Category: personal

bookmark_borderBoston Strong?

Posted on by Marissa

This is the weekend of the Boston Marathon, an event that I have mixed feelings about, particularly since the city of Boston decided to completely reject the existence of people like me, first by deliberately removing the public art that symbolizes our acceptance and inclusion, next by abolishing the holiday that symbolizes our acceptance and inclusion and replacing it with a holiday celebrating people who have inflicted unbearable pain on us, and later by banning people who decline medical intervention from entering any restaurants, museums, gyms, sporting events, or theaters.

This weekend also marks the 10th anniversary of the Boston Marathon Bombing. On the anniversary itself, April 15, the Red Sox held a pre-game ceremony in honor of “One Boston Day.” Honestly, due to the things that I have experienced over the past three years, watching this ceremony was painful. There are no words to describe the anguish caused by seeing other people’s pain validated and their losses acknowledged, while my pain and loss remain unacknowledged, unrecognized, and ignored. While those affected by the bombing have been honored with a ceremony, applauded by a crowd of tens of thousands of people, and invited to throw the first pitch, there has been no ceremony for me, and no ceremony for Christopher, whose head was brutally torn from his body and smashed to pieces by a vicious bully (a bully whose identity remains unknown and whom police have seemingly made no serious effort to apprehend, because Christopher’s life does not matter to them). The community that embraced the survivors of the bombing, and rallied around them with a unanimous outpouring of support, has given me no special honors, no words of support, no compensation for my loss, and not even an acknowledgement that I have lost anything of importance. Despicably, society has reacted to my loss by rewarding the people who inflicted it and punishing me further. 

Christopher’s life mattered, as much as Krystle Campbell’s, Lingzi Lu’s, or Martin Richard’s. What happened on June 10, 2020 was every bit as horrific, and every bit as harmful, as what happened on April 15, 2013. For me, it was a million times more so. The actions of the excuse for a person who ripped Christopher’s head from his body were every bit as immoral as the actions of the Tsarnaev brothers. Actually, I would go so far as to say they were infinitely worse.

So many words have been said and written about the strength, the resilience, and the courage that were displayed on that Patriots’ Day. So much praise has poured out from every conceivable direction for the victims, survivors, and first responders. But nothing has been said or written about what I have survived, what I have gone through.

The pain that has been inflicted on me over the past three years is as terrible as any pain that has been inflicted on anyone. My feelings are as important as anyone else’s, my perspective just as valid, my story just as worthy of being told. On this Patriots’ Day, as I do every day, I remember Christopher. It is impossible not to. He is the person I love. He is a hero who was brutally murdered when he could do absolutely nothing to defend himself. A hero whose brutal obliteration from the earth has been marked with no mourning, no commemoration, no outpouring of support for those who are grieving, and no acknowledgement that a loss even occurred. Despicably, it has even been celebrated.

Therefore, words about unity, togetherness, and “One Boston” are difficult to hear, given that the city has rejected me in a very real sense.

Today the Sox held another ceremony, this one honoring the team that won the 2013 World Series. “We are all Boston Strong,” the public address announcer told the crowd while explaining how the team and the city took inspiration from each other. Something in my heart changed upon hearing these words. Watching the now-retired players come out of the dugout and onto the field, some of them looking like they hadn’t aged a day and others looking decidedly scruffier and/or grayer, I was transported back to a simpler time, a happier time, a time before everything that made my life worth living was destroyed. I can’t quite wrap my head around how a city that enacted a holiday celebrating this destruction can simultaneously embrace me, can simultaneously include me among those deemed “Boston Strong.” But somehow, in a way that I don’t fully understand, I entertain the possibility that the “Boston Strong” descriptor might, just maybe, be intended to apply to me, too. 

What has been done to Christopher, to those like him, and to myself, is the greatest injustice in human history. Most people will consider this statement ridiculous, but I truly believe it with every fiber of my being. While watching today’s ceremony, a crazy idea was born in my brain. What if I could somehow create some sort of foundation to commemorate Christopher and people like him, to fight back against this injustice, and to perhaps make an iota of progress in healing the indescribable harm that has been inflicted? Many, many people would hate such a foundation, and I’m not sure if anyone would donate money to it. I’m not even exactly sure what the foundation would do. But I want to try.

