrack playing on a continuous loop. These words or phrases can be something I hear, think, or read, such as a street sign (“Do not enter, do not enter, do not … “) or license plates (GXI 792, GXI 792, GXI …), and of course I type these out, too.

No one has ever said anything about it to me, so I assume no one has ever noticed. As with any of my unusual habits, I have never tried to explain this to someone because I didn’t think that it would make sense to them, and even now it’s hard to describe my actions in words so that others can understand.

Below is a video I took of myself “typing” out the words as I hear them spoken on the radio. Hopefully this will give you a better idea of what I’m trying to explain.

Do many neurotypical (i.e., “normal”) people use some type of self-stimulating behavior, too? I would guess some of them probably do, although simply having some sort of repetitive habit doesn’t necessarily mean a person is autistic. It’s just one of many characteristics of autism. (See my Autism 101 post for the full list.)

Aside from the calming influence they have on me, my stims have other benefits. For one, I’ve always been really good at typing; I can type about 80 words per minute. And I have an excellent memory, partly, I believe, because of repeating things in my mind over and over again. I tend to remember a lot of trivial things that most people forget. Once again, this is where I make the argument for the positive aspects of autism.

So while these behaviors might seem strange or odd to you or others, stimming is very beneficial to autistic people. If it helps us and doesn’t harm anyone else, I can’t see the problem with it on a basic level. The real problem we face is the task of educating others on what it is and its usefulness to us. In that sense, we still have a long way to go on the road to understanding. Autistic people telling their stories and explaining their behaviors is a good first step.

Case #1 – Donald T.

Donald Triplett, the first autism patient in the U.S.

No, not him.

Donald Triplett was born in Mississippi in 1933 to a well-to-do family in the banking business. From the very beginning, he was happiest when left alone and didn’t respond to other people, even his parents. He refused to learn to ride a bicycle or go down a playground slide. By the age of two, he could count to 100, recite the alphabet forwards and backwards, and name every U.S. president and vice president. He tended to repeat phrases incessantly, loved to spin toy tops and other things on the floor, and liked to line up objects in strict sequences. He was fascinated by numbers and was able to quickly multiply large numbers in his head.

Clearly there was something unusual about Donald, but no doctors had been able to provide any help or explanation. Those of us studying Donald today are able to easily recognize many characteristics of autism, but at that time autism wasn’t even a condition known to anyone in the medical field.

When he was three, the family doctor convinced his parents to commit Donald to an institution, believing that a radical change of environment would help him. His parents were allowed to visit him only twice each month. In this strange new place and deprived of familiar surroundings, Donald withdrew to the point of barely eating, sat in a fixed position for hours paying no attention to anything, and developed a habit of nodding his head from side to side. The institution’s director believed Donald had some sort of glandular disease and protested when the Tripletts decided to take their son home one year after his arrival.

In 1938, his parents took him to the Children’s Clinic in Baltimore to be evaluated by Dr. Leo Kanner, a pioneer in the field of child psychiatry in the United States. A Ukranian Jew, Kanner immigrated to the U.S. in 1924 by way of Berlin, where he went to medical school and had a practice. Kanner wrote the best-selling and first child psychiatry textbook published in English, titled Child Psychiatry.

Donald T. became the first of eleven children in Kanner’s study, which led to the 1943 publication of his landmark paper, “Autistic Disturbances of Affective Contact.” Kanner studiously described his highly intelligent patients who also displayed a powerful desire to be alone and an obsessive insistence on things remaining the same. Until this time, the children would have been considered feeble-minded, idiots, imbeciles, or schizophrenic.

The parents of the children Kanner studied described them as self-sufficient, happiest when left alone, acting as if others weren’t there, perfectly oblivious to everything around them, giving the impression of silent wisdom, failing to develop the usual amount of social awareness, and acting as if almost hypnotized.

