Tag: Christopher Columbus

bookmark_borderWhy Columbus did actually discover the Americas

Posted on by Marissa

This Instagram post from Save Columbus Day makes a great argument for why it is actually correct to say that Columbus discovered the Americas. 

As the post points out, the dictionary definition of “discover” is:

“To notice or learn, especially by making an effort.”

or

“To be the first, or the first of one’s group or kind, to find, learn of, or observe.”

It’s indisputable that Columbus made an effort in finding the new continent. Starting when he was a child, he was so interested in the sea and traveling, that he took the initiative to teach himself sailing skills, geography, history, and different languages. He was so confident and impassioned about trying to find a westward route to Asia, that he spent years trying to persuade the rulers of various kingdoms to finance his idea. And of course, once he finally gained backing from Queen Isabella and King Ferdinand of Spain, the voyage itself required great effort from Columbus and his crew. They sailed in wooden boats, into literally unknown territory, far from home, with no comforts, little to eat or drink, and at the mercy of the dangerous seas. Columbus’s voyage absolutely fits the first definition of the word “discover.”

Additionally, Columbus was indisputably the first of his group or kind to learn of the new continent. The anti-Columbus bullies enjoy making the tired, hackneyed argument that Columbus did not discover the Americas because there were already people living there. Of course, it is true that people were living on the continent when Columbus arrived, so Columbus was not the very first person ever to discover the Americas. He was, however, the first European person to do so, which means that Columbus’s voyage fits the second definition of the word “discover” as well. 

The fact that the anti-Columbus bullies completely ignore this part of the definition – the fact that being the first of one’s group or kind counts as discovering as well – demonstrates their intolerance and racism. The anti-Columbus bullies see things only from the indigenous perspective. Other perspectives and viewpoints don’t matter to them. In their eyes, because Columbus was European, his perspective and his viewpoints don’t matter, and his accomplishments don’t matter. In their eyes, because Columbus is from a different group or kind than themselves, he ought to be attacked, condemned, and shamed, and his accomplishments dismissed and ridiculed. This is why I use the word “bullies.” Anti-Columbus activists are operating from a place of intolerance for any perspectives, viewpoints, and cultures other than their own. In their eyes, the only people who matter are themselves. 

Christopher Columbus was the first European person – the first of his group or kind – to discover the Americas. And that accomplishment matters. 

bookmark_borderA Christmas gift for Christopher Columbus

Posted on by Marissa

It was December 23, and the North End of Boston was filled with Christmas cheer. Lights twinkled on the trees, and the cafes and restaurants were adorned with wreaths and garlands. 

People hustled and bustled through the narrow streets and lined up outside Modern Pastry and Neptune Oyster in search of goodies for their Christmas feasts. Car horns honked impatiently. Tourists chattered excitedly in various languages and stopped to snap pictures. 

The only person seemingly left out of the festivities was Christopher Columbus. A narrow alley off of bustling Salem Street, deserted except for a few parked cars and an abandoned mattress, led to his home in the parking lot of the Knights of Columbus headquarters. As always, he stood solemnly atop his modest pedestal, isolated behind a tall fence. 

Merry Christmas, Chris. How have you been? Everything is so cheerful out there, with the lights, and the decorations, and everyone buying food and presents. And you are here all by yourself. Nobody seems to care about you out there, but I do. You have no decorations, and no presents, and no family, and no one coming to visit you. But I’m here to visit you. I didn’t forget. 

I stood for a few moments with my friend Chris, separated from him by the fence.

And then I noticed that the gate behind him, on the other side of the parking lot, was open. 

And an idea came into my mind.

Perhaps Chris could receive a gift after all. 

I didn’t know for how much longer the gate would be open, so I had to hurry. I turned back onto Salem Street and, turning my head to the left and to the right, began scanning the storefronts for one that might sell suitable gifts for a marble statue. I remembered passing by a CVS earlier, shortly after getting off of the train. So, battling through the crowds, I retraced my steps. Once inside the cramped drug store, I found myself surrounded by an overwhelming assortment of candy, stockings, toys, and holiday decorations. What would Chrisopher Columbus like? I asked myself as shoppers flowed around me, checking out the merchandise, and the automatic doors noisily clanged open and closed. A statue cannot eat, so candy was out. The toys all seemed too juvenile and silly for a great admiral. I noticed a table filled with bouquets of flowers, which were beautiful but very expensive, and likely too big to rest securely atop Chris’s small pedestal. And then I noticed that next to the flowers were some small plants, with beautiful white flowers, that cost only $7. 