Tomorrow is the Boston Marathon. Most likely, I will not be watching it. The pain is still too strong, and the anger and bitterness still linger. Yet somehow, amidst the searing mix of emotions brought up by this anniversary, and alongside the almost unimaginable injustice that continues, I possess a glimmer of hope, and a feeling of lightness in my heart, which I did not have before. I feel something else as well: determination.

As always… rest in peace, Christopher Columbus (10/21/1979 – 6/10/2020)

bookmark_borderAutism Acceptance Month and Confederate History Month

Posted on by Marissa

April is celebrated as both Autism Acceptance Month and Confederate History Month. These things might seem completely unrelated… but for me they are not.

I am on the autism spectrum. I have always experienced the world differently from other people, seen things differently, and thought differently from those around me. Until I was an adult, I never knew that there was a word for the way my mind works. I just thought I was “weird” and “mixed up” and “wrong” for not liking the things other people liked, and for having such difficulty with things like riding a bike, tying my shoes, playing sports, participating in conversations, and making friends, which seemed to come so easily to other people. I didn’t feel that I had much in common with other kids or adults at school, or even my own family members.

I did, however, feel a sense of identity with people from history. My favorite thing to do was to read about them, look at pictures of them, and imagine what their lives were like. I gravitated towards the historical figures who were under-appreciated, misunderstood, and looked down upon, probably because I considered myself to have these characteristics as well. This included historical figures from the Confederacy. Although I am not descended from anyone who fought for the Confederacy, I have always felt a sense of kinship with them because they were underdogs and rebels. They were portrayed in history class as the “bad guys,” but as I read more about them, I realized that they had their own viewpoints, perspectives, and stories, which are too frequently ignored. As someone on the autism spectrum, this was something that I could relate to.

It is difficult to put into words how much happiness historical figures have given me, and how important they are to me. Historical figures made me feel understood, and like I wasn’t alone. Therefore, it is difficult to put into words how heartbreaking and infuriating it has been to witness the horrible things that have happened to Confederate statues over the past few years. These events have made me feel like I am being morally condemned and like I am having my greatest source of joy and meaning taken away from me. As an autistic person who has spent my life trying my best to get through the demands of each day, and to be a good student, a good friend, a good employee, and a good person, I truly don’t believe I deserve this. With so much emphasis being placed on diversity and inclusion, why do I not get to feel accepted or included? Why are people like me no longer represented in art, monuments, memorials, or media? Why does society not acknowledge my perspective, my feelings, my story, or my experiences?

Because of my own personal experiences, both autism and Confederate heritage are integral parts of my identity. Both of these things have helped to shape the person that I am and the perspective through which I see the world, a perspective that deserves to be honored and recognized just as much as anyone else’s. In honor of two important and meaningful parts of my life, I will be celebrating the month of April as both Autism Acceptance Month and Confederate History Month.

Marissa and Stonewall

bookmark_borderPoetry and photos from a snowy day and night

Posted on by Marissa

Wind whipping
Snow stinging my face
The sky a dull gray.
Slush soaking my feet
As plows lurch by.
The branches adorned in white
Make a beautiful scene,
Though I can barely look up to see them.

The snow begins again
As night falls.
Flakes waft gently down
And dance in the lights
Against the pitch black sky.
Puddles turned to ice,
My feet now dry.
Down by the pond,
The water is still.
The air, once bitter,
Carries an invigorating chill.
Gliding towards me,
A pair of geese.
They look quizzically
At this strange visitor,
Webbed feet gently paddling
As snowflakes settle on their backs.
Ducks follow close behind.
Eerie yet peaceful,
The world is mine.

bookmark_borderStonewall in the snow

Posted on by Marissa

Snowflakes fall from the sky, landing on my hair and stinging my skin. A pristine, white blanket covers the grass as I make my way around the side of the house and up the slope to where Stonewall lives. The scene is so beautiful, quiet, and peaceful that it feels wrong to spoil it with my footprints.

