Empire of Normality: Neurodiversity and Capitalism

Empire of Normality

‘This groundbreaking book fills a crucial gap in the discourse about neurodiversity, providing a deep history of the invention of the normal mind as one of the most damaging and oppressive tools of capitalism, while not succumbing to the myths of the anti-psychiatry movement. To read it is to see the world more clearly.’

—Steve Silberman, author of NeuroTribes:

The Legacy of Autism and the Future of Neurodiversity

‘Empire of Normality argues that a radical politics of neurodiversity needs to be central to the struggle against capitalism. Chapman explains why this is necessary, not only for neurodivergent folk, but for our collective liberation. Thought provoking, challenging and compelling.’

—Professor Hel Spandler, Editor, Asylum:

The Radical Mental Health Magazine

‘Engaging, impeccably researched, and a vital step in the emergence of a new social paradigm. Chapman uncovers the origins of the stifling norms that limit our collective potentials, and points the way toward a better and more creative future.’

—Nick Walker, author of Neuroqueer Heresies

‘A vital book that kindles the flames of a Marxist neurodivergent revolution. Chapman boldly challenges us to envision a world liberated from neuronormative oppression, where dismantling capitalism is central to disabled, Mad, and neurodivergent liberation – a new radical approach to neurodiversity that is explicitly anti-capitalist.’

—Beatrice Adler-Bolton, co-author of Health Communism

and co-host, Death Panel podcast

‘An instant seminal text, Empire of Normality takes on the huge task of crafting a coherent, radical, Marxist approach to neurodivergence. Chapman impressively and critically assembles disparate philosophical, scientific and activist currents across time to carve out a new politics that pushes beyond liberal rights-based approaches, and guides us towards a liberated future.’

—Micha Frazer-Carroll, author of Mad World

Empire of Normality

Neurodiversity and Capitalism

Robert Chapman

First published 2023 by Pluto Press

New Wing, Somerset House, Strand, London WC2R 1LA

and Pluto Press, Inc.

1930 Village Center Circle, 3-834, Las Vegas, NV 89134

www.plutobooks.com

Copyright © Robert Chapman 2023

The right of Robert Chapman to be identified as the author of this work has

been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN  978 0 7453 4866 7  Paperback

ISBN  978 0 7453 4868 1  PDF

ISBN  978 0 7453 4867 4  EPUB

ISBN  978 0 7453 4929 9  Audio

This book is printed on paper suitable for recycling and made from fully managed and sustained forest sources. Logging, pulping and manufacturing processes are expected to conform to the environmental standards of the country of origin.

Typeset by Stanford DTP Services, Northampton, England

Simultaneously printed in the United Kingdom and United States of America

Contents

Preface

Introduction

1    Rise of the machines

2    The invention of normality

3    Galton’s paradigm

4    The eugenics movement

5    The myths of anti-psychiatry

6    Fordist normalisation

7    The return of Galtonian psychiatry

8    Post-Fordism as a mass disabling event

9    The neurodiversity movement

10   Cognitive contradictions

11   After normality

Notes

Bibliography

Acknowledgements

Index

For Alice

Preface

In this book I use neurodiversity theory as a lens for reinterpreting the past to better navigate the present. History, after all, is useful not just for allowing us to understand what has already been. It equally gives us tools to spot patterns, traps, and possibilities in the here and now. In some cases, this can help us imagine new worlds. Perhaps more rarely, it can help us see how to bring these worlds into being. In line with such possibilities, my project here looks backwards while striving forwards. It uses history to develop an understanding that may help us collectively work towards neurodivergent liberation.

While this is a scholarly work, it is also personal and political. My thinking, inevitably, has been moulded by my experience of being neurodivergent as well as of mental illness, not to mention the stigma and discrimination that accompany these. Equally, my views and commitments have been profoundly shaped by the experience of growing up in poverty, sometimes homeless, and then in foster care in the United Kingdom. And no less important has been living through constant crises of capitalism and the mental health effects of precarious employment and insecure housing through much of my adult life. Through this and so much more, I have come to see neurodivergent oppression as bound up with the malaises of advanced capitalism as well as with the other systems of domination that capital developed alongside and remains intertwined with.

