Messing around

When it really looks like this

 My art has never been worth shit, but watch me bullshit my way into art school! I am a horrid goblin, but watch me make these people like me! Am I qualified to do this task? Well I sure have the certificates that say that I am! And how did I get those? Who knows! Not me! I am so good at cheating, I don’t have to break a single rule to do it!

Useful for explaining sensory-related eating challenges…

When I was younger, folks seemed pretty comfortable with telling me I was "an old soul", or, "acted like an adult". I was a sharp kid with a large vocabulary who spent a lot of time reading quietly, so I guess the perception was that I was therefore more "grown up" than other kids my age.

Which, you know, made an otherwise lonely and isolated child feel pretty important and special, so it was easy for me to feel flattered when it signed me up for extra responsibilities.

I was six when I was first left alone to take care of the baby. I was seven when I got my first summer job. I was eight when I was put in charge of my own chicken coop; feeding, cleaning, buying feed and all.

I was special, I was different, I was "treated like a grown up". I was proud of that.

Then I got older, and more tired, and the limitations stayed the same while the responsibilities and expectations kept piling up.

No, I couldn't stay home while my family went on an overnight trip, I was too young for that.

But the adults were both out somewhere overnight? Sure, I could take care of two younger kids, cook dinner, put them to bed by 8 and have them off to school in the morning.

I remember, once things began to decline, repeating rather often: 

"Either give me adult responsibilities and adult privileges, or child responsibilities and child privileges. Don't give me child privileges and adult responsibilities- either I'm an adult or a kid. Make up your mind."

It turns out that "adult responsibilities" isn't quite the same thing as "adult respect".

But even if it was, though- even if I was treated with all the benefits and freedoms of adulthood alongside all the work, I was still a kid. 

Kids need free time. Kids need sleep. Kids need to *not* have to lay awake at night wondering what they're going to make for school lunches, or how they're going to cook dinner for six when the stovetop burners went out.

And it's not necessarily because they can't handle the pressure, but because there should be Actual Adults in their life doing those things. If not for the labour aspect, but for the respect and security of it.

My parent says I can't wear shoes in the house? Why do they care? I'm the one who mops the floors.

I'm not allowed to stay home alone? What, you trust me with your baby but you don't trust me with your house?

The family pet died and I'm tasked with burying it? Cool, grief is isolated and nobody cares, and when I'm scared or in pain, the authority figures in my life will be distant and emotionally unavailable. I have no reason to believe anyone will support me through emotional hardship in the future.

When it comes to responsibility, its not so much a question of, "can the child handle the work?", but, "what precedent is this setting for their perception of the future?", and, "What is this teaching them about actual adults?"

A child who sits quietly and draws is no more an adult than a child who eats glue and sticks pens up their nose, but both deserve to be respected as people, and both deserve to feel as though the adults in their lives are stable, reliable, secure, and have their best interests in mind.

Do I really want to come out to my Uber driver?

If mention my fiancee, in casual conversation, what pronouns do I use? Most cishets won’t read “they” as queer, and she doesn’t mind me using it to keep myself safe. She has a gender neutral name. I’m lucky she has a gender neutral name. Cishets hear her name and think I’m engaged to a Christopher.

(I’m safer if they think my wife is to be my husband. I wish that I could give her the same gift, the same cloak of plausible deniability, and I hate myself for it. We are both bisexual; we would both be “gold star lesbians” if not for that inconvenient fact.)

My grandmother, who had for 22 years called me her soul-sister, proclaimed us kindred spirits, disowned me for not being straight enough. My father has not spoken me since he found out I’m marrying a woman.

I live in Chicago. I live in a queer neighborhood and work in a queer industry and visit a queer practice for my medical needs. I can clock other queers like a goddamn rainbow swatch. I eat breakfast at a queer cafe and I feel absolutely aglow when I see a cis-looking beardy dude wearing a he/him/his pin so the man I’d misread as a woman can wear that same pin himself and feel normal doing it.

When I was younger, I made a big deal about how my sexuality didn’t DEFINE me. (Because I’ll find a nice man and settle down and be safe and no one will know. Then it might go away.)

But as I’ve grown older I’ve come to understand that who we love and how we love are fucking important.

It’s not a privilege to be read as straight, it’s an insult.

This isn’t passing. It’s hiding.

His cashapp is $420dogdace208, and his paypal is [email protected]