TEMPLE GRANDIN
Inventor and Educator
COLD OPEN
Once upon a time, there was a girl who thought in pictures. Her name was Temple.
<MUSIC CUE>
It was 1947. Temple lived in a large white house in Massachusetts. She loved spinning in the
swing that hung from the maple tree in her backyard. She loved spinning lots of things,
actually—from coins to jar lids. Spinning helped her block out the noisy, scary world.
For Temple, a whirring fan sounded like a jet engine. Bright lights hurt her head. And the white
petticoat she wore to church on Sundays felt like needles poking at her skin.
Temple struggled to speak, and people around her often sounded like they were talking
gibberish. It made her so frustrated, she’d wail, break things, flap her arms, and cry.
Some people thought Temple was stupid because she had tantrums and spoke so rarely.
Temple was smart, though—she just didn’t think like everyone else did.
Instead of words, her head was full of pictures of everything she’d ever experienced. And one
day, Temple would use that brain full of images to prove how smart she really was.
SHOW INTRO
<THEME MUSIC>
I’m KAT TAYLOR. And this is GOOD NIGHT STORIES FOR REBEL GIRLS.
A fairy tale podcast about the rebel women who inspire us.
This week: Temple Grandin.
<END THEME MUSIC>

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“IT’S AUTISM”
When Temple was a baby, she pushed away her mom’s hugs. At age two, when most toddlers
start talking, Temple said nothing.
Her parents took her to many doctors and, finally, to a child psychiatrist.
“It’s autism,” the doctor said, eyeing Temple’s file.
Temple’s mom, Eustacia, raised her eyebrows. “What does that mean?” she asked.
Some people with autism are never able to speak or understand words. Others go to school and
get jobs—and might just seem a little quirky. Temple’s doctors said she would never speak.
Some implied that she should be put in a mental institution.
Her parents often argued about it.
“She’s insane,” her father said. “You won’t admit it—that’s why you won’t put her in an
institution!”
But Eustacia refused to send her away.

FINDING HER WORDS
Instead, Eustacia hired a speech therapist who taught Temple how to speak in full sentences
and to listen closely to others’ words. When Temple was five, Eustacia enrolled her in
elementary school.
Before Temple knew it, the Grandin house had become a playground. She and her friends
played table hockey in Temple’s room. They also made up plays, designed costumes, and went
on spy missions. More than anything, though, Temple loved to create things.
She drew horses running through the fields. She made kites shaped like birds and jellyfish. She
built forts in the woods with her friends.
In fourth grade, her history teacher asked each student to make a Stone Age tool without any
modern-day materials. Temple hunted for the perfect stone and attempted to tie it to a stick
using a blade of grass. The stone fell off the stick, but Temple wasn’t upset. Trying to figure out
again and again how a tool like that worked filled her with joy.
One day, in sixth grade, her classmates were talking about what they wanted to be when they
grew up. Temple thought for a moment. She saw all the inventors she’d read about in books—
Elias Howe, the inventor of the sewing machine, and Robert Fulton, the inventor of the
steamship. She saw their faces and their inventions, and then she saw herself.
“I think it would be fun to be an inventor,” Temple said.

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TORTUROUS HALLWAYS
Temple’s classmates in elementary school were like family. All that changed when she went to
junior high. There were a lot more students at her new school. The bell was loud, and each time
it rang, kids poured into the hallways. Lockers slammed, and students bumped into each other.
When Temple walked down the hallway, hurtful words came out of nowhere.
“Weirdo!”
“Dummy!”
Once, a girl called her a very bad name, and Temple threw a history book at her. It hit the girl in
the eye.
A few days later, her family got a call—Temple had been expelled.
Temple’s mom and dad started fighting again.
“Temple’s been failing almost every subject, and now she gets kicked out of school!” her father
yelled. “Now you’ll have to agree—she can’t make it in normal society.”
But Temple’s mom didn’t agree.

