Tag: statue genocide

bookmark_borderAtrocity

Posted on by Marissa

Disgusting.

Cruel.

Vicious.

Intolerant.

Immoral.

Heartbreaking.

Again and again I’ve tried to find words adequate to describe actions like the ones that took place in Charlottesville today, and again and again the English language comes up short.

Acts like these have taken place so many times over the past three and a half hellish years that I cannot keep track, my brain cannot comprehend the overwhelming magnitude of what has happened.

Yet again, the winning side of the war decides, for some inexplicable reason, to beat up on the losing side.

Yet again, the strong, powerful establishment decides to torment the rebels, the dissenters, the underdogs, all while preposterously claiming that they are somehow disadvantaged and oppressed.

One meager statue representing human diversity, representing dissent, representing being different from the norm, amidst a sea of essentially identical statues all representing mindless conformity, deemed unacceptable in their eyes.

Having relentlessly criticized my clothes, my hair, my shoes, my socks, ridiculed the way that I speak, bullied me because I like different music and movies and books than they do, none of that was enough for them. My special interest – the one thing that makes my life worth living – had to be destroyed too, the public spaces of our country redesigned to ensure that I receive the message that I am hated, that I am unacceptable, that I am sick and deviant, that I am not welcome to exist.

I am deemed unworthy of even a single work of public art making me feel accepted, making me feel included.

Yet again my body, mind, and soul are consumed by agonizing, unbearable pain.

There are no words that can fully convey how much I hate the people – and I use that word loosely – who did this.

They do not hold the moral high ground.

They forfeited any claim to it a long time ago.

They deserve the most severe punishment possible.

But even that would not be enough, because no punishment could possibly be as severe as the punishment that they have inflicted on me – an innocent person who has done nothing wrong – through their actions.

bookmark_borderHow to continue living…

Posted on by Marissa

How to continue living when you’ve failed to get your way on something that matters so incredibly much that without it, life is not worth living.

Something so incredibly important that in my opinion, it is not a matter of merely getting one’s way at all, but a matter of whether or not one’s fundamental rights are respected.

There are no words adequate to the task of fully conveying how upset the failure to get my way, the failure of others to respect my fundamental rights, has made me.

There are no words capable of fully conveying the pain, the anguish, the suffering that I have endured.

How to continue living when the topic on which I’ve been defeated is so crucially important to my life, to my happiness, to my well-being, that all other topics are trifles in comparison, and putting time and energy into them seems equivalent to fretting about the arrangement of deck chairs on the Titanic.

Conventional wisdom says that one shouldn’t dwell on things over which one has no control, that one should instead direct one’s focus and energy towards the things that one can control.

But how can it be wise, or sensible, or worthwhile, to direct my focus and energy towards the things that don’t matter, and away from the things that do?

How to continue living when the defeat is so complete, so thorough, that it is difficult if not impossible to find a silver lining, to find any reason for hope, to find any way of putting a positive spin on the situation?

How to continue living in a society that is collectively responsible for inflicting this horrific defeat on me, for taking away the thing that I need in order to have a life that is worth living?

How to enjoy anything when every company, every institution, every organization, every governmental and non-governmental entity, is to some extent complicit in this atrocity, in this violation of my rights?

How to coexist with a loss that involves a subject of such crucial importance to me, a loss that is so complete as to allow no room for hope, a loss that was inflicted on purpose?

These are just a few of the thoughts swirling around my head today.

These are the questions with which I’ve wrestled for over three years, and with which I must continue to wrestle.

At the moment, I don’t have answers. Only questions.

bookmark_borderThoughts on the destruction of Traveller’s gravesite

Posted on by Marissa

For the past three days, it has been difficult to go on. 

Yet again, pain courses through my body. Yet again, my soul feels as if it is being eviscerated. Yet again, my stomach is sick. Yet again, I don’t see the point in living. Yet again, I am filled with such anguish, rage, and grief that I cannot find words adequate to express it.

The pain is completely overwhelming. It is difficult, if not impossible, to describe in words, because no words seem able to fully convey its severity. 

The bigots whose goal is to destroy everything good in the world have struck again. They have quite possibly reached a new low, if such a thing is possible. Another gut-punch, another eruption of hideous, sickening pain that obliterates all else from my consciousness. This time, the target of the bullies’ vicious attacks is not even a person, but a horse. That’s right, a horse. An innocent animal who did nothing wrong.

The pain is so severe that I cannot even put into words the latest atrocity, cannot link to a source, cannot re-post the sickening image. All I can say is that the sickening, horrifying image of where Traveller’s gravesite used to be is etched permanently into my mind. I cannot stop thinking about the pitiful scene, the broken cobblestones with the hideous, gaping hole where Traveller’s grave marker used to be, before it was brutally hacked out of the ground. Over the past three days, whenever I manage to focus on something else for a few minutes or perhaps even an hour, whenever my pain decreases to a very high but barely manageable level, the hideous image comes back, and the excruciating, agonizing pain erupts again.

