Chapter 1: The Impact of Tejano Music

My affinity for Tejano music originates from my grandfather, a true eccentric. Back in 1980, my Christmas wish list prominently featured a BMX Diamondback bicycle — the ultimate ride of the time, far surpassing the generic wheelies my friends possessed. With this legendary bike, I imagined mastering my Endo Hop, which would inevitably lead to superpowers and a transformation into a bicycle-based superhero.

Instead, my grandfather surprised me with a different kind of gift:

Not quite the iconic bike I had envisioned. The crystal radio kit I unwrapped that morning may not have come in a fancy box, but the joy on my face mirrored the excitement of the moment. The final result resembled something akin to a basic radio setup. (Not pictured: my dreams of a BMX-powered superhero lifestyle)

Clearly, my grandfather had no intention of launching me into the ranks of the Justice League. His directive to "put it together and use it" felt more like a command to begin my training as a peculiar supervillain — one with a crystal radio theme.

Questioning him was never an option, especially when he conversed with unseen companions or insisted on staying alert for threats. He truly embodied the essence of a mad scientist.

So, when a man who contributed to the evolution of science fiction urged you to take action, you followed suit. My perseverance eventually led to a creation that looked something like this. (Pictured: Still not a superhero gadget — I'm over it now.)

The device, with its awkward flesh-tone earpiece and lacking basic tuning knobs, could only pick up three AM stations. One station featured a radiovangelist, while another occasionally played classical music, though often overlapping with indistinct news broadcasts. The only station that came through clearly was in Spanish, a language I didn’t understand.

Often, I would hear music akin to Cardenales de Nuevo Leon, a genre I later recognized as Tejano Ranchera — a blend of nostalgic tales about rural life, love, betrayal, and loss.

At the tender age of five, my grasp of Spanish was minimal. Though my grandmother spoke it fluently, her and grandfather’s attitudes toward the language were less than welcoming. What struck me most was the dissonance of the horns, the cardboard-like guitars, and an overall structure that felt foreign compared to the music I had come to know. And I was no stranger to music.

Music served as my refuge, a way to navigate a world that appeared to me like a blurred impressionist painting before I acquired my first pair of glasses. It was through sound that I explored my surroundings, compensating for my poor vision. I had trouble recognizing faces and often ended up in the wrong cars after school, leaving other parents bewildered.

My family was musically inclined, boasting walls filled with vinyl LPs ranging from Mozart to Queen. Music played constantly in the background, and we would occasionally gather to sing together, creating one of the rare moments free from conflict. However, the music we enjoyed was predominantly Western, characterized by a formal structure and quality that dominated music education at the time.

This exposure created a skewed perception of music for young me, one that Tejano shattered in an instant. That Christmas night, I fell asleep with the earpiece in, tuned into the Tejano station, absorbing the strange yet captivating auditory experience. The unfamiliarity brought me joy and tranquility, allowing my imagination to run wild without the constraints of lyrics dictating my thoughts.

This is likely why my Spanish vocabulary remains limited — knowing the lyrics would ruin the experience, stripping away the magic I had created in my mind. For instance, take the song "Me Libere" by El Gran Combo de Puerto Rico.

For years, I interpreted this song as a heartfelt farewell to friends and family, a story of embarking on a journey to follow one's dreams. It evoked a sense of longing and adventure, until I finally looked up the lyrics. To my shock, it was about a womanizer dismissing the feelings of those he hurt — a disappointing revelation that shattered my romanticized narrative.

Understanding the lyrics changed everything. It was akin to discovering that Richard Wagner became a symbol of Nazi Germany — a harsh reality that tarnished the enchantment I once felt. It’s like savoring a delicious milkshake, only to find a cockroach at the bottom of the glass.

Before I grasped the words, music was a canvas for my imagination. Perhaps this is what inspired artists like Weird Al Yankovic and Beck. My love for unfamiliar music blossomed from a young age, only fading once I learned its true meaning. Music and sound became my lenses through which I observed the world.