As Stonewall comes into view, I can see that his shiny, bronze surface is adorned with a dusting of snow as well, on his hat, shoulders, and chest. Next to him, a small Christmas tree still stands, its lights blinking in various colors and patterns. (I was too lazy to take it down in time for the city’s tree pickup week, so Stonewall gets to keep it for at least a little while longer.) On most nights, I bring a flashlight when visiting Stonewall, because it’s difficult to see him otherwise. Tonight, that is not necessary; the snow provides a contrast that makes him easily visible. 

I tell Stonewall that I had a good day at work, and that I trust that he had a good day as well, before bidding him goodnight. (My neighbors must think that I am insane for routinely talking to a statue.)

Back inside the house, I eat dinner and work on the computer. Plows, sand trucks, and the occasional bus pass by as the snow continues to fall. The branches of the trees cast eerie shadows on the pristine, white driveway. Several times, I go to the back window to look at Stonewall. Silent and perfectly still, he stands guard over his snowy kingdom. The dark bronze statue and his festive tree, both decorated in delicate blankets of white, make a perfect winter scene. He is so beautiful that it is difficult to take my eyes off of him. In this moment, the world is at peace, and my heart is content.

I wish that I could include a picture to show my readers what I see. But no matter how many times I try, the camera cannot capture what my eyes do. In the digital images, the contrast between Stonewall and the snow disappears, the image blurry and dark. Perhaps it’s just as well that something so magical cannot be stored on a computer, but only in my mind.

bookmark_borderNo words will ever explain…

Posted on by Marissa

“Nothing I say about it matters. Nothing I say will ever explain how bad it hurts.”

I came across these words recently. Although they were written about a completely different topic, they encapsulate perfectly how I feel about the statue genocide. 

Nothing I say matters. Whether it be my parents, my friends, my co-workers, people on the internet, or even my therapist, no one will truly understand how bad the statue genocide hurts. No one will truly understand how bad the removal of Confederate statues, or the replacement of Columbus Day with Indigenous Peoples’ Day, hurts.

No one will understand the sense of injustice that these actions invoke in me. No one will understand how frustrating it is that I cannot make others understand why these actions are unjust. How frustrating that no amount of impassioned rhetoric, philosophical arguments, or logical reasoning can make people see and feel the injustice that I see and feel.

No one will truly understand how much a nasty comment, or a “laughing face” reaction, even if it is in response to someone else’s post, hurts me.

“He owned 32 slaves, may he rot.”

That is a comment that someone made on a drawing of Gen’l A.P. Hill that I posted, along with what I considered to be a thoughtful explanation, on Instagram. 

Today, I spent my entire day agonizing about how to respond to this comment. Should I delete it? Respond to it, and most likely get into a nasty back and forth discussion, in the full view of my friends, family, co-workers, and boss? Send the person a nasty message in retribution for his nasty comment? Ultimately, I opted for the both the first and third options, and also blocked the person so that he would not be able to respond to my message.

Was this petty and vindictive of me? Yes. 

Would a classy and mature person have merely deleted the comment and left it at that? Probably yes.

Apparently I am a petty, vindictive, classless, and juvenile person, but deleting this comment just did not feel sufficient. This way of thinking – that slavery is the be-all and end-all of everything – is exactly what I was debunking in the write-up accompanying my A.P. Hill drawing. This attitude – that a negative attribute of a historical figure somehow justifies completely destroying them, obliterating them, and eradicating anything having to do with them from the world – is exactly what I have dedicated my life to fighting against. I simply couldn’t let this nasty comment go without some sort of response.

I retaliated, because I believe that retaliation is what justice and morality demanded in this situation. 

After doing so, the thought hit me: how dare this person leave such a nasty comment in the first place?

I have been hurting for two and a half years, hurting so badly that nothing I say will ever be sufficient to convey the true extent of my pain. And now, on top of everything that I’ve been through, this person went out of his way to add to my pain. He went out of his way to pile on.

