It’s all the same. The boy you do like and the boy you don’t like. They are the same person with different things showing. Once you know we’re all the same it’s easier to stop caring what people think. The isolation is still a challenge. I play a subversive game without even trying. Hyper-awareness is a symptom of an abusive upbringing, so they tell me. I’m wedge-shaped and there are times I can’t get out of the way even when I want to. It makes me a frustrating person to keep around.
Much like other spectrum-lackeys that were just called gifted and special back then, I’m a bit queer. My mother knew I was different but she couldn’t pinpoint how. The books gave her an idea of what do to but the oppressive social culture we were raised in didn’t leave room for aberration. That’s why I’m excited to work on the phone. If there’s anything Southern therapy taught me – I can moderate my voice. I can’t seem to moderate my facial expressions. Doesn’t matter when they’re looking at your tits, right? Ha ha. Or in some cases the ass. Or feet, for some people.
Do I have any skills that matter? I wouldn’t know because no one around me acknowledges what I do. The only direct responses I’ve gotten to what I write are either platitudes, my mother getting angry or my ex-husband getting uncomfortable. The people I write about feel flattered but beyond that no one can see me. I’m alone out in this field, encouraging my grass to grow. I keep cutting it back to make sure the neighbors don’t complain. I hate to make a fuss and mostly just want to let it grow wild. It’s the paths through it that matter.
I was encouraged to take the path less traveled. That discounts a brand new way of doing things. The people I admire the most are good at what other people couldn’t do. I study that. I want to be a part of creation, not perfection. Let other people replicate. Let them hone the things we discover. I want to be in the dirt and rocks, digging for the answers that matter. I see a time when people stop using labels to spread hate and fear.
When I was a senior in high school they introduced a special Humanities class for select seniors. I was invited to join because I’m clearly an existential depressive prodigy. I started contemplating nihilism at age 6. The teacher was an older woman named Ms. Traffas. She’s what a burner would’ve been in the 90s, surviving the 60s with tenure at an all-girls private high school in Memphis. She shared a common law marriage with a male teacher at an all-boys private school also in Memphis. Take from that what you will.
One of the first exercises in the class was a semi-circle discussion where Ms. Traffas asked each girl in the class, “Who are you?” With all the muster of an elderly sage. Believe me.
The first girl answering the question stumbled for a moment and then led with, “Uh, I… I’m a Christian woman, uh… with [something about her parents/heritage/business/aspirations].” Each answer was different but most after that led with Christian and female. The senior class president Ashley led with, “I’m a black woman,” which gave me some hope. But ultimately I can’t hinge my identity on Christian, black, or (surprise) woman.
At that point in my life I did not identify as female. All of my experience with women was proof that I don’t think that way. I was regularly punished and reprimanded for faux pas I didn’t perceive. Like walking down the street and having someone get upset if you step on random places. For Christ’s sake, I’m just trying to get by. When the semicircle got around to me, second to last, I was so terrified I couldn’t talk. How do I tell this room of strangers that I’m nothing like any of them. I meekly said, “I don’t know.”
Instead of accepting my perfectly acceptable response of confusion, the teacher badgered me. She insisted that I should have some idea of what to say. I stubbornly refused to budge. My only response to the question, “Who are you?” was the a very honest, “I don’t know.” I even got mad at one point because she wouldn’t accept my answer. Great philosophical response, lady. Essentially she expected banal responses that could culminate in her wise unveiling of true uncertainty. I was already there. I ruined the punchline.
Later in that class I was asked to sing an ode that I’d written. I refused. I developed an amount of stage fright that taught me the meaning of phobia. I also refused to perform at a function for friends and family but it didn’t really matter because I don’t think my family was there. I crumbled and cried and had a nervous breakdown in the bathroom about having to make a fool of myself in front of all the rich, pretty people that never knew real strife. They were raised in a time when roles and identities weren’t a choice. Orwell was right about slavery, basically.
For the record, I couldn’t send a thank you note to Palmer’s mom because she was a snobby bitch. There. That’s why.