My perspective is also limited by my positionality. I am a white person born in Britain. Here I have focused most centrally on the European and North American contexts, these being the contexts I am best qualified to comment on. To an extent this is fitting as both the systems and ideas the neurodiversity movement arose to fight against, and the movement itself, are largely products of the Global North. Yet the forms of domination the movement arose to resist have had far-reaching consequences, including across much of the Global South. As I make clear throughout, the idea of the ‘normal’ person, brain, and mind has been intimately intertwined with colonialism, imperialism, and white supremacy. While I seek to make such connections salient, my analysis will still likely be of more direct relevance to those living in post-Fordist, high-tech economies. The extent to which it will be relevant to other contexts will depend on countless factors. My hope is that my argument will at least serve as a basis for building or contrasting different analyses that draw on different knowledges and for different contexts.

Caveats aside, my aim here is to develop a more radical analysis of neurodiversity history, theory, and politics, built from a broadly Marxian perspective. This begins with a materialist interpretation of the history of neurodivergent disablement and our understanding of normality and disability. I seek to place them within the broader context of a range of interlocking systems of domination, most centrally capitalism. In turn, while I locate the origins of the problem much earlier, I suggest that especially since the mid-twentieth century, capitalism has reached a stage where neurological domination, through either disablement or alienation, has become pervasive regardless of how close or far each of us sits to the neurotypical ideal. In an important sense, what I want to show is that capitalism’s domination shifts more towards the neuronormative the further capitalism itself intensifies. Here we see a dialectical tension between the expansion of the domain of capital alongside a simultaneous restriction of neuronormativity that accompanies it.

In covering this, I hope partly to show that things are as they are not due to natural necessity, but specific historical and economic conditions. By the same token, I show that things do not have to be as they are, and that by placing neurodiversity theory and praxis within broader anti-capitalist struggles, we might help make them otherwise. This is not an attempt to offer a fully developed political strategy, since I think that is something to be done collectively, and which we are only now beginning to be ready for. Rather, it is an attempt to help develop a historical neurodivergent consciousness in such a way that will make collective efforts to develop strategy more possible. The first aim of this book is thus to uncover a past that has been rendered opaque. And the second aim is to help open up a future that we cannot yet fully understand, yet which is important to try to reach for, nonetheless.

Introduction

My life has been structured by both neurodivergence and economic hardship since the beginning. This dates to my first memories, which take place during the early 1990s in London. One characteristic impression from the council flat in which we lived is of an alcoholic father furiously ranting and raging. Another is of a distraught mother, tearfully saying goodbye as she left for some unspecified period. While there were also happier memories, home life was hard. And since we never had any money and were not part of any broader community, there seemed no realistic hope of things improving.

My impressions from school are little better. Those from the playground are mainly of bullies pointing and laughing. It was not just that I was poor and wore uncool, second-hand clothes. It was also that I was weird, quiet, and hadn’t yet developed the social fluency required to evade their efforts. I also experienced constant sensory processing problems that hindered my learning. My memories of lessons are mainly of trying to strive through sensory bombardment just to hear the teacher’s voice. Despite these efforts, I still often struggled to grasp even basic things. I was soon taken by my teachers to simply be lazy and unintelligent. In time they stopped trying to help, and I began to internalise their negative images of me.

Much later, I learned clinical names for these problems, and moreover, that I was far from alone in encountering them. The addiction and depression I had seen in family members, for instance, were relatively common mental health problems. I also found out that my sensory processing and social understanding issues were associated with autism, a diagnosis that had increased nationwide by 787% between 1998 and 2018.1 I likewise discovered that my early traumatic experiences led to what is often called complex Post Traumatic Stress. More generally, I learned, related experiences of anxiety2 and depression3 had risen in recent decades. And the risks of such problems were much higher for members of economically deprived and marginalised groups.4 Knowing all this would later help me begin to see that my problems were not merely individual. Rather, I was suffering from wider, more systemic problems that were affecting many of us in similar ways.