HAMPSHIRE COUNTRY SCHOOL
A few weeks later, Temple and her mom packed up Temple’s belongings in a few suitcases and
headed North. After driving a couple hours along the winding New England roads, they came
upon a big sign: “Hampshire Country School, Student Population: 32.”
Temple’s mom turned the car onto the school’s gravel driveway. Maple tree limbs stretched
overhead. Temple saw horses in the snow-covered fields.
“Do you see the horses?” Temple said excitedly.
“Yes, honey,” Eustacia said.
Hampshire Country School was a boarding school made for children like Temple. It was—a
place where different ways of thinking were valued. The school was surrounded by 1,700 acres
of woods, and there was a stable full of horses like the one Temple had seen. Her science
teacher, Mr. Carlock, used to work for NASA. He asked them to solve problems and create all
kinds of things—from rockets to an optical illusion room. Most importantly, no one made fun of
Temple even though she talked loudly and had short hair.
Now a teenager, though, Temple’s body was changing, and she didn’t like it. Her brain was in
overdrive. Working with the horses seemed to help Temple. So in Temple’s junior year,
Eustacia came up with an idea.
“I’ve talked with your aunt in Arizona,” she said, “and she wants you to spend the summer with
her on their cattle ranch.”

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Pictures flashed through Temple’s mind—heat rising in waves, a bright orange sun, the desert.
She grimaced. “No.”
But, with her mom’s encouragement, Temple went anyway.
FOR THE LOVE OF COWS
The plane ride was noisy. When Temple arrived in Tucson, it felt as hot as an oven. But up in
the mountains, where the ranch was, it was a lot cooler.
Temple started working right away—building and repairing things. She loved spending time with
the cattle. Sometimes, she’d go lie down in the pasture, and they’d come up to sniff and nuzzle
her. She realized they were curious—but also sometimes fearful, just like her. Sudden changes
surprised them—a glint of light or a loud noise they weren’t expecting. But when she was lying
quietly on the soft grass, they were peaceful and gentle.
She was also drawn to the cattle chute, a big contraption that held calves still while they were
vaccinated. Temple saw that the calves were nervous when going into the chute, but when the
sides of the machine pressed against them, they calmed down.
This is like magic, Temple thought.
She asked her Aunt Ann if she could try the chute herself. Temple climbed in on her hands and
knees, and when Aunt Ann pulled the rope, the gate closed gently around Temple’s neck, and
the wooden sides of the chute pressed against Temple’s body. At first, Temple felt a little
panicky, but then, she felt peace.
Temple had often wanted to be held, but when she was, she felt an overwhelming tidal wave of
sensation that made hugs unbearable.
Is this what hugs feel like to most people? Temple wondered.

THE SQUEEZE MACHINE
When Temple went back to school that fall, she missed the cows and the comfort of the cattle
chute. But she had an idea. She gathered a bunch of scrap wood and went about designing a
squeeze chute made especially for her.
After she built it, the school psychologist called Temple into his office. “We don’t have an identity
problem, do we?” he asked. “We don’t think we’re a cow, do we?”
“Of course, I don’t think I’m a cow!” Temple answered. “Do you think you’re a cow?”
The school tried to take the squeeze machine away, but Mr. Carlock, her science teacher, stood
up for her.

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“Let’s build a better squeeze machine,” he told her. “Then you can do some scientific
experiments. Try it out on other people. Find out if it can relax them, too.”
She convinced her classmates to try her newly redesigned squeeze machine and asked them
how it made them feel. The majority said they found the machine relaxing. Temple documented
the results and showed them to the school’s administrators.
The school let her keep the machine.
That scientific experiment opened the door for Temple’s future: She decided to go to college
and become a scientist. She studied psychology at Franklin Pierce College and graduated
second in her class. Then, Temple decided she wanted to use her visual mind to improve the
ways animals were treated. So she went back to school for a master’s degree.