The perfect gift for Chris!

I paid for a plant and, praying that the gate hadn’t closed, carried it carefully through the busy streets. 

To my tremendous relief, the gate was open, allowing me to stroll into the parking lot and present the admiral with his gift. A sign sternly warned me that trespassing is forbidden and that violators will be prosecuted, but I ignored it, figuring that no one would mind, because after all, I was there to give the statue a gift, not to harm him. I gently placed the little plant between his marble feet. 

Merry Christmas, my friend. I brought you a gift after all. I hope you like it. 

I took a few photos of him with his gift, patted his foot, and bid him farewell. 

See you later, Chris. It’s been wonderful to see you, as always. Until next time…

bookmark_borderColumbus Day 2023

Posted on by Marissa

For the past four years, for reasons that I probably don’t need to elaborate on, Columbus Day has been an occasion for turmoil and emotional upheaval. 

The day started out with the promise of more of the same. The never-ending list of atrocities, of heartless attacks against the thing that makes my life worth living, was weighing on me as it so often does. The horrific images and vicious words made it difficult to sleep, as they so often do, and I woke up later than I planned, with my brain feeling foggy and my limbs feeling like lead. I missed the bus, and after walking to the train station, with ice cold wind ripping at my clothing and sunlight shining directly into my eyes, I missed the train and had to wait a long time for the next one. 

Finally, I arrived in Boston with flowers and a note. My plan was to visit Christopher Columbus, say hello, and take a few photos of him. Then, if I couldn’t physically go up to him to leave the flowers and note, which I figured would probably be the case because he is located at the Knights of Columbus building which is enclosed by a fence, I would head to his former location, where a heartbreaking empty pedestal still stands, and leave the flowers and note atop the pedestal. I wasn’t certain whether I even wanted to go through with this plan, because I was running so far behind schedule, and because seeing the empty pedestal and the people happily going about their business around it, is just so painful. 

To my surprise, the gate was open. There were a bunch of men standing around in the parking lot, who I assumed to be members of the Knights of Columbus. So I summoned the courage to walk through it and go up to them. 

“Sorry to interrupt,” I began, “but I’m a big fan of your statue, and I was wondering if I could leave some flowers for him.”

One of the Knights responded in the affirmative and even offered to take my picture with Christopher. 

I left the note and the flowers, and wished them all a happy Columbus Day. 

I am glad that the Knights were so kind and welcoming, and also that I happened to stop by while they were there, giving me an opportunity to leave my gift for Chris. 

Chris means so much to me, that it is strange to think that I had never actually gotten this close to him before, or had my picture taken with him. 

At this moment, my heart is full. 

Happy Columbus Day.

bookmark_borderWhy I celebrate Columbus Day

Posted on by Marissa

I celebrate individuals who are remarkable, not mundane and ordinary.

I celebrate courage, not cowardice.

I celebrate independence of thought, not mindless conformity to the dictates of social norms and political correctness.

I celebrate things that are meaningful, not meaningless. 

I celebrate things that are interesting, not bland, dull, and gray.

I celebrate people who stand up to bullies. I don’t celebrate bullies. 

I celebrate a beautiful man – in body, mind, and spirit – not those who cruelly smash and rip and tear his body to pieces. 

I don’t celebrate people who strangle, drown, burn, and lynch others for being quirky and eccentric and different and thinking for themselves. 

I don’t celebrate people who inflict horrific and excruciating pain.

I don’t celebrate the deliberate infliction of harm for no other reason than thinking you are superior to other people because you are part of the majority and they are part of the minority.

I don’t celebrate contemptuous, self-righteous intolerance.

I don’t celebrate people who seek to obliterate the cultures, perspectives, viewpoints, and stories of others.

I side with people who have actually been harmed, oppressed, discriminated against, wronged, traumatized. Not with people who just pretend that they have.

Therefore, I celebrate Columbus Day, not Indigenous Peoples’ Day.

