Fuck Off, Queer Boy

I packed a bag this week imaging what I would like to wear and what would be comfortable during the actual circumstances of my trip. I didn’t pack my most rugged clothes. I didn’t pack my most versatile clothes. I didn’t pack any equipment other than toiletries. I didn’t pack my laptop or my bank safe key or my passport. I didn’t lock out all my computer systems and household equipment. I didn’t hold my mail.

I didn’t prepare for a life I would never be coming back. Or even one where I might have to be gone for weeks.

Which is different for me. I’ve always packed by selecting my most durable clothes. If there was still space I would next pack my most versatile clothes, followed by various bits of survival and household equipment, and if there was still room maybe backups for my most important pieces of clothing. And that’s after all the “essential”¹There’s a whole story here about managing the bits I considered essential, the different readiness categories they fell into, how I staged them, how they evolved over time. I might tell it sometime, but as an example today’s version starts with this priority list (for most situations; exception to this procedure are yet another story): knife, … Continue reading pieces of clothes and equipment and documents that I either alway keep on my person or have in a pre-packed wearable configuration.

So in some ways it was freeing to pack a bag full of things I liked. To think about what I wanted to wear and what would make me comfortable. And in some ways it was panic inducing because I could not be safe when something inevitably went wrong.

So I left for Canada unprepared. Arguably better prepared in many ways for the likely circumstances of the trip, but desperately unprepared for life without access to the material resources of my household. I had a second pair of glasses and pants and clothes that were comfortable for public transit and clothes that matches the likely weather. But I did not have a combination Russian phrase book and Bible, and it was sort of hard to deal with. It still is. I have my knife, so probably I won’t die this week, but it sure feels dangerous to not have pants rated for outdoor sleeping.

I realized the other day, when giving up some of my stained and worn clothes, that I was allowed to keep a disguise. I was allowed to keep a slightly stained beige polo shirt if I wanted for use when I wanted to be invisible. And that was not only reassuraning, but also fun – I like costumes, and I like how I can control the way people treat me by donning one.

And later I realized that I have been in disguise – at least in terms of clothing – as “not homeless” for most of my life. Since kindergarten, where they were upset that I didn’t have the right clothes or shoes and forced Mother to obtain some. I knew that it was my job to be sure no one could tell I didn’t have appropriate clothes, and to be ashamed (and afriad of Mother’s reaction) if anyone found out. There have been several flavors of this over the years, but the one I have now is about being invisible in a corporate environment and some public places, about having rugged enough daily clothes to survive outdoors in a temperate urban environment, and to technically comply with rules and expectations about looking homeless.

Which is sad, among other things, if you imagine the life that put me there. And insane of you image the society that allows that life, particularly for a young person. And it’s definitely part of the thing I’m combating when I say “I want to look more intimidating to Karens”.

It worked though, my plan with multicolored pants and giant earrings and purple eyeliner and packing for fashion and feels instead of survival. I am clearly projecting a higher level of threat because today on the street someone said “Fuck off, queer boy” to me. I’m sure they meant it to be hurtful or at least jarring, but I was so excited to make someone feel so defensive without being more masc that I could have kissed them (which presumably would have made me even more intimidating). There’s still plenty of room to dial it up. I want to be visually intimidating to Karens and all people who might be tempted to have petty interactions with me, not just middle aged men who are worried about my cock. But it was nice to be recognized.

My first day here went fairly well. Had some fondue and a Cuban for lunch, along with some ethanol-enhanced strawberry lemonade. I got my nails done [fig 1] while Shanda got her toes did. The paint actually didn’t come out great but I liked them taking care of my fingertips, particularly after they got all dry from travel. Wore my new glasses [fig 2], which still feel really heavy and unsecured compared to the rimless, hingeles ones I’ve had for years, but I think I’ll get used to them. Sent some postcards, had a slice of pizza, watched dogs play in a fountain. Cried for a while about today’s tough feels but eventually rallied and had dry times and makeup before heading to the play.

Saw All’s Well that Ends Well today. It was sent at the end of direct colonialism in India, so we got to have some extra oppression to go with bits already baked into the plot. It was a good time though, as Bard on the Beach usually is. And like several of these comedies that would otherwise end with “femme lead ‘wins’ back abusive romantic partner” they actually ended with a wordless reiteration of alternatives that lead might have, other than an abusive marriage. One more play tomorrow and then we’re headed back; we’re on a short trip this year and they’re only doing 3 plays concurrently instead of the usual 4.