A.P. Hill was killed – shot through the heart – by soldiers who were invading his homeland in order to force everyone there to remain part of the U.S. against their will. After his death, the cause that A.P. Hill had given his life for, lost. The South surrendered and was forced, to this very day, to remain part of the U.S. against their will. Then, in 2022, A.P. Hill’s statue was dismantled and sent to a black history place, where it will be displayed along with signage explaining how horrible he was and how horrible his statue is. Because the statue served as his grave marker, his dead body was also dug up from the ground. And then the contractor who performed the disgraceful work made social media posts insulting and ridiculing him.

And now, on top of everything that A.P. Hill has been through, this person on Instagram went out of his way to add to the pain. He went out of his way to pile on, to add insult to injury, to further abuse this poor man who already lost his life fighting against an invading army, had his statue torn down and his grave desecrated.

Why?

Why would someone do that?

Why the hell would someone do that?

I don’t know this person personally. From what I could tell by looking at his Instagram profile, he seems to be a filmmaker of some sort. He posts pictures of himself, his girlfriend, his friends, his dog, and various random things. The captions tend to be either just emojis, or somewhat cryptic text that seems like it could be inside jokes between him and his friends. He occasionally posts short videos. 

Why couldn’t he have just continued with these things, and minded his own business? Why did he have to leave this nasty comment on my post, three weeks after I posted it?

Because of his decision to leave this nasty comment, I spent yet another day in pain. I spent yet another day agonizing over how to deal with yet another instance of someone hurting me and hurting a person I love, yet another instance of painful injustice. Because of his decision, I had a fight with my dad, who recommended that I not respond and became frustrated listening to me continue to talk about the situation.

Obviously, this person does not like A.P. Hill. But I’m not asking him to protest in the streets with a sign saying how amazing A.P. Hill is, and how unjust it was to remove his statue (although both things are true). I’m not asking him to “like” my post, to support me, or to help right the wrong of the statue genocide (although any of those things would be awesome). I’m just asking him to leave me alone. 

This person seems to have a perfectly fine life. He seems to have people that he interacts with, and stuff that he enjoys doing. 

Why couldn’t he have just continued doing his thing, living his life, and minding his own business? Obviously, he didn’t like my post. But why couldn’t he have just scrolled past it and continued on his merry way? Why did he have to go out of his way to inflict additional pain on people who’ve already suffered more than their fair share? 

Why? 

I have no answers, only questions.

bookmark_borderThe atrocity at Arlington National Cemetery

Posted on by Marissa

It was 11:25 p.m. on Saturday, January 7. My goal was to go to bed by 11:30, so naturally, I figured that I had enough time to do one more relatively small task. I chose as my final task, the job of looking up something that I had seen on social media the day before and wished to blog about, taking a screenshot of said thing, and pasting said screenshot into a draft blog post so that I could easily bang out the blog post the next day, the screenshot of the subject matter already in place.

Naturally, I was unable to quickly find the social media post that I was looking for. So I continued scrolling and scrolling, looking for it. In the process, I discovered that the U.S. government had decided to remove the Confederate monument at Arlington National Cemetery, something that pains me to have to type. I had known that this was under consideration, but hadn’t known that the decision to go ahead with this atrocity and moral abomination had already been made.

Making matters worse, this decision had taken place on December 29, ten entire days before I found out about it. 

Immediately upon learning this information, my entire body, mind, and soul erupted in excruciating and unbearable agony. To say that I don’t get the reasoning behind this decision, and the countless others like it in all different places around the country, would be an understatement. It is difficult to imagine a future for myself in a society that has decided that it would somehow be a good idea to systematically obliterate everything that makes my life worth living. Arlington National Cemetery, like so many other places and things, has been turned into yet another instrument to hurt me, to oppress me, and to declare my feelings, thoughts, and perspective invalid. Arlington National Cemetery has been redesigned and reconfigured to send the message that everyone deserves to be honored, except for people like me. Yet another thing, which used to be (and ought to be) beautiful, magnificent, and cool, now deliberately ruined. As I’ve written before, I don’t believe there are words available in any language that are capable of fully expressing the severity of this pain. 