If that makes me a white supremacist, so be it.

bookmark_borderThere’s nothing “bold” about mindless conformity

Posted on by Marissa

The above is a social media post made by an organization called the Red Hawk Native American Council, urging people to contact New York City Mayor Eric Adams to ask to him to inflict harm and pain on autistic people by abolishing Columbus Day.

Let’s rebut the points made in this post one by one:

Columbus Day does not perpetuate a narrative that erases anything. Abolishing it and replacing it with Indigenous Peoples’ Day, on the other hand, erases the existence of people like me – an autistic person whose special interest is historical figures. Abolishing Columbus Day sends the message that my interests are shameful and that my thoughts, feelings, experiences, and perspectives do not matter. This erases my existence.

Additionally, contrary to what is stated in the post, Columbus Day honors the existence of people who are different, are non-conformist, and think for themselves, a category that includes autistic people like me. But yes, the existence of autistic people is totally the same thing as “colonization, exploitation, and violence”…. NOT.

To officially recognize Indigenous Peoples’ Day instead of Columbus Day is to obliterate a day honoring people who are different, non-conformist, and think for themselves. This is by its very nature the exact opposite of taking a “bold stance” and the exact opposite of demonstrating “commitment to inclusivity.”

To take a stance against the honoring of people who are different, non-conformist, and think for themselves, is to take a stance in favor of sameness and mindless conformity. And such a stance is the antithesis of a bold one.

Additionally, to determine that people who are different, non-conformist, and think for themselves no longer deserve to be honored in a society is the antithesis of a commitment to inclusivity. It is actually a commitment to discrimination and exclusion.

Given that Columbus is being attacked, destroyed, and obliterated across the entire country and much of the world, joining these attacks is the exact opposite of being bold and the exact opposite of being inclusive. Joining in with a politically favored, bullying majority against an unpopular minority is not bold, but cowardly. It is not inclusive, but intolerant and discriminatory. It is the epitome of mindless conformity. 

Other than that, their argument makes perfect sense.

Replacing Columbus Day with Indigenous Peoples’ Day sets an example for future generations all right… a bad example. It sets an example of trampling on the rights of autistic and otherwise “different” people, hurting us merely for being different, and telling us that our thoughts, feelings, and perspectives do not matter and that we shouldn’t be allowed to exist. In other words, it sets an example of cowardice, mindless conformity, discrimination, bullying, exclusion, intolerance, cruelty, meanness, and actively inflicting harm and pain on innocent people who have done nothing wrong.

I’m not sure why anyone would consider this a good thing.

bookmark_borderChristopher Columbus update

Posted on by Marissa

Another visit to Christopher Columbus…

I weaved my way through the streets of the North End, both too hot and too cold at the same time. In front of the Old North Church, a gaggle of tourists waited in line for tickets. A street sweeper came rumbling down the street. From somewhere nearby, the hammering and banging of some sort of construction project rang out. I was approaching Chris’s home from a different angle than I had before, so I had to look closely at the street signs and storefronts to figure out which way to go. Dodging cars, delivery trucks, a US Foods employee maneuvering a two-wheeler stacked with boxes, and several people pushing carts of books down the sidewalk, I knew that I was getting close. And it was about time, too. I had stopped at Revere Beach before going to Boston, and passed through the park, now haunted, where his pitiful empty pedestal still stands, surrounded by people walking to and fro and enjoying their day, oblivious to its significance. Plus, both the orange and blue lines were operating under speed restrictions, meaning that for the majority of my journey, the train crawled painfully along at a snail’s pace.

The hot sun was beating down, punctuated by biting cold wind. This, combined with noise of various sorts, people walking every which way, and the mental overload of having to concentrate simultaneously on avoiding bumping into said people and figuring out which direction to go, almost made me regret making the trip. I felt irritated and annoyed, my brain overloaded.

But then I saw Chris.

Watching over the parking lot from his new pedestal, there he was. 

I noticed a couple of changes: he had finally lost the plastic wrap that had been clinging to his torso, and the asphalt expanse around him was divided into parking spaces, complete with pristine new white lines and numbers.

