My resumé lists an MBA, an Ivy League undergrad degree, and loads of experience in my field. I’ve got sterling references. My portfolio would amaze you. I’m a superb networker, too, and I even pay a personal career coach for guidance.
And, I am proudly Autistic. So much so that, for four months, I included it in the headline of my LinkedIn and in the executive summary section at the top of my resumé.
* * *
I’d thought long and hard about the decision to showcase it up front.
Over the years, my Autism self-awareness has enhanced my strengths as a teammate. The knowledge, for example, makes me very receptive to feedback. Colleagues have told me that this drew them to want to work with me. I once even earned an award from my assistant director, Jenny Hegland, for it (watch her explain).
My exceptionally high levels of empathy and emotional intelligence (Autism is a spectrum, as you may know) have also made me a sought-after facilitator. I've been recruited to facilitate workshops with IDEO in Palo Alto, with patient advocates at the White House, with palliative social workers in Seattle, and with doctors in Richmond. I've organized conferences, Meetup groups, and created three enduring full-semester courses.
I leverage my passion for special interests into charisma with experiments and pilot projects, as well. In another testimonial you'll find on my C.V, a former boss beamed, “Whatever he's working on, you want to work on it, too.”
Though being Autistic wasn’t the only thing I posted in my executive summary—in those first crucial sentences I list myself as a creative project manager, complete with coveted PMP certificate; a trained service designer; and an experienced healthcare innovation leader—it was right there. “Autistic and proud.”
Why not? Divergent thinking is my most core value, and I can (immodestly) report that it’s why I’m so good at what I do. Hiding my true self by removing the three words felt wrong.
Still, we neurodivergents have a lot of work to do in shifting preconceptions about the so-called “disorder” (it’s a difforder, baby). I genuinely wanted a job, and old-fashioned stereotypes die hard. Who wants a “stain” when they’re trying to get hired?
I was conflicted.
An unexpected elbow from a fellow neurodivergent, nine thousand miles away, convinced me how much I was handicapping myself.
“Nobody needs to know you’re Autistic,” she said. “You're not disabled by it. HR is sifting through 150 qualified applicants, and they’re looking for any excuse to cut someone from the pile. They’ll just assume you’d be trouble. They don’t even know Autistic folks can have people skills. ”
I mean, I’ve been teaching the master’s level Innovative Thinking course at the University of Maryland since 2014, could a troublemaker do that? I’ve clearly served as executive director of a nonprofit for five wonderful years. Hiring managers would consider the glowing video testimonials from various former colleagues, right?
Wouldn’t they see the infinite possibility in my work history?
I closed my eyes and nodded, conceding what I already knew.
“I worked in Human Resources, and I wouldn’t have called you from this resumé,” my friend continued. “My sister is Autistic. She’s in her 30s, and she throws tantrums in the grocery store. HR workers don’t have any concept that Autism is a spectrum.”
What would it mean to conceal it, though? Other Autistic folks have told me they’re grateful to witness my confidence in identity, that it inspires them to embrace their own neurodivergence, shake off the shame, and perhaps one day, even, celebrate it.
I wanted to hang my flag where it could shine for a hiring team. I wanted to stand on my principles: if neuro-inclusivity was uncomfortable for them, I didn’t want to find out after it was already too late.
More than standing on the principle of “self love,” though, I realized I was taking on more responsibility for societal progress than I alone could sustain.
My receptivity to feedback may be my greatest strength. Heeding multiple advisors is an even more tremendous power. It’s neurodiversity in the most literal sense.
Don’t get me wrong—I love my career coach. I can’t fault her for permitting my naïveté. Maybe she feared backlash for being anti-disability; she might’ve worried she’d be sued. It’s complicated territory. But thank goodness for those nothing-to-lose truth-tellers.
“Get the job first,” said my fellow neurodivergent/ former HR friend. “You’re a star. Once they can see what the rest of us already know, then you can work on the culture change.”
The next afternoon, I took those three words off my resumé and LinkedIn. Et voilà. I am open to work.
* * *
If you’re hiring and you’re still reading, I commend you.
Your open mind will take you far.
I can help with that.
To infinity,
Frankie Abralind, PMP
# # #
READ NEXT: Blotism Aug
Comentarios