I’ve been having oppression feels lately. Which is always tricky for me. Inherently oppression demands self-denial, and when institutionalized that denial is enforced with violence. And I’m sufficiently rich and white and male and old to get all sorts of social privileges to put me outside of many of the groups where people are willing to talk about oppression. Plus my brain tells me I’m not allowed to want anything, and if you want nothing you cannot be oppresed by anyone (I’ll give you one guess how you learn this “skill”).

But I ought to feel it. Childhood is full of various forms of oppression even in typical cases, and the version I got seems bad even to people who strongly support the oppression of young people. I’m asked to be gendered all the time. To pay rent to some old person because they put a keep out sign on some land they stole a century ago. I’ve been subject to violence and sexual assault and endless harrasment and all the other sorts of harm caused by the dynamics of such systems. It broke me, mind and body. Left me unable to think of myself as a human and with immune and endocrine systems that’s are only partly functional and sometimes destructive. And every time I move an inch out of complete submission I’m asked to be responsible for the pain of this system. I’m literally punished just for wanting things to be different and letting anyone else know. Mother did this to me, but she was empowered by my community and the institutions of our daily lives, and those things still pound against me even now that I have thrown her off.

And I’m feeling the oppression being thrown at some of you, where you’re punished for wanting a better life. Where merely hoping to stop being hurt triggers an interaction where you have to accept a big chunk of pain as payment to get out of the shitty place you were assigned. Where you’re asked to buy your freedom from the people who stole it, and to feel grateful that they’ll even condiser it.

The amount of submission required in my past life makes me real sensitive to it now. There were so many cases where it was literally impossible for me to do the right thing in my own because the actual demand was to submit, not to achieve some goal, and submission requires a demand. Often requires a reactive demand because a static one would wouldn’t demonstrate control.

Two weeks ago in therapy I talked about the category of things that I think I can’t learn, and that I shouldn’t even attempt for fear of hurting people. Things like child care and sewing – things I’m ashamed to know anything about. I see now that list is huge, and includes things like me not wanting to know what a meal looks like, or how to do makeup, or what well-fitted clothes would look like. In part I agreed to give up those things, because the cost was too high, so I just agreed that I couldn’t know. That I shouldn’t, because it would be bad for me or other people. And in part this was demanded of me, as a form of submission. I had to bow to Mother’s authority as a matriarch, and her infallibility in any task she selected. And sometimes she would require me to perform this act in front of other people. I was told I didn’t know how to do X, that I should be ashamed for not knowing, that I needed to practice “for my own good” (even though no instruction or feedback was provided) so I could stop being so inept.

Here’s an example in the form of child rearing. I wasn’t allowed to be good at it ²Not that I was good at it – I was 6. But I often was better at it than her, or at least more attentive and willing, and both those made her feel bad. when I was young, because doing it at all meant she should feel bad about not having done it herself. Later she believed this lie, and used it to feed her narcissism by telling herself and other people what a good parent she was. She was often mindlessly cruel to me by insisting that I was always wrong about parenting and she was always perfect, even if me being right would make her life better. Because what she wanted was submission, not help with chile care. Eventually she made this into a performance, where I would be assigned child care (for young people other than my siblings) and asked to pretend I didn’t know anything about it so that she could tell a story to the parents about how she was doing extra good parenting by making me do this, because I “needed to learn” and she was helping me by assigning me work.

Since I could not escape this I decided to put up with it. To buy into the lie. I told myself that I couldn’t do it. That I was wrong to have tried. That I had hurt people by trying. That I could never do it right, no matter how much I practiced. I learned to not believe my own experience or memory or studying and to never trust myself to know how if I was good at something. To assume my skill, while potentially good enough to fool me, and unteachable idiot, couldn’t possibly be good enough for anyone else. Would never be good enough even to do it for myself, let alone for others.

One of the ways that applies to travel is the idea that I could never pack correctly. I always wanted the wrong things. Too many things. Too few. I folded or rolled wrong, used the wrong bag, carried it wrong. And I can remember now, all the times I was asked to pack a bag. To pack for a trip where I didn’t know what I’d be doing, what the weather would be like, or how long I’d be gone. I was given 24 hours notice a town name and the name of the person I would be staying with (if that had been arranged). I could sometimes get a distance and direction estimate, which at least offered some clue to the climate. But I was going, usually to be dropped off alone, often someplace where I had to do physical labor to “earn” my place, or had to participate in many hours of mandatory daily exercise.