Another change: unlike during my earlier visit, I was not able to be alone with Chris. Just as I got there, an elderly gentleman drove up to the gate, got out of his car to open it, and drove into the parking lot before closing and locking the gate again. Presumably he was one of the residents of the building, which houses both the headquarters of the Knights of Columbus Ausonia Council, as well as apartments for low-income seniors. 

Hello, Chris. I’ve braved a lot of things in order to come see you. The train was ridiculously slow, and people are walking in all different directions, and honking their horns, and blocking my way, and driving down the street just as I’m about to cross it, and hammering and banging, and squealing and laughing, and talking really loud on their cell phones, and just overall driving me crazy. It is hot and cold at the same time, and my feet are starting to hurt. But you make it all worthwhile. 

I felt self-conscious in front of the old man, figuring he would think me a weirdo for standing there staring at a statue. It was his home, after all, and not mine. I didn’t feel free to spend as much time with Chris as I wanted to. So I stood at the fence for a few moments, and then bid him farewell. I left feeling unsettled, my mind swirling with mixed emotions about the fact that the man I love, the marble figure who holds such profound significance, is essentially owned by a bunch of old people.

Bye, Chris. Sorry this is such a short visit. But I’ll be back.

8/1/2023

bookmark_borderChristopher Columbus in his new home

Posted on by Marissa

It had been a difficult week, with many things weighing on my mind that are hard to put into words. When I woke up in the morning, something made me decide to visit Christopher Columbus. Something told me that he would understand, even though he is not technically alive.

So I took the train to Boston. Upon getting out at Haymarket, I noticed that many things were different from the last time I was there. The Government Center garage was almost completely dismantled, with a huge yellow crane towering over the scene. A glass skyscraper emblazoned with the words “State Street” loomed nearby. There was also a new row of buildings, containing a Gordon Ramsay burger restaurant, in the area where fruit vendors set up their stands on Fridays and Saturdays.

All of these changes, combined with the constant stream of foot traffic flowing around me, caused me to start feeling overstimulated. It was hot and sunny, and I felt dizzy and tired.

I also began to get nervous about Chris himself. He had not officially been unveiled in his new location, and the finishing touches were still being put on the space, so I didn’t know what the setup would be. I didn’t know how publicly visible (if at all) he would be, or how the courtyard would be configured around him. I expected that I would have to do a bit of searching in order to find him, and I was concerned that I might attract curious stares or (God forbid) questions from passerby. I figured there was also a possibility he wouldn’t be publicly visible at all, and I would have made the trip into Boston for nothing. 

Despite this, I crossed over the Rose Kennedy Greenway and into the North End. The narrow streets were filled with people going about their business: tourists taking selfies, kids in matching t-shirts who appeared to be on some sort of field trip, businesspeople rushing to work, young people in trendy activewear returning home from their workouts, employees wheeling boxes of various food products into restaurants. While making my way through the bustling streets, I looked to my left in search of the correct side street to turn onto. To my surprise, there he was, his familiar white marble form unmistakable. 

The sight of him took my breath away. 

I was not expecting Chris to be so easy to find. 

In fact, the sighting of my beloved statue was so unexpected that instead of turning onto that side street, I continued with the flow of foot traffic, not wanting to abruptly change direction and cut people off. I decided to first check out the view of Chris from the opposite direction, and then to circle back. So I ended up on a shady, somewhat secluded street, where an old man sat on some porch steps, chatting on his cell phone. He looked up briefly when he saw me, but quickly turned his attention back to his conversation. Down a short alley and behind a black, metal fence was Chris. Only his back was visible from this view. He stood beside a brick building, presumably the new headquarters for the Knights of Columbus Ausonia Council, which also contains apartments for low-income seniors. I snapped a few shots, then headed back to see my friend from the front.

I returned to the main drag, and then turned onto the side street down which I had glimpsed Chris before. In stark contrast to the bustling streets surrounding it, the little lane was deserted, with the exception of several parked construction vehicles and a lone pedestrian who soon disappeared through the door of an apartment building.

In almost eerie silence, and beneath the baking sun, I was alone with Chris. 

His face had the same pensive look that I remembered, his arms still crossed sternly across his chest. He stood atop a simple granite pedestal, anchored to the ground with concrete. The area around him was bare and stark, the vacant asphalt expanse devoid of any flowers or landscaping. There was no noise other than a county song playing faintly in the distance. A piece of clear plastic wrap, still clinging to his torso, stirred briefly in a faint breeze. 