When I feel like this, all positivity is crushed. Any potential for happiness, any possibility of finding a positive spin on events, is stamped out. I want to make a drawing of Traveller, as a tribute to him, to feel that I am, at least in a small way, making a difference. But when I feel like this, all creativity is gone. Before this happened, I had some photos of my Stonewall Jackson statue that I wanted to post. They brought a smile to my face, and I thought they might do the same for others in the Confederate history communities that I belong to. But now, even that seems inappropriate. There can be no smiles, no happiness, given what happened three days ago. 

Even expressing how I feel in a civil, eloquent, logical, well-thought-out manner is out of reach when I feel like this. Whenever I contact public officials about the issues that matter to me, I put a lot of effort into composing a polite and well-written email, under the assumption that if my wording came off as too angry and harsh, it would be counterproductive to my goal of persuading them to change their minds. But when my rage and anguish are as strong as they are now, I am not capable of translating these feelings into such an email. Similarly, if I were to make a social media post about Traveller, I don’t know how I would be able to compose a caption. On social media platforms, I am connected with current and former co-workers, members of the local arts community, and people who admire my artwork, which creates a similar need for civil, eloquent, and logical writing. Expressing my raw, unfiltered feelings could cause people to think that I am completely unhinged, or a white supremacist, which would have negative ramifications for my artwork, my social standing, and my career.

So I write nothing, and I post nothing. I am tormented every day by all of the people who do not care about what has happened, who talk about superheroes and Disney movies and baseball, who post pictures of their dogs, babies, lobster rolls. Who continue with their mundane, ordinary lives as if nothing is wrong, enjoying the things that they are interested in, because unlike the things that I am interested in, those things are still allowed to exist. The great irony is that when I write nothing and post nothing, I appear exactly like them. My feelings are so strong that I am unable to wrangle them into a presentable form, and so from all outward appearances it looks as if I don’t have any feelings about this topic at all, when nothing could be further from the truth. The enormous pain that has been inflicted on me by the statue genocide is exactly why it is so important for me to express my views on it, yet it is also the reason why I cannot do so.

But I cannot allow myself to be silenced. Not if I am to survive this. Historical figures are what made my life worth living. Offering an alternative viewpoint to that of the mindless bullies, the perpetrators of the genocide, is what I was put on this earth to do. If there is anything that can possibly give me a reason to continue living, offering an alternative viewpoint is that thing. 

So I wrote an email to the person who is responsible for destroying Traveller’s gravesite. The person who is responsible for causing this pain. I didn’t make an effort to make it sound civil, polite, or logical. It probably comes off as completely unhinged. But at this point, I don’t really care anymore. Coming off as unhinged is better than not expressing myself at all, because to remain silent is to condone the bullies’ actions. The raw, tormented, and tortured part of me is part of me, just as the polite and logical part is. She deserves to be heard, too. I shouldn’t have to wait until I summon the energy to suppress this part of myself, shouldn’t have to wait until the polite and logical part of me is back in control, before expressing my views. Because too often, that results in me not expressing my views at all. 

Plus, it’s not as if sending polite and logical emails has been effective in getting public officials to change their minds. The genocide continues, excruciating gut-punch after excruciating gut-punch. And when you think about it, why would polite and logical emails be effective, when they fail to convey the severity of my pain, fail to convey the true extent of what has occurred, fail to truly explain the negative impact of the bullies’ actions? When I send a polite and logical email, the recipient probably thinks: this person’s pain is relatively minor; this person’s pain is insignificant compared to the pain inflicted on black people by police brutality and systemic racism; this pain is something that this person just needs to suck up, to tolerate, to get used to.

No. This pain is intolerable. This pain is not something to suck up, to tolerate, or to get used to. This pain is unacceptable. And this pain is a direct result of people’s actions. Therefore, these actions are unacceptable. Any communication that does not convey this fundamental truth is not truly honest, and therefore probably cannot be effective.

As an autistic person whose special interest is history, things like Traveller’s gravesite were the things that made my life worth living. These were the things that brought me beauty, that brought me joy, that brought me happiness. I understand that this isn’t the case for people who do not have history as a special interest. But that does not justify their complete lack of empathy for those who do. It is no explanation and no excuse for their despicable actions.

For three years, I have been trying, I have been searching, I have been racking my brain to figure out why anyone would want a world completely devoid of the things that make life worth living, completely devoid of beauty, joy, or happiness. I still do not understand. I am certain I never will.

Yet another piece of what makes my life worth living, cruelly destroyed, brutally hacked out of the ground. The people who do these things do not care a whit about what they are doing to me. They do not care one iota about the pain that their actions have inflicted. Lynn Rainville gets to continue “studying ordinary Virginians doing extraordinary things in the past,” to continue “telling the stories of exceptional Virginians whose names never made it to the history books,” to continue “uncovering lost sites and forgotten heroes from hometowns across the state,” as her website and the bio on her faculty page so elegantly explain. Meanwhile, due to her actions, I sit here overwhelmed by excruciating agony, struggling to continue existing, my body, mind, and soul ripped to shreds. Due to her actions, my entire world is destroyed. 