Which is insane. And terrifying. And disgusting. And my actual life. It’s the reason knife is number one on the list, and pants is number six. Be mad about it, or sad, or disgusted if you must. Try to remember that it actually happened to me, a bunch of times, and being disgusted with life, or afraid of it, makes it hard for you to see my feels. Makes it hard for you to remember I’m a human, and easy for you to reinforce my belief that I’m not.

Which brings me back to travel feels. When I was away, out mowing or splitting wood or whatever was required of me, I often thought about how this might be a good time to run away. How it would give me days of head start on Mother, particularly because it meant someone would call her and she’d try to make them feel bad for talking to her without ever hearing what they wanted. And one of the reasons I couldn’t go was because I knew The Kids still needed me. They might be okay for a week or a month until I could get back – not great but okay – but they needed me in the long term. They were still so small and they couldn’t handle it like me. When we were all in the car I used to imagine that The Kids might die in a car crash so this to can be free of them without abandoning them.

I knew that someday I would have to leave. I just couldn’t stay. So I had to teach them to stop needing me. I had to turn all of my support into processes that worked without me. And I had to stay out of their lives so they could practice without me, and only step in to teach them how to do it without my help. Because I wouldn’t be able to come back next year to do it for them.

And then I did leave. They weren’t ready. They still needed me. I knew they would be hurt. That they’d be neglected. That the household would fall apart in important ways. But I had to do it. I finally had a chance that might let me actually get away. A scholarship and place to live and legal independence. So I abandoned them. I never was a very good parent, and eventually I proved it by running away and leaving my Kids with a monster I knew they couldn’t handle alone. A monster I couldn’t handle myself. I have up on them and tried to save myself. The abandonment happened, but even now I’m not sure I saved myself.

And so I used my oppression party trick and decided to be free. I left and never looked back because I knew that the only good thing I could ever do for anyone was leave. It was what Mother had wanted since I was 4. It was the only way I could stop hurting them. It sitll feels like the only way I know how to protect you – to get you ready for the day when I inevitably must go.

It’s still the feel I have when I’m away. That I have to just keep fleeing, even once I’m at my destination. Certainly I have to escape before the trip ends. All I have to do is just never go back and everyone will be better off. Pete told me, the first time I saw him after I abandoned my family for school, that I shouldn’t come to town any more because that part of my life was over. And I knew he was right. That my ongoing care would cause nothing my pain, and that I could save everyone from it (including myself) if I just agreed to leave them alone.

I feel that way all the time. That the only good thing I can ever do for you is teach you to never need me, and to remove myself from your life once that’s true. I’m too cowardly ³I know this isn’t a good way to frame this, but I’m letting it slide. The idea that I might not have to leave is sufficiently reassuraning that that it’s worth putting up some self-destructive thinking on my way out of something worse. Eventually maybe I’ll feel like I don’t have to leave because my life has gotten better since the time … Continue reading to abandon some of you, even if I knew it was the right thing to do. But I still try to give you literally as much space as I can muster while still meeting your needs. I know you don’t want to see me or think about me. I know your life will improve once I finally let go and stop pestering you.

Being needed is sort of the only way I know how to feel appreciated. I am good in a crisis, and I like helping people when they need someone who is. I arrange my life to be able to deal with crisis, mine and yours. But as soon as the situation is stabilizing – as soon as you don’t need me just to stay alive – my brain is sure you want me to be invisible again. You keep me around because I’m sometimes useful, but it would always be better if the help I provided was more anonymous and less hands-on.

I feel like I might not have friends outside of crisis. Like people only want to talk to me when their lives are so bad they can’t imagine anything better. But if I actually help them soon they can imagine something better, and my involvement must be done to keep me from holding them back. I don’t know how to get your attention outside of an emergency. And you don’t like the attention I offer nearly as much.

And I still can’t save that 12-year-old. Couldn’t do it for myself. Didn’t do it right for the Kids. Won’t be able to do it for you. Saving isn’t a thing, but my brain is still sure that’s the only thing I can offer. And that I can only give it to you by leaving.

There are lots of other feels and things, but this is plenty for today. Between this and M’s continuing bad news and hard times today was plenty. Maybe tomorrow will be easier. Maybe with some eye shadow I can make a Karen afraid that I’ll corrupt the young people in the area. Or maybe I’ll find a way to feel one step closer to you actually wanting my attention. Or to you being able to hear me ask for yours.

ZiB

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Sent from a phone.

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