I was struck by the contrast between Chris’s quiet, seemingly deserted new home and the crowded, noisy streets surrounding it. I was also struck by the seeming indifference of those crowds of people: sightseeing, laughing, chatting, strolling, and working, none of them displaying any outward indication that they cared one iota whether Chris existed or not. No acknowledgement that standing tall in their midst was the marble embodiment of the pain that has tormented me for three years, changed my life completely, and on more than one occasion nearly ended it.

Thanks to a black metal fence, adorned with “no trespassing” signs, I could get no more than about 30 feet from Chris. Hopefully that fence, along with several security cameras nearby, will keep him safe. But the fence did not block him from view. I took pictures from various angles and simply stood and looked at him for a while. 

Do you remember me? I thought. I remember you. You haven’t changed at all. This city has changed, though. This city hates you. It hates me too. So we’re the same.

Are you happy here? I wondered. Are you in pain? Are you angry at what happened to you? Are you sad that you’re not in the park anymore? Do you miss it?

It was nearly noon, the sun almost directly overhead and the pavement baking beneath my feet. 

What do you think about this weather? I wondered Do you like the sun beating down like this? I thought about my Stonewall Jackson statue, and how beautifully he shines when the sun warms his bronze surface. I bet you do. Statues like the hotness. Yeah, you do.

It’s been nice to see you, I thought, as if Chris could somehow hear me (and as if it’s perfectly normal to try to telepathically send your thoughts to a statue). Stonewall Jackson sends his regards. I think you’d like him, if you could meet him.

All right, I’ll be back.

I glanced back at him one more time, sending a silent farewell, before making my way down the deserted side street and rejoining the crowds teeming down the main thoroughfare.

Don’t get me wrong: I am still angry at what happened to Chris. It is an injustice, and always will be. I was upset when I first saw photos of Chris, with his head once more attached to him, at his new location. Upset because the images confirmed his eviction from his rightful place, and because others had learned the news before I did (I saw the photos on social media two days after they were posted).

But spending a few moments with Chris lifted my spirits and was good for my soul. I was glad to see him after three years of not being able to do so.

7/18/2023

bookmark_borderThree years

Posted on by Marissa

This weekend marks the three-year anniversary of what I often characterize as the destruction of everything that makes my life worth living.

The past three years have been filled with anguish, grief, rage, and excruciating pain so extreme that the pre-2020 version of myself not only had never experienced such pain before, but would never have believed such pain was even possible.

My pain is something that most people do not understand. People do not get why someone would be this upset about the fact that statues were taken down. They don’t get why metal and stone sculptures are what I focus on, rather than real people who have lost their lives. I have been called a psychopath, a terrible person, gross, disgusting, self-centered, lacking in empathy, racist. People do not understand why statues of Christopher Columbus, Confederate generals, and other controversial historical figures are so important to me that I feel that life is no longer worth living without them.

But this is exactly how I feel, as incomprehensible as it may be to others. This is who I am. If it makes me a terrible person, so be it. My love of statues and historical figures is a part of me, just as a person’s gender identity, race, religion, and sexual orientation are a part of them.

For approximately the first two and a half years, I felt essentially no happiness whatsoever. (A few possible exceptions: the 2021 Columbus Day ceremony, finding out about the possibility of getting my very own Stonewall Jackson statue, and receiving updates on the progress of the statue.) My emotional state ranged from unbearable, indescribable pain at worst, to neutral at best. In other words, in addition to being filled with horrific pain, my world was also completely devoid of beauty and joy. For this entire time, I seriously considered the possibility of committing suicide. Logically, it was the most sensible option. Why, after all, would a person choose to continue living when everything that makes their life worth living has been destroyed? When there is no reason to expect the future to consist of anything other than a mixture of excruciating pain and feeling just okay? Yet some combination of cowardice and faint hope, as irrational as it seemed, held me back from doing so.

I hesitate to write this for fear of jinxing it, but over the past six months I feel that I have very slowly begun to heal.

