How My Search for Equal Pay in Corporate America Led to My Unlikely Autism Diagnosis
Read now (5 mins) | A tribute to Lily Ledbetter, whose fight for equal pay led me to discover my autistic identity and inspired this journey of advocacy.
October 18, 2024
In a winding, almost Alice in Wonderland-like way, Lilly Ledbetter is indirectly responsible for my autism diagnosis. If you don’t know Lilly’s story, here’s some background: Lilly Ledbetter was a production supervisor at Goodyear Tire in Alabama. In 1998, after nearly two decades at the company, she was confidentially given written documentation that she was being paid significantly less than her male counterparts despite doing the same work. She sued under Title VII of the Civil Rights Act, but after a whole lot of legal fire and brimstone, the Supreme Court ruled against her in 2007, stating she hadn’t filed her claim within the statutory period. (AKA the period that had expired BEFORE she was passed the documentation!)
In a surprise bit of justice, this case prompted the Lilly Ledbetter Fair Pay Act of 2009, which relaxed the time limits for filing pay discrimination claims.
Lilly passed away this week, and the retrospectives of her life highlighted how pay for women is gradually inching toward equality with men—though probably not across all genders yet. When Lilly lost her Supreme Court case, women were earning, on average, 77 cents for every dollar men made. Now, a decade and a half and precisely one the Lilly Ledbetter Fair Pay Act later, we’ve fought our way up to a whopping 82 cents on the dollar. (Yes, that was sarcasm.)
But that’s not what I want to focus on. I’d heard of Lilly’s case, so when someone at my last corporate job slipped me a copy of a man’s offer letter—this man had less experience than me, was being given the same title, and, as I now knew, had a salary $60,000 higher than mine—I was ready to go Lilly Ledbetter on their asses.
I marched straight to a labor lawyer, armed with our offer letters and résumés. In my mind, the lawyer was going to be a crusading figure, a vigilante lawyer-hero. Someone ready to bring corporate injustice to its knees.
But, dear reader, that’s not what happened.
First, let me set the scene. His office was crammed with stacks of files covering every available surface. The building was sleek, nestled in the legal hub of Connecticut Avenue in DC, but his office? It looked like a paper tornado had just passed through.
“What brings you in?” he asked, kindly, notebook in hand.
“I think my company is violating the Lilly Ledbetter Act,” I replied with confidence, setting up a collapsible desk stand from my bag to display my evidence. I had everything: a legal briefcase meticulously organized, complete with background memos, spreadsheets, and a poster-sized timeline, all ready for action. In true autistic fashion, I had over-prepared, collecting mountains of data and arranging it with the precision of someone whose SPIN had become justice for herself.
My voice, elevated with passion, probably came off too loud for the room. My speech was so rapid and pressured that I occasionally gasped for air at awkward moments. I was fully immersed in the courtroom drama of my life, imagining myself in a John Grisham novel. But the lawyer listened quietly until I finished.
“I’m not sure you have a pay discrimination case here,” he finally said. “But I do think you’ve got an ADA case.”
“ADA?” I thought. “Isn’t that for blind people or people who use wheelchairs? What does this have to do with me?”
“Have you ever been assessed for autism?” (He used a different word, one more common back then.)
“Me?” I asked, pointing at myself and glancing behind me, half-expecting to see a small boy with a train set because surely I couldn’t be who he was talking about.
“I’d like you to see Dr. Manheim in Fairfax, Virginia. If he confirms my suspicion, we’ll take the case on contingency.”
Confused but curious, I made the appointment. When I called Dr. Manheim’s office, the receptionist asked me to bring any documents I had shown the lawyer. I didn’t entirely understand why, but I was eager to present my research. Data hunger is a real thing for many autistic people—there’s something about collecting, sorting, and displaying data that just feels right.
(Quick side note for parents: if you want to emotionally regulate your autistic child, ask for an info dump on their current special interest and actually listen—engage because you care, not because you’re faking it.)
When I entered Dr. Manheim’s tidy office, his classical couch and mahogany desk were a sharp contrast to the legal war zone I’d been in before. I laid out my case, still unsure what any of this had to do with autism.
“I think old Tom might have spotted another one,” he said after I finished. “You, my dear, are autistic.” (Though again, he used the older term.)
Then he scribbled something on a prescription pad and handed it to me. It said “Penelope Trunk” in barely decipherable handwriting.
“Penelope Trunk,” he repeated aloud. “I think you’ll really like her writing.”
I was bewildered. Was Penelope Trunk a lady or a prescription?
He explained that a full diagnosis would take time and money, and we’d need it if I wanted to pursue the ADA case. But for now, he told me to find a support group, check out Alex Plank’s Wrong Planet forum, and think about reporting back to Tom if I wanted to go forward with the lawsuit.
I never reported back to Tom. I felt confused, embarrassed, and suspicious—wondering if this was some kind of strange kickback scheme. But I did join Wrong Planet, went to one disastrous in-person support group meeting, and became a devoted reader of Penelope Trunk’s work (though she has no idea). Later, I read Dave Finch’s The Journal of Best Practices, and when I got to the part where he was booking a rental car for work, I thought to myself, “OMG THAT’S SO ME!!!”
Good things and hard things followed after my diagnosis. I don’t know many people for whom neurodivergence is a straightforward experience, but let’s just say a panacea, it was not.
In my gut, I knew I was being discriminated against, and Lilly’s story about equal pay resonated with me. I just didn’t have the knowledge, understanding, or energy to take on a fight I didn’t understand and that did not feel like it was mine. (Oh how wrong I was.)
It wasn’t just Lilly’s fight for equal pay that made an impact on me—it was her ability to model a refusal to stay quiet when she knew something was wrong. Hi, fellow Cassandra. I see you.
Lilly’s legacy extends beyond fair pay. She used her sense of justice to fight for those with less power. She led me to my diagnosis, taught me to trust my own sense of right and wrong, and inspired me. Standing up for justice, when you have the mandate, the energy for the fight, and the support to keep yourself together, is a gift. But it’s just so easy to slip into burn out when we put ourselves in those situations. Self-preservation is crucial. Now that I have the internal clarity, the “spoons” to do this work, the support from friends and family who surround me, and more energy because I’m no longer masking most of the time, I’m determined to use my voice while putting self-regulation first. I have people around me who love me, and most importantly, I know how to spot burnout before it takes hold. (I THINK! I HOPE!)
In fact, essay done, here’s what I’m doing right now. Nothing like a mid-day nap. Care to join me? Drop some 💤💤💤s in the comments.
Links and Resources
The First Autism Post I ever read by Penelope Trunk (TW: outdated terms)
Wrong Planet - so much to say about this forum, but it was a lifeline.
The Journal of Best Practices: A Memoir of Marriage, Asperger Syndrome, and One Man's Quest to Be a Better Husband - Dated but still delightful
Lilly Ledbetter, the activist who inspired Fair Pay Act, dies at 86