Kanner was particularly struck by their inability to relate to people and objects in an ordinary way. For example, all the children walked into the examination room and immediately focused on toys or other objects in the room, but didn’t pay any attention to the people present. They were aware of others in the room, but they gave them as much regard as the furniture. One child exhibited fear of a pin that pricked her but not of the person holding the needle.

In group settings, the children would remain on the periphery of the group or altogether alone, but quickly learned the names, hair color, and other specifics about their peers. They exhibited astounding vocabulary and excellent memory, but were somewhat clumsy.

One interesting common denominator was that all the children were born to highly intelligent families. In addition, they all had strikingly intelligent facial features that gave the impression of serious-mindedness and anxious tension when in the presence of others.

Kanner diagnosed the children in his study with what he called early infantile autism, which was later simplified to autism.

Whatever happened to Donald Triplett after Dr. Kanner’s study?

When he was nine years old, Donald parents arranged for him to live with a nearby farming couple. He attended a country school and was put to good use around the farm. His fascination with numbers was used to calculate the depth of a well and count rows of corn. His parents visited often. After four years, Donald returned home and went to high school in his hometown. His peers and teachers viewed him as a genius and, fortunately, were very accepting and protective of him. After graduating he attended Millsaps College and earned a degree in French, then returned home and worked as a teller in the family bank. Eventually he learned to drive, play golf, and travel the world. He is now 85 years old. More about Donald’s long, happy, remarkable life is available here.

As autism’s first patient, Donald has shown us that it is possible to thrive in spite of a terribly rough start in life. It’s undeniable that autism creates roadblocks that seem insurmountable and that many don’t understand. But autism doesn’t have to be the end of the road. If we allow it, autism can be the vehicle for an extraordinary journey.

Donald Triplett, age 85

Call me crazy

Patsy Cline performing Crazy, 1961

Crazy, I’m crazy for feeling so lonely. I’m crazy, crazy for feeling so blue.

Written by Willie Nelson and performed by Patsy Cline, Crazy is one of my all-time favorite songs. Hearing Cline effortlessly jump from a high note to a low note, the raw emotion and tone of her voice give me goosebumps every time. I also love the sentimental melody and lazy, unhurried tempo of the song.

It was the spring of 1999. I was finishing my third year of college and things were not going well. I was definitely feeling lonely and blue, maybe a bit crazy, too.

Academically speaking, I was doing great. The books side of school had always been easy for me. That didn’t change in college. I made the Dean’s list every semester and was studying under a fabulous flute professor who taught me so much about performance improvement. I enjoyed the classes I was taking, unless we had to do group activities. The very thought sent me into a panic attack.

Every subject that I was interested in and excelled at (music, foreign languages, history) would have led to a teaching career or something that involved a lot of interaction with people, which I knew I wasn’t cut out for. I didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life after graduation and was amassing student loan debt by the day. I had come too far to quit or start over, but was utterly lost about which path to take.

Overall, I was unhappy. Something was wrong but I didn’t know what, so I started researching medical possibilities. WebMD was in its infancy at the time, but I found a condition that I thought seemed to fit me best: avoidant personality disorder.

People with avoidant personality disorder:

  • are overly sensitive and easily hurt by criticism or disapproval (check)
  • have few, if any, close friends and are reluctant to become involved with others unless they are certain of being liked (check)
  • experience extreme anxiety and fear in social settings and relationships, leading them to avoid activities or jobs that involve being with others (check)
  • tend to be shy, awkward, and self-conscious in social situations due to a fear of doing something wrong or being embarrassed (check)
  • seldom try anything new or take chances (check)
  • have a poor self-image and see themselves as inadequate and unappealing (check)

I called the student health center on campus and asked to see someone. When I got to my appointment, a therapist started asking me questions. Before I could even open my mouth, I started crying the ugliest of all ugly cries. I lost all sense of composure and couldn’t arrange my thoughts into coherent sentences in order to explain what was wrong. The therapist had initially thought that group therapy might help me, but clearly that wasn’t going to be an option. I never went back or told anyone else about this until now.