A MAN’S WORLD
The first day Temple went to the Scottsdale Feed Yard, where she was conducting her research
for her master’s degree, a man blocked her way at the gate.
“No girls allowed,” he said, crossing his arms.
“My name is Temple Grandin. I am a graduate student at Arizona State University, and the
manager said I could come here.”
“No girls allowed,” he said again, louder this time.
She walked back to her car and slammed her door.
In the driver’s seat, she glared at the man and then stared at the gate. In high school, doors had
become an important symbol for her, and in her brain, they marked passages through difficulties
and to future possibilities.
A blocked door is an opportunity, she told herself.
Temple drove away. When she came back the next day, she walked right up to the gate.
The man tried to stop her again. She held up a rectangular badge.
“What’s that?” he asked.
Temple wrote for the Arizona Farmer Ranchman sometimes.
“This is a press pass,” she said.
Temple knew that a press pass could get her onto any feedlot—no matter whether girls were
“allowed.”
The man scowled at her, but he stepped back.
She opened the gate and walked right through.

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OPEN DOORS
But just because she got through the gate didn’t mean she was welcome. At that time, most
women in the meat industry worked as secretaries—if there were any women at all.
“I won’t have any woman teach me how to do cattle facilities!” one man said.
Still, she kept going back. She gathered data, observing the way cattle were treated and how all
the systems worked. Because of her autism, Temple could see many details that others missed.
Sometimes, she watched the cattle being handled. At other times, she crawled through the
chutes and machinery to understand the cow’s point of view. And when she put herself in the
cows’ position, she realized that there were so many things that could frighten or injure them.
For instance, they didn’t like dangling chains. A dark shadow on the ground might look like a
hole and scare them. Or hissing equipment could sound like a dangerous snake.
When cattle got afraid, they’d often freeze. And because the ranchers didn’t realize the cattle
were scared, they would jab them with electric prods to move them—which just made them
more panicky.
One day, though, another door opened for Temple—one that helped her change how people
treated cattle around the world.
At a livestock show, a man approached her. Temple had written many articles for the Arizona
Farmer Ranchman about how to design better cattle facilities, and this man was impressed.
“I want you to design a new dip vat,” he told her.
There was a scabies outbreak among cattle in Arizona. To treat the cattle, most ranches and
feedlots used dip vats—seven-foot deep pools filled with pesticides. The only problem was that
cattle didn’t want to go into the dip vats. They often got frightened, and sometimes they even
drowned.
“I need it in two weeks,” the man said. “Can you do that?”
Temple had never worked with dip vats, but when she looked at the man, she saw a door
opening.
“Yes, I can,” she said.
When she looked at an existing dip vat, she saw the problem immediately. The entrance was a
metal ramp. Since cows have hooves, the ramp would be very slippery, which, in turn, would
scare the cows.
So Temple sat down at her drawing board, closed her eyes, and then imagined every step of
the way from the cows’ point of view. And then, she started drawing.
She drew an entrance ramp with a gentle slope. She made the ramp from concrete, and it was
bumpy so the cows wouldn’t slip. At the bottom, there was a drop-off where the cows would go

under the pool’s surface. But since cows swim well, they’d just bob up and swim to the other
side where they could climb up another ramp to get out.
Temple knew, because she saw it in her mind, that the cows would walk calmly in and calmly
out—safe and cleared of the mites that cause scabies.
But to Temple’s horror, the first day they used her new dip vat, two cows died.
Temple didn’t understand. She’d seen it in her head perfectly.
But then she realized the problem: Some of the cattlemen didn’t believe the cows would go
down the ramp willingly, so they put a slick metal sheet on top of the grooved cement.
“Remove that metal sheet!” Temple told the cowboys, anger bubbling up within her.
They did as she asked. And to their amazement, her new dip-vat system worked perfectly—just
as she’d imagined it would.
Temple’s dip-vat design was such a breakthrough, people from around the world started
contacting her to design other livestock facilities.

TEMPLE TODAY
These days, when Temple’s not designing new facilities or speaking about autism at
conferences, you can still sometimes find her out in a grassy meadow, walking among the cattle
she’s come to love.
And if you were with her, she might invite you to come closer. To watch the cattle as they move
together in slow, gentle circles.
And if you’re lucky, she might suggest that you stand out there beside her. And once there,
maybe you’d be brave enough to lie down on the ground, feeling the grass beneath your
fingertips, listening to the soft shuffle of hooves.
“Just be still,” she might say. “They’re curious. Let them come to you.”