Yet while all this helped my understanding in retrospect, as a child and teenager, I knew none of this. I did know I was different from those considered ‘normal’. But I felt too much shame to explore what this difference might consist in, or whether it was necessarily a bad thing. At the time, the disposition of my experience was largely one of confusion, anxiety, and hopelessness. In the end, stuck in poverty, alienated from both myself and the world around me, my mental health went from bad to worse. Beyond constant anxiety and hopelessness, I developed an eating disorder, experienced intrusive thoughts, and, finally, began thinking about suicide. Life was overwhelmingly bad and there seemed no other way to escape.

As so often happens, things only began to change for the better after hitting rock bottom. This occurred, for me, in 2005, by which time I was 15. By then, I had dropped out of school and had been sleeping on the streets for some time. I had turned my back on a world that had failed me, and was initially determined to make my own way, mainly by selling cannabis for a local dealer. Yet homelessness was hard, dangerous, and lonely. And when it finally got cold enough to snow, I knew I couldn’t survive. With nowhere else to go, and finally feeling defeated, I turned up at the local government council offices one cold winter morning. There, I explained my situation and asked if they could help. After an emergency meeting with a team of social workers, they decided I needed to enter the foster care system without delay. They soon found me a family to stay with in a tiny rural village miles away from anywhere I had ever been.

It was here that things began to change. First, I was dropped off at a beautiful old country house that seemed like it came straight out of a fairy-tale. In turn, I was warmly welcomed in by a new family, a white cat, and a black dog. It was in this context that I first came to experience uncomplicated encouragement, love, and support. Although this transition was far from easy, and while my disabilities and trauma remained an ongoing problem, I soon became part of the family.

From this point on, old possibilities closed off as new paths began to open. Having no schoolwork and little else to do in the village, I began to read voraciously. I also began to think about options for the future. This included, for the first time, the thought of university, which, to my surprise, seemed to be considered normal in middle-class families. After trying various subjects over the next few years, and since I found the world so chaotic and confusing, I was drawn towards the study of philosophy. My hope was that analysing concepts and social theory would help me understand and navigate the strange and chaotic world I lived in. I wanted to make sense of life and all the problems I had encountered, so I could learn to live a better life than my parents.

In the end, however, it took seven more years to find what I was looking for. By this time, I had received a long-awaited autism diagnosis and was studying philosophy while working factory nightshifts. Thankfully, much of what I had learned by this time really did help me make sense of some of my experiences. Most notably, as I will return to, Karl Marx and the later tradition of critical theory helped me understand economic domination both within the British class system and under capitalism more generally. I had also read much on the theory, science, and politics of mental health to try to understand my various distressing experiences. Yet while some of this was helpful to an extent, nothing I had come across fit neatly with the complex and messy forms of disablement that had structured my life since the beginning.

On the one hand, while I had found my autism diagnosis helpful, much about it was also distressing. The dominant medicalised narrative suggested that being autistic made me somehow tragic, broken, and in need of fixing. This narrative reinforced the constant messages I had received since school, indicating that there was something inherently wrong with me. Alternatively, popular critics of psychiatric diagnosis, from the anti-psychiatry tradition, suggested things like autism and depression were merely illusory ‘labels’ rather than real medical conditions. For them, people like me were not really disabled, but just experiencing normal day-to-day problems. These two binary options seemed to offer either disability shame or disability denial, neither of which was helpful. This was why I found discovering the neurodiversity movement, which offered a different analysis, so liberating. It was this that set me on the path to writing this book.

DISCOVERING NEURODIVERSITY

The neurodiversity movement began to emerge in autistic activist groups during the 1990s, back when I was still a child struggling to process in school. At that time, autism was widely seen as an individual medical tragedy, incompatible with living a good human life. The only hope for autistic people and our families, it was thought, was that we would one day be fixed through behavioural conditioning or biomedical intervention.

