The Alternate Lexicon
Currently viewing the tag: "ali"
I am still.
When I was six or seven, my mother told me that flapping my hands was Not Okay. It’s something my cousin did, full of exuberance and ADHD, and it was made clear to me that I was Too Smart For That. He was stupid, no one expected much of him, so if he wanted to flap his hands, it was fine. But I was bright, so clever and sharp, and I should not do those things. People would get the wrong idea.
I became still.
I sit like a small animal, surrounded by predators, every muscle tensing and untensing. If only I could go unnoticed! I wait for the threat to pass, and it never does, because it’s a threat built into the foundations of my culture. Sometimes I let myself flap, or bite my nails, or wiggle with joy, but only after I have given up hope of passing, of being overlooked in my stillness. I think this is the outcome of a life of being instructed not to be exemplary in any fashion. Worse, it incapacitates me in my desire to no longer be still. I don’t actually care what anyone thinks of me anymore. I don’t care if they think I’m stupid, or if it annoys them. I want to feel comfortable in my skin.
Instead, I stay still.
HI IT’S BEEN A WHILE.
So it’s been a bit of a while since I updated this, my very realest of all of my blogs. In that time:
1. Kate released a new album under a new name, a technopop collaboration with her husband called Fatty Gets a Stylist. It is amazing.
2. Kit came, we went to Disney World. We hung out. We fought a little. We looked at real estate. We realized it’s only 10 weeks before I move for permanent for real omg omg.
3. Sar and Hez came to visit!
4. I have acquired a few fanblogs. Being that I am the loudest member of the nonexistent fandom for MBT, I have TWO fan tumblrs. Also a Kate one. Also I’m awesome. (The Explicarium, the Branden Rose’s personal tumblr, Just Gristle and Blood) Don’t laugh at the bad graphics on the last one; I’ve taken control of it from a previous mod and don’t know how she’d feel about me making it AWESOME.
And now it is time for pictures!
The rest are available in the main flickr set. YAY!
Hi, Dylan. Google analytics tells me someone in Charlottesville spent a while on here late last week. Then you tried to friend me on facebook. I have a hunch those things are connected.
When you tried to friend me, I responded with a single question: why? I’m not sure yet if I’m interested in your interpretation of that question or your answers to it, but I am interested in a thought-ramble about you. Stina complained I only wrote hurt letters to her, and maybe it’s time to fix that.
To start with, I never wrote hurt letters to you for a few reasons. One is because the pair of you are a collective unit, and I knew whatever I wrote would make its way to you. You were my friend first (Stina intimidated me terribly when we met), and we were so close of course I had to be friends with both of you. We told strangers we were siblings. We told your coworkers we were siblings. And I loved you like the brother I wanted to have. You frustrated me and hurt my feelings and I loved you anyway.The relationship we had could not be quantified in words, could not be described with pen to paper or words on a screen. I didn’t write you letters because I don’t think about you in words.
Not speaking to Christina hurts. Our whole relationship was built around words, around the way we used them and had shared language to draw upon. Not being near you hurts. I miss the physical comfort I had with you–it’s hard to come by, for me, but you made me feel at ease.
You hurt my feelings–often, actually. You refused to use the language I asked you to about my sexuality. You were so dismissive of non-binary genders I never made a sound about my own after a single, tentative suggestion. You styled yourself as an expert on the autism spectrum because you work with little boys with social issues. Dylan. I’m not a ten year old, socially awkward boy. I’m me. And I’m autistic. Insisting I was wrong, that I was looking for excuses, that I wanted to be special, it fucking hurt. You never noticed that I hate the Little Prince, hate it with a passion. Instead you got me another, more special, more expensive copy.
I wasn’t a model best friend. I still don’t know the full story about your falling out with your parents. I don’t know if you had lung problems before you started binding. I don’t know why you became a vegetarian. I don’t know a fucking lot of things. I was afraid to ask. Asking feels off-limits, so staunchly rule-breaking I can’t do it–not an excuse, just an explanation.
I don’t know anything about you anymore, and I’m no longer sure you know anything at all about me. I’m not sure I want to be friends with someone who made me feel inferior all the time. So, why? Why ask? Why now?
Moving is really fucking hard when you have executive function issues.
You know that time suck that happens where you get on the computer and look at something, and then six hours later you haven’t showered or eaten? My whole life is that time suck. My to-do lists consist of one thing per day, usually the most difficult thing I’d like to accomplish. Everything else is a bonus.
I’ve been trying to coax my brain into the right space to work out costs for international moving for about a month. I managed to contact an international moving company, who sent a brochure, and that was great (though I now believe I cannot afford them). More important than moving my table and chairs, though, is moving my cat.