I don’t look back on my college years with fondness. Everyone had said that college would be the greatest time in my life, but for me it was absolutely the worst. The thought that everything after college was supposed to go downhill was extremely depressing. How could things get any worse? With thoughts like this, it was hard to be optimistic about the future. I was extremely afraid no one would ever hire me and I wouldn’t be able to support myself.

Although autism is now classified as a neurodevelopmental disorder, it has a long association with mental illness. The term autism was first used in the early 20th century and was regarded as a symptom of schizophrenia, rather than its own condition. Many people on the autism spectrum have at least one co-existing mental disorder; some scientists have estimated this number is as high as 70%. Some are initially diagnosed with depression, anxiety, or ADHD, for example, before it’s determined that they also fit the criteria for autism spectrum disorder.

I have never been formally diagnosed with a psychological or mental disorder. Do I have one? I don’t know, but I have struggled with depression, anxiety, and panic attacks. And I do believe it’s only logical that psychiatric issues are likely to sprout in the fertile soil of dealing with the effects of autism. The mental health of someone who has difficulty making friends, who doesn’t know how to go up to someone and start a conversation, or who tries to interact with others by telling them that female mosquitoes always buzz in the key of G (did you know that?) is probably going to suffer greatly from the effects of social isolation and ostracization.

So go ahead and call me crazy. Or weird. Or strange. Or anti-s0cial. I’m not offended by any of those terms. Characteristics that we have no control over are nothing to be embarrassed about. Just don’t tell that to my twenty-year-old self. She wouldn’t have believed you.

Life unworthy of life

“Their life is absolutely pointless … They are a terrible, heavy burden upon their relatives and society as a whole. Their death would not create even the smallest gap – except perhaps in the feelings of their mothers or loyal nurses.”

~ Alfred Hoche & Karl Binding, proponents of eugenics and authors of The Liberation and Destruction of Life Unworthy of Life, published in 1920

During the late 19th and early 20th centuries, the science known as eugenics rose in popularity in Europe and America. It aimed to improve the human population by controlled breeding in order to increase the occurrence of desirable genetic characteristics.

Adolf Hitler and the Nazis were big fans of eugenics and took its principles a step further than just controlled breeding. Aside from the well-known atrocities committed against Jews and enemies of the Reich during World War II, the Nazis also forcibly sterilized 400,000 people against their will and murdered 5,000 “disabled” children in their attempt to rid the world of undesirables.

Children at Am Spiegelgrund, Vienna, 1940s

One of the many clinics where children were euthanized was the Am Spielgelgrund clinic in Vienna, Austria. Most of the children were diagnosed with schizophrenia, feeble-mindedness, or epilepsy, which coincidentally were the three most likely diagnoses that autistic children would receive before autism became an accepted condition.

Other children were brought to the clinic if they exhibited delinquent behavior, were born out of wedlock, came from impoverished homes or poor upbringing, were born to parents who were alcoholics or criminals, or simply for having any trait deemed undesirable. Some were euthanized by gas poisoning or a lethal injection of carbolic acid or barbiturates. Others were starved to death or died from pneumonia after being forcibly exposed to the elements. Still others underwent experimental procedures where their cranial fluids were replaced with air or helium in order to X-ray their brains before they died.

Dr. Hans Asperger with patients at the University of Vienna Children’s Clinic in the 1930s

One of the evaluating physicians at the clinic was Dr. Hans Asperger, for whom a high-functioning version of autism was later named. In 1944, Asperger published findings on his studies of behavior patterns and abilities in certain children that included a lack of empathy, little ability in forming friendships, one-sided conversations, intense absorption in a special interest, and clumsy movements. He called the children he studied his “little professors” due to their ability to talk about their favorite subject in great detail. He diagnosed these children with what he called autistic psychopathy. Most of his work was unknown outside of Austria until after his death in 1980.

Although there is no known evidence that Asperger was a member of the Nazi party, it is likely that he signed an oath of loyalty to Hitler in order to retain his position at the clinic. Asperger refused to refer his little professors for extermination and publicly spoke of the good qualities they possessed in order to attempt to spare their lives, but he did recommend those on the low-functioning end of the spectrum for euthanasia.