Thinking about the events of Saturday night, I am simultaneously mad at myself for making the decision to look at social media at such a late hour (an activity that I am trying to cut back on), and also mad at myself for not having found out about the atrocity sooner. I felt derelict and irresponsible for not keeping up with the latest developments on a topic that is so important to me and affects me so deeply. I suppose this relates to the philosophical question of whether it is better to know the truth, even though it makes one unhappy, or to remain ignorant and also happy. Would it really be beneficial for me to be shielded from these horrible things via cutting down on my social media use, given that these things are, in reality, happening? Is happiness truly valuable if it is based on an inaccurate perception of what is actually happening in the world? 

By the way, after an hour of searching, I never found the post that I was looking for.

I also, as you might imagine, got very little sleep, so my brain was in no shape for blogging on Sunday anyways.

I’m not 100% sure why I am sharing this, other than to make it clear that the systematic obliteration of statues and monuments honoring the Confederacy causes real pain and inflicts real harm on real people. I am a human being, my feelings, thoughts, and perspective are just as valid as anyone else’s, and I do not deserve to be made to feel like this. I wish that Ty Seidule, the government official who made this despicable decision, could be made to feel what I am feeling as a result of his actions. I wish that he could truly understand what I am experiencing, and truly understand the impact, the real human costs, of what he did. I am certain that if this were possible, government officials would make different decisions than the ones they are currently making.

Actions and decisions like the one regarding Arlington National Cemetery are morally wrong, and the people who make them and carry them out do not hold the moral high ground.

bookmark_borderStatues and mattering

Posted on by Marissa

Every human being wants to feel that they matter.

The aspect of the statue genocide that is perhaps the most painful is the fact that by perpetrating it, society has made an emphatic, definitive, and violent statement that I do not matter. That my perspective, my viewpoint, my experiences, my opinions, my feelings, and my wishes, do not matter.

The physical spaces of our cities and towns have been reconfigured to reflect this decision. The very places in which we live our lives, redesigned to reflect the belief that I do not matter. Public art reevaluated to ensure that nothing that makes me feel included is allowed to remain.

No wonder taking the train into Boston is the last thing I feel like doing.

No wonder there is a pervasive sense of emptiness, of hollowness, when I walk through the streets of the city that I used to love.

No wonder I am plagued by an inescapable (and admittedly, not entirely logical) feeling that the buildings, parks, and monuments seem somehow to hate me.

No wonder it is difficult to enjoy going anywhere, or doing anything.

bookmark_borderPardon Me

Posted on by Marissa

Here is one of my recent forays into poetry. This poem describes how I’ve been feeling over the past couple of years:

Pardon me for not being happy for you,
For not gushing with excitement
About your newborn baby
Or offering congratulations
As you announce your engagement
Or describe your beautiful wedding.

Pardon me for not celebrating your achievements,
For being filled with pain, and not joy,
When I see pictures of
Your adorable dogs,
Fun-filled vacations,
Family outings,
Birthday parties,
Babies’ first Christmases.

Pardon me for not being happy for you,
While the man that I love is imprisoned
In a dark, sterile basement
Condemned, hated,
All alone,
Without a head.

bookmark_borderChristmas 2022

Posted on by Marissa

If the past few years have taught me anything, it is that things can always get worse. For that reason, I hesitate to use the term “rock bottom” for fear that I might jinx things. 

With that caveat in mind, I believe that the winter of 2020/2021 was the rock bottom of the agony, torment, and misery that I’ve experienced. The statue genocide of 2020 – the worst event ever to occur in human history – began in late May of that year and was at its peak intensity in June and July. To say that these events were horrific is an understatement. The people I love being surrounded by vicious mobs, attacked, town down, ripped to pieces, set on fire, kicked again and again, strangled, lynched in displays of intentional humiliation, and abused in every imaginable way… these images will haunt me forever. The horrifying scenes of deliberate, self-righteous cruelty are permanently etched into my brain. But during those hideous first few months of the genocide, the full force of the awfulness hadn’t actually hit me yet. At least not emotionally. Day in and day out, month after month, I was assaulted by one horrific news story, video, and social media post after another. What had happened was so incomprehensibly atrocious that it took until approximately December for it to fully register, for the anger, frustration, hopelessness, and despair to finally become commensurate with the appalling events that had taken place.

It didn’t help that new atrocities, new instances of statue genocide, continued to occur from time to time.