Eventually, I received glasses and began seeing the world more clearly, unveiling the hidden beauty behind what I had always known. This newfound vision altered my auditory perception as well. I no longer focused solely on the sounds directly in front of me; I became aware of the myriad voices around me.

People began to bore me — their chatter drowned out the symphony of the world surrounding us. While I had always heard the wind rustling through the trees, my vision allowed me to perceive the branches and leaves dancing in the breeze, revealing a constantly evolving melody.

My fascination with physics ignited long before I even knew the term — which came shortly after. By seven, my grandfather had grown weary of my ceaseless inquiries about the world and gifted me a physics book, which I dove into eagerly.

You might recognize the battleship in that book (let's not dwell on the outdated Confederate Flag). English, the only language I spoke fluently, often distracted me, especially when it came to sarcasm.

Grandfather frequently uttered peculiar phrases, such as "We got enough gas in this car to sink a battleship" after filling up the tank. This made no logical sense and drove me to frustration. I pointed out the absurdity using concepts of water displacement and density.

In response, he handed me the physics book, telling me to read and comprehend it. While it didn’t clarify his saying, it deepened my understanding of physics and history, leading me to appreciate his unique way of communicating.

Grandfather's words stemmed from a past where rationing made the idea of a full gas tank synonymous with sinking a battleship — a concept from decades before my time that I now find myself repeating to my own children.

This experience profoundly impacted my interactions with others.

Remember these iconic figures? For those of you who are older, these men were comedic geniuses with impeccable timing and delivery.

For those unfamiliar, it’s perhaps for the best. The humor of the 1970s and 1980s hasn’t aged well, yet during its prime, it was a riot. Hearing a serious line delivered in an unfunny manner at just the right moment would evoke uncontrollable laughter in me.

As a child, I had an unusual perception of humor, but I had a keen ear and plenty of time to hone my skills. I practiced imitating their lines, perfecting the delivery and accent, even if those impressions haven’t stood the test of time.

Racism was a concept I grasped only later in life, despite my grandfather’s misguided beliefs. I knew he was wrong, often proving him so through research. My impersonations stemmed from respect and admiration, but I’ve since moved on, choosing to embrace my own identity rather than mimic others.

However, one person stood out as my role model during my pre-teen years:

Michael Winslow, whose unique vocal skills captivated me. I was a devoted fan, having even joined his fan club, and I dedicated years to learning his techniques. Had I known about voice acting as a career, I might have pursued it passionately much earlier.

Sound became my refuge, allowing me to tune out distractions and focus on the universe's melodies. Constant background chatter remains unbearable to me; certain voices trigger an uncomfortable response in my nervous system, reminiscent of the irritation caused by gnats or dental drills.

The introduction of devices like the Walkman changed my life forever:

"Surely, you're joking, Mister Walkman."

This gadget empowered me to silence the noise of the outside world and curate my own soundtrack. Each walk transformed into a journey through my personal movie — depending on the song, I could be the hero, the villain, or even have to flip the cassette for more tunes.

It granted me a level of autonomy I lacked as a child, where choices were made for me. Eventually, my preferences broadened, as I sought out the unknown, becoming a low-stakes thrill-seeker in pursuit of new sounds. With my own soundtrack, I could dictate the tone of my day. Without it, I felt scattered and restless, yearning for my next auditory escape.

And even now, that yearning persists.

In this video, "My ADHD Song Part 2," the creator humorously explores the connection between ADHD and music, highlighting the unique experiences and challenges faced by those with neurodivergent traits.

Chapter 2: Language Development and Neurodiversity

The video titled "PART 2 | Language Development in Neurodivergent & Other Gestalt Language Processors" by Marge Blanc sheds light on the complexities of language acquisition among neurodivergent individuals, emphasizing the importance of understanding diverse communication styles.