Two-year-old Herta Schreiber suffered from seizures and “idiocy” caused by encephalitis. Asperger decided that Herta “must be an unbearable burden to her mother” and then recommended permanent placement at Am Spiegelgrund in July 1941. She died two months later. A specimen of her brain, along with those of hundreds of other children, was found in the basement of the clinic in the 1990s.

Brain specimens of 417 children found in the basement of the former Am Spiegelgrund clinic

At the age of 5, Elisabeth Schreiber (no relation to Herta) was evaluated by Asperger due to “aggressiveness.” He concluded that she also was a terrible burden on her family and recommended placement at Am Spiegelgrund, where she died shortly thereafter.

Alfred Wodl, age 6, was evaluated for failing to develop speech, although his mother believed he was highly intelligent and understood everything around him. When she learned what was happening to the children at the clinic, Anny Wodl begged officials to spare her son. While her pleas fell on deaf ears, she was resigned to asking that he at least be granted a quick and painless death. When she viewed his corpse, it was obvious to her, a nurse, that he had perished in agony.

These are just a few of the thousands of children murdered by the Reich in the name of progress.

After the war, Asperger wrote in his diary, “The fact that I was never called upon to kill anyone is a great gift of fate.” Not surprisingly, Asperger’s legacy is controversial. Although he might not have killed anyone by his own hand and was instrumental in sparing those he could, he definitely had a hand in sentencing many children under his care to death. It’s quite possible that he didn’t have much choice in the matter given the circumstances at the time, but that brings little, if any, consolation for the victims or their families.

Had I or my son been born a few decades earlier and in a different spot on the globe, things might have been very different for us. Imagine what innocent Herta, misunderstood Elisabeth, and brilliant Alfred might have done with their lives had they been allowed to live.

Our lives are worthy of life, just like anyone else.

Blessed are the weird

Henry Cavendish (1731-1810) is arguably one of the most important scientists in history. A natural philosopher, chemist, and physicist, Cavendish is most famous for discovering hydrogen, Earth’s density, and the molecular composition of water. Although scientifically brilliant, he did all he could to avoid social interaction. He was so reclusive that he only communicated with his servants in writing and even added a private staircase to the back of his house in order to evade his housekeeper. He also avoided eye contact and was described by someone who knew him as the “coldest and most indifferent of mortals.” Cavendish ate leg of mutton at every meal and wore the same clothes daily. Every evening he went out for a walk, taking the exact same route each time.

It’s difficult to accurately diagnose autism posthumously. However, given what we now know about autism, some experts have speculated that several important historical figures would now qualify for a diagnosis of autism, including Cavendish. Isaac Newton, Nikola Tesla, Charles Darwin, Albert Einstein, Emily Dickinson, Thomas Jefferson, Michelangelo, and Mozart are all believed to have been on the autism spectrum. My son came home from school the other day shouting, “Mom, guess what I learned today – Abraham Lincoln had autism, and so did George Washington!”

Although the rapid rise in the number of cases of autism in recent years would seem to indicate this is a new phenomenon, autism has been around as long as there have been humans. We just didn’t know what it was or have a name for it.

Dr. Leo Kanner is the psychiatrist credited with clinically documenting autism in the U.S. for the first time in 1943. He said years later, “I never discovered autism. It was there before.”

Hans Asperger, an Austrian pediatrician after whom a mild version of autism known as Asperger’s syndrome was named, stated, “Once one has learnt to pay attention to the characteristic manifestations of autism, one realizes that they are not at all rare.”

Throughout human history, the autistics have been the eccentrics, the oddities, the peculiar people on the fringes of society, those who never quite fit in with everyone else. Many people on the spectrum have made important contributions to science, technology, and the arts. Some of the greatest minds in history were likely on the spectrum. They are blessed, as is the world by their presence in it.