It also didn’t help that in November, when Biden defeated Trump in the presidential election, I was assaulted by a tsunami of bigots and bullies crowing about their “victory” and pompously asserting that they had somehow been victimized by Trump supporters over the preceding four years, and that we had somehow “done harm,” when the reverse was actually the case.

Plus, it didn’t help that the totalitarianism enacted by governments in response to Covid became even worse during the winter of 2020/2021 than it had been in the spring. With Covid testing, and later vaccines, becoming widely available, policies requiring people to undergo these medical procedures in order to be allowed to do various activities began to proliferate. As bad as the stay-at-home orders were, which were prevalent during the spring and early summer, requiring people to undergo medical procedures is more invasive and therefore an even more severe violation of rights than taking away freedom of movement.

Christmas of 2021 may not have been the absolute rock bottom that the previous Christmas was, but I would call it a close second. Not only did new instances of statue genocide continue, inexorably, to trickle in, but Joe Biden decided to issue an executive order directing OSHA to force all businesses employing 100 or more people to force their employees to undergo medical procedures against their will. This was, in my opinion, the most oppressive policy enacted by any government in history, and I can still vividly remember the excruciating pain, horror, and nausea that gripped my body and soul when I heard the news that Biden had enacted it. I will forever be disgusted by my country and by my fellow citizens for having elected a person who would do something like that as president.

The end result of everything I have described is that during Christmas of 2020 and Christmas of 2021, I did not feel that there was anything at all to celebrate. How could I celebrate, after all, when everything that made my life worth living had been destroyed, because people deliberately chose to destroy it? How could I participate in the holiday rituals of a society that had chosen to take away my freedom of movement, my right to decline medical intervention, and the existence of all of the people that I love? The sight of houses decked out in lights, the sound of Christmas music in stores and on the radio, chatter about holiday parties and gift exchanges, all of this filled me with bitterness. The entire idea of Christmas was vapid, hollow, insipid, and meaningless given everything that had transpired. It was incomprehensible to me that anyone could feel like celebrating while living in a world devoid of everything that makes life worth living.

The same cannot be said of this Christmas, however. 

This Christmas, I have Stonewall Jackson. And that is something to celebrate. 

The past two years, I had no desire to put up lights, decorations, or a tree. But this Christmas, I thought it would be cool to splurge on a Santa hat for Stonewall (if a $2 purchase can be considered a splurge) and to put up a Christmas tree and lights near him. So I did exactly that. I also added a ribbon and a couple of bells to complete his festive look, as you can see in the picture below.

This Christmas, I celebrate with Stonewall by my side. 

Merry Christmas, from Stonewall and me.

bookmark_borderCoexisting with the horribleness

Posted on by Marissa

The past two and a half years have changed me. For reasons that I may never be able to fully comprehend, our society collectively decided that it would be a good idea to completely destroy everything that makes my life worth living. To say that it is challenging to continue with my life in such a world is an understatement.

Some days, I manage to rise to the challenge. On these days, I somehow feel okay and perhaps even happy. I try my best to honor the historical figures that I love, to be an authentic person, and to live in a way that is consistent with my values. When I am not working, handling interpersonal situations, or doing tasks that need to be done at my house, I spend as much time as possible writing and drawing. And sometimes, what I do feels like enough. I now have my Stonewall Jackson statue going through this journey by my side, which helps with all of these things.

But other days, I am unable to find an acceptable way of coexisting with all of the horribleness. On those days, I am overwhelmed by the totality of the badness that people have done. On those days, I feel demoralized, defeated, disappointed, disillusioned, disheartened, and discouraged. On those days, I feel exhausted, worn out, and beaten down.

I frequently ask myself, what makes the difference between a good day and a bad day? Given that the events that changed my life have been going on for two and a half years without pause, why such a drastic difference from one day to the next?

