Lovable, Beautiful, Handsome.

6/20/20

Earlier this year, I ended up on a Los Angeles cable news program with a few of my climate activist colleagues.

As I watched myself later, on a recording, in a cute little red dress, speaking half-loosely half-eloquently about mitigating climate change, I wasn’t thinking about the subject matter, although it is a major part of my life - it is the work that I do to try and insure my own well-being and the well-being of others.

The only thing I could think was, This isn’t me.

I wasn’t just slouching, I was leaning forward in my wheelchair, gesturing like an Italian - which I proudly own; I own my wild gesturing - but with too thin hands and arms, that were more “broken robot” than they were “graceful dancer.” This isn’t me, this isn’t me, this is not what I look like, this is not what I feel like, this just isn’t me.

My mother tried to comfort me when I voiced my concerns to her, saying I looked more focused than awkward, but “awkward” wasn’t it, “awkward” wasn’t enough to describe what I saw. It put me in mind of people with cerebral palsy, or Ehlers-Danlos syndrome, it was that, that indescribable little kink in the system, that makes the difference between apparent weakness and apparent poise. That is what I was noticing. If you can’t see it in my face, you can see it from the neck down, for sure. “Awkward” wasn’t enough to describe it, but I guess “disabled” is. Oh, shit.

The person I was watching on the television screen, and later dwelled repeatedly on screenshots of, the person sitting in my chair, speaking with my tongue, my teeth, bringing to light my own thoughts, that person could not have been me. Or maybe it had to have been me, and that’s what I’m having trouble with.

Because what I saw was not attractive at all.

I want to be.

I want to present as I feel I am - I am nonbinary; I am someone who is both masculine and feminine, and vaguely otherworldly, but I also want to be viewed as lovable, beautiful, handsome, by our larger society. I’ve never exactly gone with the flow, I’m not a follower, but living in a society that deems you ugly hurts. There is a type of androgyny, that can be very attractive, that simply means presenting as neither masculine nor feminine - this androgyny is what people normally see in their heads when people think of the word; the concept.

But what if I told you there was another kind? That is almost never strived for, but dealt with? This androgyny happens when I cannot present as neither masculine nor feminine; I am physically disabled, and therefore femininity and masculinity are out of reach for me, no matter what my gender is, no matter what is on my birth certificate. Femininity and masculinity are not the only two options out there, but as someone who personally aspires to express both, it hurts to feel like both are simply inaccessible to me.

My internalized ableism is influencing me, letting me, no, forcing me to think, I cannot be light and sweet and pretty with a heavy, stumbling walk that you need a walker to accomplish. I cannot be beautiful in a dress in a wheelchair; dresses and wheelchairs just do not mix, my demons tell me. I cannot be sauve, I cannot be the most handsome, most dastardly motherf*cker in the room if I use a cane. Being disabled undoes the power and strength of whatever gender expression I aim for; because I am disabled, I am not enough of anything. I’m in the realm of inbetweens and boths and nones, and even androgyny - the traditional definition - doesn’t work for me. I just end up looking kind of baggy, and vaguely melted.

Make no mistake, there are days and moments I am in love with myself, when I consider myself all I seek to be, but they only come when every variable in my appearance is carefully controlled. Human brains are very good at noticing and cataloging…”obvious differences.” In psychology (or, behavioral science), pattern recognition is described as “a cognitive process that matches information from a stimulus with information retrieved from memory.” (From “Cognitive Psychology: A Student's Handbook,” 4th edition, by Michael W. Eysenck and Mark T. Keane.) If you have a certain subconscious memory, or multiple subconscious memories (a pattern sequence), of what human faces and bodies are “supposed” to look like, you will notice deviances in that pattern.

It isn’t inherently ableist to understand that I am clearly disabled - I don’t want you to not see the chair or the walker or my “real” body, I’m not offended by your brain’s ability to comprehend the truth.

I am deeply annoyed - and on bad days, heartbroken - by what usually happens during the noticing and cataloging. Most able-bodied people my age meet me and quietly dissuade themselves of the notion that I may be talented, or kind, or smart, or funny, or fun, or cute or interesting, all within the first two seconds - and it’s not even a conscious effort. It’s that disability presents a red warning flag: “This person will be a burden.” “This person will prevent you from living fully.” “This person is - wait for it - DISABLED. DISABLED BAD.”

And most people don’t take the time to analyze the red flag.

So it’s up to me to challenge that.

Which is - you guessed it - challenging. I have to force others to consider me. I am almost always the one putting myself out there; complimenting others, making jokes, starting the conversation. In my entire high school experience so far, not many people have “gone first.” It is rare that people’s attention will simply, naturally drift over to me. Very few people have reached out to me. I feel like I need a reboot, relationship-wise. Like I need to open up my hood and jumpstart myself.

I’ve been lonely, lately. I’m in the phase right now where friends are going off to college, and FaceTime isn’t the same as actual face time.

And the last inkling of romance in my life happened when I was in, what, seventh grade? I had a crush on a Jewish Orthodox boy. The chemistry we felt was quelled within the year. At that time in my life, I wasn’t using a wheelchair yet, but I was otherized because I wasn’t a part of his community.

That was my first experience being aware of being “other,” and to be honest, the ableism I experience now feels worse.

We never “dated.” We only saw each other at school. We never held hands. But it was a crush. And since then, I’ve felt...nothing. I have never been “in a relationship.”

Sexuality is a hard thing to figure out, at least for me.

I used to say I was asexual panromantic, but I was lying to myself. I like guys. I am a nonbinary femme dude, who likes guys. I slapped labels on myself instead of feeling my way through things, for fear that I wouldn’t find anyone with whom my feelings were mutual.

I want to feel like I’m in love, and I want someone to love me. There is a red flag going up in my own head, telling me, I will never meet a young man who sees the whole me; sees that I am disabled, sees my rage and grief and joy, and loves the whole me. Without it becoming inspiration porn. Someone who respects women; and that I have many experiences and struggles in common with women, who isn’t afraid to call himself a feminist, who understands that I am girl-shaped and masculine and feminine and proud of that. Biiiiig reeeeeed flaaaag.

I challenge red flags.

Including my own.

I am deciding now, as I will decide again every time I doubt it, I am worth love. I am worth love.

. . .

This piece was written last year. It was originally going to be on another website, but after enthusiastically saying she would get back to me with edits before publishing it, the editor working with me emailed months later to say it had never been approved. I’m publishing it now, here, because this story still matters.

Although times have changed, and I’ve grown some (I no longer am in a rush to be in love), and I’ve gotten a little less lonely (I just had my 19th birthday on the 7th, and my best friend stayed with me for like a week and a half!!), there are still moments where I think I’m not worthy of love. There are still moments I think I’m ugly, or think I’m alone.

But ironically, I’ve learned in these past few months, actually, that those moments are just more fires to walk through throughout the video game of life. And this player was forged in fire.

. . .

This is the first blog post that I’m filing under “Phase 2.” Phase 1 was from whenever the hell I started publishing my writing to the date I published The Long Game. That was the last one from Phase 1, and it predicted change. Phase 2 is the change itself, and the recording of it. Welcome to Phase 2.