[Image: my cat, looking pensieve]
I finally contacted one company yesterday and…$3995. WHAT IS THIS I DON’T EVEN FOUR GRAND TO MOVE MY CAT? THAT DOESN’T EVEN INCLUDE THE QUARANTINE FEES AND PAPERWORK FEES AND WHAT THE FUCKING WHAT. THAT IS MORE THAN ALL OF MY PERSONAL MOVING COSTS PUT TOGETHER (except furniture transport that looks increasingly unlikely as this was the company reccomended by the movers).
So then I spent the past three hours alternately crying and sending out pleas to other moving companies. I think I’m aiming for less than $2000, which is the lowest price I’ve seen advertised so far. This throws off my budget drastically (I’d planned for his cost to be abouit $750, plus vet, import, and quarantine fees, which sounds reasonable given my human ticket is about $1000), and now there’s a panic attack. I don’t know how we’ll afford this–it eats up a lot of money I’d planned to put up for rent and bond while looking for a job.
Thanks to perseveration, I will probably continue having small panic attacks until this is resolved.
Awesome.
I turn 26 tomorrow. It is also World Autism Day.
When I tell people I’m queer, it becomes a part of their idea of my identity. I mention my girlfriend, and a little light dings in their head to place me into the QUEER category of mental filing. They might be surprised or confused or alter how they interact with me (or not), and it might take a few further interactions for them to get that I mean queer in the broadest way and, yes, they can seriously still point out that cute boy and I’m not just humouring them when I agree.
Most people have a lexicon and background knowledge of what it means to be queer in some way. We broadly make up about 1 in 10, so there’s an awful lot of us out there being non cishet in some fashion. People recognize the concepts of bullying and gay-bashing, there are tv and movie characters who are out and proud, there are celebrities. I can say that I’m queer and it means something that we mutually understand, even if clarification might be needed on the details.
When I tell people I’m autistic, they don’t know quite how to react. Autism is kids in corners who headbang, boys who can’t speak or won’t speak, right? Autism isn’t adults who hold down steady jobs–including ones with customer service aspects!–and speak fluently (most of the time). The box in people’s heads is too small and ill-defined to fit me, and they are surprised, sometimes even angry.
Autism awareness isn’t inherently a bad idea, but the narrow scope of the spectrum that is promoted for awareness is very much dangerous and harmful for the rest of us. Autism, for me, means making enough of a single food to eat for a week, because making different food every day feels overwhelming. It means planning and rehearsing conversations, and then worrying when things don’t go as planned. It means auditory processing issues that leave me nodding at work and hoping I’ve timed it right, or not being able to hear over the sound of the tram. It means sensory issues that make it hard to hold my girlfriend’s hand sometimes. It means an encyclopedic knowledge of Kate Miller-Heidke lyrics. It means misunderstandings and hurt and bullying. And none of those are things you can see, if you don’t know what you’re looking for.
I want an autism awareness campaign that promotes actual awareness of the huge, wonderful spectrum that encompasses all of us. We each have our own strengths and weaknesses; what we share is an unusual way of experiencing the world. When I tell people I’m autistic, I want them to be able to easily fit me inside that mental box and understand that it means I might not be great at social cues and probably like routines, that I’m probably good with facts and rules, and that I probably have some sensory issues to work around.
Even more, I want people to understand that we–every single person–can inhabit more than one box. My mental filing system cross-indexes, fuckers, and yours can, too, with some practice. My being queer is not invalidated by autism, nor is autism invalidated by my being queer. It is often people who know that I’m queer who seem most surprised when I mention autism, because I am already in one minority group box in their heads.
Intersectionality is the concept of how different oppressions mix. Every person who belongs to multiple minority groups will experience it differently. For me, being queer, autistic, and genderqueer, it means erasure. I am allowed to be queer or autistic (gender doesn’t even cross most people’s minds, and since I’m not picky about pronouns it sometimes doesn’t come up).
I want to live in a world where it means acceptance. That starts with true awareness, not trite campaigns.
It is time for me to get some new glasses! I really love the price, ethics, and quality of Warby Parker, having just gotten my first box of at home try on pairs. The ones I expected to love were not right at all, and my last-minute “couldn’t hurt to toss these in” are pretty fabulous. I think I’ll order another box with a few more pairs, but in the mean time, head over to flickr and see if you like either of these options!
Major issue with using song lyrics for post titles: days of the week are wrong.
I went dancing last night! There are a few groups locally who do contra dancing, which is pretty entertaining, and I plan to go again. Contra is the bastard child of English and Virginia Country dancing, which are in turn the descendants of formal group dances of European courts (and less formal group dances like ceilidh). It is a dance form for a whole big group of people, talent not required but the ability to follow instructions necessary. Square dancing can be considered a cousin–it has the same roots and the same use of a caller giving instructions, but the style and moves only somewhat overlap.
I’ve contra danced before, because I went to Mary Fucking Baldwin and we do that sort of shit. I’ve also English and Virginia Country danced (both) and done competition and social ceilidh.
IT WAS SUPER AWESOME FUN. Next one is on my birthday. I’m totally going.