Yet by around 1993, the wider availability of personal computers and the internet meant that autistic people were able to begin connecting online for the first time. This meeting of autistic minds brought an intense period of consciousness-raising that would challenge the dominant understanding of autism. For once they were together, these pioneering autistic activists began to realise they all experienced similar problems, including the kinds I have just noted in my own life. In turn, they began to argue that perhaps the problems they all experienced had less to do with their brains being broken, and more to do with societal failure to accommodate their neurological differences. They thus started to argue for what one 1997 report from the New York Times described as a form of ‘neurological pluralism’. This emphasised the need for the behaviours and processing styles of atypical people to be accepted and supported rather than framed as medical pathologies to be controlled, treated, and cured.

Out of this came the idea of neurodiversity, first documented by a sociology student called Judy Singer. The basic point was that we should reject the very idea of a ‘normal’ brain and of the ‘neurotypical’ as an ideal. Instead, it implied viewing mental functioning more in the way we view biodiversity. In this view, it takes all kinds of minds for society to function, and thus normality should not be assumed to be superior to divergence. Rather, there were many kinds of minds. Each was enabled or disabled in different environments, and no single one was naturally superior to all the others. The kind of sensory problems I myself had experienced, for instance, could be seen as caused by the neurotypical-biased design of schools, the workplace, and public spaces. More broadly, in this view, much autistic suffering – such as the bullying I had encountered at school – could be understood largely in the context of societal marginalisation and discrimination.

To remedy this, Singer and other activists thus called for a new ‘politics of neurological diversity’. For them, this would consist in a new movement that would be modelled on the earlier civil rights movements that had sought to end racial, gendered, and sexual segregation and oppression within and across borders. This new neurodiversity movement would, they hoped, supplement existing struggles by fighting for the rights of the neurologically weird and disabled. The hope was to end neurodivergent oppression everywhere by redesigning the world in ways that would cultivate neurodivergent thriving.

This call for a politics of neurodiversity had a great impact, and many new advocates rallied to the cause. Yet while these early efforts had focused on autism, the framework and vocabularies that emerged from autistic spaces were quickly adopted by a great many others. First, this was among those with other developmental disabilities such as Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD) or dyspraxia. In turn, the neurodiversity framing began to be adopted by those with other diagnoses such as bipolar disorder and borderline personality disorder, not to mention those with no official diagnosis at all.

The breadth of this expansion is captured in Kassiane Asasumasu’s coining of ‘neurodivergent’ in the early 2000s. For her, this refers to any kind of neurological functioning that is considered ‘divergent from typical’,5 whether mere differences are disabled by an unaccommodated society or medical conditions such as epilepsy. Asasumasu wrote that the concept was ‘specifically a tool of inclusion’, available for any neurologically atypical person who found it useful. While this expansion raised questions about the scope and limits of the neurodiversity framework, it was important as it helped more people gather under the neurodiversity banner. At the same time, as Steve Graby6 has observed, while the anti-psychiatry proponents had emphasised that they were unlike people with bodily disabilities – and that psychiatrised people were not really disabled – the neurodiversity perspective embraced the disabled identity. Emphasising the similarities between mental and bodily disablement allowed a broader, more inclusive politics, with neurodiversity proponents straddling the divide between people with medicalised bodies and those with medicalised minds.

As the movement grew, the theory of neurodiversity was further developed to fit. Most notably, for me, by 2011, a young autistic scholar called Nick Walker proposed that neurodivergent liberation required not just rights. It also required a mass scientific and cultural paradigm shift. This shift would be away from the dominant ‘pathology paradigm’, which for Walker was defined by highly restricted standards of mental normality and by the default pathologisation and stigmatisation of divergence. Walker drew attention to this as she took it to underpin psychiatric and psychological research and practice, as well as more general societal responses to neurodivergence.

In its place, she argued, neurodiversity proponents must build a ‘neurodiversity paradigm’, which would embrace and support a much broader range of cognitive and emotional variation. This prospect offered not just hope to countless neurodivergent people, but also an ideal to collectively work towards. And this was an ideal that, as a philosopher, I would soon dedicate my own efforts towards, since I knew that shifting the paradigm would require more fundamental