For example, one effect of the genocide is that I hate America, because this is the country where the genocide took place, the country whose people committed the genocide, the country that allowed the genocide to happen. American flags, patriotic songs, and red, white, and blue decorations, all of which I used to love, have turned into a source of heartbreak. But this past week, when I visited my grandma at her retirement home, the entire place was decked out in flags and star-spangled decorations, and patriotic country songs blared in the dining room. Somehow, instead of making me feel like a knife was twisting in my stomach, they made me smile.

Healing is not linear. There have certainly been instances of excruciating pain in the past six months, and I am certain there will be more in my future. But overall, they seem slightly less severe, and they seem not to last as long.

The past three years have changed me.

In addition to the anniversary of the most horrific series of events that has ever taken place, this week was also my 34th birthday. I am the same little girl who adored history and art, who never fit in, who was excluded and bullied, who loved historical figures more profoundly than any friend or family member. I am the same, but different. I will always have an imaginary world, in which historical figures live alongside completely imaginary people and creatures, talking, interacting, and having adventures. But now, in addition to that, I have brought a historical figure into the world. Or at least, a beautiful, shiny bronze body for a historical figure’s soul to reside in. A second one will be arriving either late this year, or next year. Instead of doing whatever society expected of me, and escaping to my imaginary world in my spare time, I am making changes, in various ways, to bring my real life more in line with my wishes, preferences, and needs. Although most people don’t understand my pain, and although I am not a very social person, I have made meaningful connections with people who share my views. I am taking action to bring my imaginary world into the real one.

So in addition to inflicting anguish, grief, rage, and excruciating pain, the past three years have made me into a more genuine, authentic, outspoken, courageous, wise, introspective, and self-aware person.

Our society decided to destroy everything that makes my life worth living. But I made a new thing that makes my life worth living, where one didn’t exist before. I had to use my own funds and my own land to do so, because our society decided that the things that make my life worth living aren’t allowed to receive public funds or be located on public land. But I did it anyway. And I’m kind of proud of that.

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_borderBullies don’t deserve their land back

Posted on by Marissa

“Land back”

These are the words that have written by racist bigots time and time again when they attack symbols of European culture, history, and religion (including, just this week, the statue of Christopher Columbus in New York City).

The people (and I use that word loosely) who write such things do not deserve their land back.

In fact, the land in question is not theirs, nor has it ever been.

Any person who attacks symbols of Christopher Columbus does so because Columbus symbolizes being different and thinking for oneself. People who attack symbols of Columbus do so because they have no tolerance for anyone who is different than them. They care only about themselves and those who look and think as they do. In their eyes, other people’s feelings, thoughts, opinions, and perspectives don’t matter. People who attack symbols of Columbus value nothing but mindless conformity and strive to obliterate all diversity from the world. 

Anyone with such values and aims is a bully, a bigot, and a morally bad person.

Bullies and bigots do not deserve their land back.

People who have no tolerance for other ethnicities, cultures, and ways of thinking do not deserve their land back.

People who claim to have experienced trauma and oppression, while actively inflicting further pain and suffering on those who have actually experienced trauma and oppression, do not deserve their land back.

People who destroy an autistic person’s special interest, and then ridicule that person for having the audacity to be upset about the fact that everything that made their life worth living was just destroyed, do not deserve their land back.

Those who vandalize statues with the words “Land Back,” or who attack historical figures in even more despicable ways, are not oppressed. They are not victims. They have not experienced trauma. They do not hold the moral high ground. They are just bullies. Vicious, cruel, mean-spirited, and nasty bullies. Full of self-righteousness, they take delight in inflicting pain on people whom they have judged to be inferior, merely because they are different. There is nothing righteous about that.

As an autistic person, I have been treated all my life as if I do not belong. And now I am being told that because I have light skin, and because my ancestors came from Italy and Scandinavia, I do not belong on this continent.

Pardon my French, but… fuck that.

Starting at age 12, I saved up allowance money, birthday and Christmas money, and earnings from part-time and later full-time jobs to buy a small house on a small plot of land. My house, along with the land on which it stands, is mine. I worked backbreakingly hard, overcoming obstacle after obstacle in a world not designed for my needs, to earn the money to buy it. 

A racist and intolerant bully, who hates me because I was born with a different skin color and a different type of brain than they have, has no right to my land.