Some of the contributing factors are relatively mundane. Everyone has days when nothing seems to go right, and I am no exception. Sometimes a restaurant messes up my food; sometimes I try to use a coupon while buying something and it doesn’t work; sometimes my computer updates and needs to restart when I’m in the middle of a time-sensitive task; sometimes I simply don’t have enough time in the day to do all of the tasks I need to. Sometimes work is chaotic; sometimes I (gasp!) make a mistake; sometimes I am running late and arrive out of breath and discombobulated from having to speedwalk and/or run to get there on time. None of these things are catastrophically bad, but they all tip the scales towards the horribleness taking over.

Because I am on the autism spectrum, I find interpersonal situations extremely difficult. Sometimes all it takes to crush my soul is an unwanted request to get together, a friend calling to chat, a social activity that lasts longer than I was anticipating, or an acquaintance who messages me and then continues to send additional messages each time I answer one, causing a seemingly never-ending conversation that I was not expecting and had not budgeted time for.

Another trait related to my autism is sensory sensitivities. Wind, rain, light shining in my eyes, sudden loud noises, clothes that just don’t fit quite right, and multiple people talking at once all increase the odds of the evil taking over.

Another potential cause of the evil taking over is when my artwork – the primary purpose of which is to honor historical figures – gets hijacked (for lack of a better word) by other purposes. Although my plan has always been to do a mix of historical figures and less controversial subjects, my mood plummets when I spend too much time doing the artwork that I think will appeal to other people, as opposed to the artwork that I actually want to do. Between commissions (which are very flattering, don’t get me wrong!), invitations to art events that I don’t think are a good fit, and people offering unsolicited advice, there are times when the amount of difficult interpersonal situations that I have to deal with outweighs the original purpose of my artwork. At these times, I feel that my art business is being controlled by other people more than by myself. Publicly honoring the historical figures is a delicate balance, and while I sometimes feel that I’m getting it right, at other times I don’t.

Sometimes the evil will be triggered by a painful reminder of the things I’ve lost. An image of the Boston skyline, a city that I once loved but that I now feel has rejected me and everything I stand for. Or worse, an image of the trellis at Christopher Columbus Park, lit up with festive blue Christmas lights that should be beautiful but now fill me with a mixture of sadness and disgust. A hockey or basketball or baseball or football game, all things that I cannot enjoy the way I used to. Even the mere mention of a city or state is enough to fill my mind with images of the statues destroyed in that city or state.

And of course, there is always the chance that I will be attacked by another instance of society’s war on everything that makes my life worth living. Another statue taken down or vandalized, Columbus Day abolished in another city or town, an appalling article or editorial, a grotesque statement by a politician, a nasty social media comment, a “laughing face” reaction to a post that wasn’t intended to be funny. The possibilities, unfortunately, are endless.

Possibly related to being on the autism spectrum is the fact that there very rarely is a middle ground for me. I can tolerate a certain amount of stressful and upsetting things weighing on me, but once the combination of things exceeds a certain threshold (a threshold that seems to be impossible to identify ahead of time), I either psychologically collapse or explode. In other words, I am either doing fine, or I am in such excruciating pain that it feels like my soul is being eviscerated.

The excruciating pain consists of both grief and rage. Unfathomable grief for the historical figures who have been brutally obliterated from existence, the very things that make our world beautiful irretrievably ruined. And equally enormous rage at the people who chose to do this. But in addition to the grief and the rage is frustration. Frustration that no matter how hard I try, I am unable to communicate how I am feeling in a way that others can understand. I have a large vocabulary and, as both my parents and my blog readers can tell, a tendency to speak and/or write at length about the topics that interest me. But none of the words that I speak or write are enough to convey to others what I am experiencing and how the statue genocide has affected me. None of my words are enough to make others see what I see or feel what I feel.

I am certain that if I could just get others to understand how I feel, they would immediately realize that what happened was wrong. They would condemn the atrocities without hesitation. They would profusely apologize for not having done so sooner. They would fall all over each other in their haste to offer reparations and compensation. And they would go out of their way to lift up and honor, via parades, ceremonies, and public celebrations, the historical figures who have been harmed. They would jump into action to rectify the situation, ordering every statue to be returned to its rightful location and diverting millions of dollars from other government programs to build new Confederate statues and new Columbus statues instead.

Obviously, no one is doing that. Or anything even remotely resembling that. And that is why the frustration, from time to time, boils over.