
This article originally appeared in Vol. 1 No. 4 (Aug., 1993) of the Facilitated Communication Digest, [pp. 8-9].
There is a push on right now to "validate" facilitated communication. A number of researchers have advocated the use of experiments to prove that people using the method are actually communicating (Calculator & Singer, 1992; Cummins & Prior, 1992). Some research of this type has been done with mixed results.
Calculator & Singer (1992) and Vazquez (in press) found that facilitated speakers were able to validate their communication by responding accurately to stimuli which were not also presented to their facilitators. These researchers provided opportunities for subjects to learn the tasks, and tested them on a range of activities. Subjects did well on some activities and poorly on others. Wheeler, Jacobson, Paglieri & Schwartz (1993), on the other hand, found that none of the twelve participants in their study were able to validate their communication. The experimenters asked subjects to label pictures of objects.
Biklen and his associates have used qualitative methods to confirm individuals' ability to communicate using facilitated communication. They have observed individuals while using the method, and have systematically recorded and catalogued occurrences which indicate strongly that individuals' methods are their own. These indicators include: typographical errors and unique or phonetic spellings, differences in style and speed, providing information that is unknown to facilitators, unusual expressions, decreased dependency on physical support, and revelation of individuality (Biklen, 1990; Biklen, 1993; Biklen, Morton, Saha, Duncan, Gold, Hardardottir, Karna, O'Connor & Rao, 1991).
This essay is about my own personal struggle with facilitated communication. In it I describe different "ways of knowing" that indicate to me that facilitated communication is real communication.
My friend Marc and I get together once or twice a week for a couple of hours just to "talk." We have been doing this for a year. He talks to me by holding my finger as he reaches toward the keys of his Canon Communicator. We laugh and cry and wonder and argue together. We talk about all kinds of things: Zen, his genetic cage, his frustrations about having autism. He often refuses to respond to issues I raise, while he constantly pursues his own themes. He criticizes me frequently.
In spite of the lively way that I describe my conversations with Marc, I often feel skeptical. Could what I call Marc's communication be just the product of an unconscious wish on my part? Is it possible that I'm making all the messages up, directing his hand "Ouija-board" fashion? A day rarely goes by that I don't wonder to myself where this stuff is coming from: Him? Me? Us?
I consider the evidence: Is it likely that I would call myself a liar? Or tell myself that I'm illogical? Would I talk to myself in a sarcastic voice, or refer to myself as "cutie" as an insult? Would I refuse to answer questions that I desperately want to understand about Marc, and bring up issues that I don't want to discuss with him?
I also consider Marc's responses when typing. Does it make sense that this typically active person would sit for long periods of time pressing buttons on a keyboard if it were meaningless to him? Would he laugh and cry and become angry in response to our shared words?
Marc builds his messages slowly, letter by letter. The topic of our communication often slips my mind during the long delays. Marc will hold my index finger limply in his hand for a minute, two minutes, while I shake his arm back to life. I coach and cheer, "Come on -- you can do it! Think about the next letter you want. Look at the keys." Eventually his hand thrusts forward, sometimes to jab at a key aimlessly, or to pause just an inch above the key. "Is that the one you want? Go ahead and hit it!" I prompt. Sometimes Marc will type with deliberation; one, two, three, four letters in succession. Then his hand will fall limp, or he'll begin to press keys randomly, or start hitting the same key over and over. I then pull his hand back to his chest and start the process over again.
I wonder: perhaps I'm cuing Marc. Maybe he lets his hand hover in the air, waiting to perceive that vague muscle twitch in my hand which signals him to drop his finger. If he does this, how did he learn how? If he doesn't know the meaning of the words he is typing, why would he want to continue?
As Marc types, I find myself guessing words very much like a word-prediction computer program. If he starts with "C-R," I wonder: is it "cry?" "criminal?" "crucial?" "crisis?" He types "U": "crummy?" "cruel?" If the word ends up being one that I guessed, I feel guilty and wonder if I made the word come out that way. When a word I hadn't thought of appears, I feel relieved.
I know that Marc is talking to me, but by means of a method that is co-active. I worry about the level of influence I have on his messages. Sonnenmeier (1993) describes all communication, including communication through facilitation, as "co- constructed." She posits that the supported speaker and the facilitator influence and inform each other in a variety of ways -- through verbal and non-verbal messages, clarification, and interpretation.
Marc often tells me "YOUSOUNTYING" ("You so untying.") Is touch somehow operational in stilling those inner impulses and "untying" the thoughts and ideas trapped inside? When Marc is facilitated, he seems to be able to concentrate fully on communication. Beside my prompting, there is little sound or motion, except for when I speak or we laugh.
I have attempted to encourage Marc to work with me toward greater independence in typing. Recently I said, "Let's see if you can type your name with my hand under your forearm." I slipped my hand out of his and under his arm. He grabbed my hand with his left and put it back in his. I again twisted my hand out of his grasp and moved it back under his forearm. He grabbed my hand again, and by this time we were both laughing uproariously. I wheedled, saying, "Just try it, please. Type your name." He slowly typed his first name with lots of extra letters. I thanked him and allowed him to grasp my finger. Marc then quickly typed "THATNOTTOOHELPFUL" ("That not too helpful.")
The facilitator role is sometimes difficult. For me, the difficulties stem from uncertainty. A successful facilitator trusts herself and her communication partner. She believes in the method and in the real communication ability of the person she supports. In other words, at this stage of the game, facilitated communication still requires faith.
I understand the skepticism of researchers who are trying to validate the facilitated communication method. Yet I can't help but think that the reasoning behind these studies is incomplete. The mechanical action of pressing letters is one aspect of the communication. Should researchers be looking at the "whole" of facilitated communication in order to perceive patterns? Can experiments be designed which truly measure communication?
I still have so many questions. However, the content of typed messages, the changes in demeanor, the very real human closeness all provide ample personal evidence of the reality of Marc's communication. Perhaps in my role as facilitator, I am required to learn to live with questions, as I continue to seek answers.