Being Free...but not *that* free.

Welcome to Fidgets and Fries!

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This newsletter rests at the intersection of the unserious ramblings of a woman full of buttered rice and dad jokes and the somewhat sophisticated stories and essays of someone who knows just enough “smart” words to sound super intelligent and insightful.

What will today’s newsletter be? Hmm…

When you write of all the harm that comes with masking…
When you share how much it hurts…
When you talk about the pain and trauma they cradle…

And then garnish the telling with a flourish:
“it’s a privilege to unmask”, “not everyone can do it” 
Prettied for the plate

Do you taste the weight of their garnish on their tongues?
Words meant for those they left footnoted,
sprinkled

as if masking were a choice plated for everyone:
you want chicken or steak? 

What does the “privilege of unmasking” mean to the one whose masks benefit them in a world where adaptability is exceptionally human? But also, in a world in which all bodies are governed but some far more than others? 

Choice is a privilege. And when you are left with none, 
what is left but cold crumbs to those whose masks hold up a world
built on bodies governed
but some far more than others. 
There is no warmth in being little more than 
sprinkled afterthoughts for plates 
cooked for others. 
I give no “congratulations on congratulations on living your best authentic and true self” when your truth is treated as all-purpose seasoning

And what of those who don’t mask at all, 
or mask poorly?
whose families take in those words 
and wonder if they are shared because you feel as if being 
unmasked is freedom?  
Is it liberation when your body betrays your mind? 

They have found peace in shedding foreign skin 
and my child invites harm because he is so “free” in his body. 
He moves in ways he does not want. 
and the wants include quieter limbs that grant him access to the communities that surround him.
And less sharp stares. 
You would label him “free.” 
You covet this demonstration of liberation. 

But you don’t peel layers for understanding. 
You don’t seek depth. 
You prefer the tickle of calm waters at your ankles.
You do not see  
how each movement
rips at his edges—
hurting in every way
pain can hurt:
physical, emotional, mental.

You would pedestal his inability to mask,
yet never understand
how harm wears his name.
Your words wouldn’t be so uninspiring if it were 
just the explorations of yourself
And not pushed as a universal truth
Then toss our experiences in as if it were cornstarch 
to thicken the pot.
Your stories are more savory,
a recipe you perfect
without us in mind.
our truths,
mere garnish for your advocacy.
aesthetics with little to no taste.
Our stories are decorations on hollow words,
embellishments
for hollow victories.

but—it looks good.
...i guess.

Behind the photograph

I thought about what this picture reminded me of and it took me some time to land on the words. I remember when I took it. I remember when I first shared it on social media. I think I gave it some ridiculously glorious and wondrously beautiful spin in Tiffy fashion. This means that the words I shared didn’t at all fit with what I was feeling when this picture was taken. I was on the other side of burnout. Still feeling the bits of that exhaustion as it tried to drag me under again. I remember thinking I took this photo long before I shared it. I cannot even tell you why I took it. Guess I wanted to see what I looked like after I survived something my mind was telling me I wasn’t going to.

I made it out, and guess I wanted documentation for reference.

I do recall thinking about all the times social media would show me what they claimed to be “authentic representations” of meltdowns or burnout and outside of those who would be catergorized like my son, none felt real. None felt authentic. You are about to have a meltdown and you set up your camera? Your limbs wild. Your eyes erratic. Your skin clammy. Sticky even. And you tell us that this is what it is.

How?

But I am unsure what is worse, those or the ones that attempt to “recreate” the meltdown and/or burnout for content. Those are damn awful. I apologize for nothing I am I writing here. Today, I judge. Tomorrow, I will be better.

I took this photo on the other side of burnout and then shared it as if it were some mark of wonderful photography and I as the subject was captured beautifully, giving off so much emotion with just a stare. I chose differently in presenting what autism is like for me. Just as I always have.

What led me to write this poem, started with these thoughts. And ended with me sitting with the images, videos, and words of those who felt as though the unmasking was the solve to all that ailed us autistic folk and then decided to remember that they were supposed to be intersectional and slid those like myself and my sons in at the end. An afterthought to their primary perspectives. They don’t actually believe in our living a life that differs from theirs in such a way that we would have to choose otherwise when it came to masking. They just needed a way to keep those “not everyone can mask” “masking is a privilege” folks out of their comment sections.

Their words wouldn’t be so bothersome if they presented them from a position of self but social media activism is in the business of telling you how it is for them and applying that to everyone else. It doesn’t actually concern itself with community or what advocacy as it pertains to others actually is. They don’t actually respect the terminology.

Living free vs. But not that free.

I am grappling with the feelings that I have about balancing a freer version of myself with the fact that I won't ever be *that* free in this diagnosis. Facing the reality that because of who I am and who my children are, we are not afforded the privilege of a majority maskless existence. I can, do, and will teach my children to mask.

And I will have to do it amongst those who feel as though the solution to many of our woes would be to eradicate the things that are a byproduct of living in a world that is compliance based. I often wonder if they know how much they must conform (and do) to this world to not only survive but thrive when they attempt to blanket our lives with measures that serve to benefit them most?

All bodies are not created equal. Ableism is secondary to the racism I face. Our disability serves to further paint us as dangerous, unfeeling, uncaring, deserving of harsh meds and institutionalization. Unmasking fully, at most times of our lives, is not safe for us until we live in a world that doesn’t treat our skin alone as maladaptive.

And we won’t get to know this world if we don’t acknowledge that it’s imperative for so many of us, even those who don’t think it is, that we learn how to exist in a world that is inaccessible, unkind, and doesn’t consider bodies like ours.

I grew up learning the things that so many find harmful. I grew up forced to learn the things many find harmful. I grew up being taught in a way that many find harmful.

And guess what? It was indeed harmful. There was no pleasure derived from my family having to teach me those things in that way. They know the world we live in. They knew I needed more preparation.

Oh, but it hurt. And it sucked. But what hurts worse is to know that I would have been far worse off if not for what they taught me. And I am stuck in a space where I feel as though I haven’t prepared my children enough for this world because I got caught up in being shamed by ppl who haven’t the first clue about how we live in these bodies and this diagnosis. That is something I have to sort out.

I want to tend towards gutting whole systems and changing the minds and hearts of those who maintain them. I acknowledge the sense of accomplishment that one feels when abolishing something they find to hurt people, but I also know that it’s never really gone if society is built upon it.

It’s never really gone if what you abolish isn’t the root of the issue. And it will never be gone if we don’t fully understand the unique and diverse lives that are impacted the most by the systems that harm them the most.