Dear Dr. Rainville,

I learned from news reports about the removal of Traveller’s grave marker, and the fact that you are the person responsible for making the decision to do this.

There are no words to express the anger, pain, anguish, and sadness that I felt, and continue to feel, upon learning of this disgusting action. I am appalled that anyone would think it was a good idea to punish a horse – an innocent animal who did nothing wrong – by destroying his gravesite. Your actions are cruel, mean-spirited, nasty, heartless, and completely lacking in empathy. Seeing images of Traveller’s grave, with the hideous gaping hole where his headstone used to be, makes me feel physically sick.

I am usually a mild-mannered person, but your actions are so despicable, shameful, and disgusting that a calmly worded email would be inadequate. As someone who loves history as well as horses, I am absolutely appalled at what you have done. I do not have any connection to Washington & Lee University, other than being interested in history and knowing about the various historical sites present on campus. Yet the pain that your actions have inflicted on me is so severe that it is impossible to put into words. Many of my friends and fellow history lovers feel the same way.

I am completely and utterly baffled as to what thought process could possibly have led you to make the decision that you did, unless your goal is to make the world as bad a place as possible, or to inflict the maximum possible amount of pain on other people. I truly cannot imagine how a human being could possibly have come to the conclusion that destroying Traveller’s gravesite was a good idea.

I hope that you will issue a public apology, both to Traveller and to all the people you have hurt through your heartless, mean-spirited, and cruel actions.

Sincerely,

Marissa B.

bookmark_borderBelated 4th of July reflections

Posted on by Marissa

I used to love the Fourth of July. I loved putting together a red, white, and blue outfit, decorating my house with flags and my front porch with patriotic buntings, listening to patriotic music, and watching the fireworks in Boston. One year, I even wore an Uncle Sam costume to the fireworks show.

Unfortunately, the Fourth of July is yet another thing that has, to some extent, been ruined by the statue genocide of 2020.

In general, it is conservatives who tend to be the most passionate about the Fourth of July and other patriotic things. It is conservatives who are more likely to fly the American flag, to chant “USA,” to wear red, white, and blue, and to post memes involving George Washington and other founding fathers gloating about our victory over the British (my social media news feeds were flooded with a plethora of these last week).

These sentiments are certainly preferable to the views, commonly associated with progressivism, that focus on the negatives of America. Those who subscribe to this ideology characterize America as a fundamentally racist nation, paint our history as one of oppression and shame, and criticize the founding fathers, sometimes even calling for their cancellation.

I definitely come closer to agreeing with the pro-USA views of conservatives than I do to agreeing with the anti-USA views of the left. But I can’t fully get behind the patriotic, “Murica” loving sentiments either. At least not the way I used to. 

That’s because the events that have so traumatized me over the past three years were perpetrated by, well, America. The horrific and sadistic destruction of one Christopher Columbus statue after another. The decisions of local governments to reward, rather than punish, the perpetrators by removing yet additional statues and by establishing a holiday in the perpetrators’ honor. The breathtakingly cruel and mean-spirited decision to eradicate all public art honoring the losing side of a war. And, although this is a slightly different topic, the election of a president who thought that he had the right to force all Americans to undergo a medical procedure against their will. 

All of these events took place in America. All were perpetrated by people who live in America. It was Americans who viciously tore down everything that makes my life worth living, whether by acting as part of vicious, frenzied, and intolerant mobs, or by acting through their more civilized but equally intolerant public officials. The current situation, in which everything that makes life worth living has been destroyed, was created, collectively, by America. Of course, not every American supports these destructive policies. Some Americans vigorously oppose them (including, obviously, myself). But the fact that these policies were, in fact, enacted across the country demonstrates that our country, as a whole, supports them. These policies were enacted by the American people, either directly or through the democratic systems that are in place for policy-making at the local, state, and federal levels. America elected public officials who believe in the mass murder of historical figures for no other reason than being different from people today. America elected public officials, including a president, who believe that they should be able to invade the bodies of, and control the medical decisions of, their citizens.

In short, the atrocities that destroyed my life were perpetrated, or at least allowed to happen, by America. 

When conservatives celebrate the Fourth of July, wear red, white, and blue, chant “USA! USA!,” and post patriotic memes, they believe themselves to be standing up to the anti-America rhetoric of the left. But I don’t think that is what they are truly doing.

All of the toxic actions, words, beliefs, and policies associated with the left – from the brutal destruction of statues to the implementation of totalitarianism in the name of fighting a virus – are, unfortunately, part of America. 

Needless to say, this reflects very poorly on America. 

It’s a comfort to know that, if the stereotypes are true, most of the people engaging in patriotic celebrations and displays oppose such totalitarian policies as statue destruction and mandatory medical procedures. But I don’t think that expressing love and pride for the country that did these things is the best way to express these sentiments. For me at least, “America” comes closer to being a synonym for the traumatizing things of the past three years than an antonym. 

Don’t get me wrong, the Fourth of July is not nearly as painful to me as “Indigenous Peoples’ Day” or Juneteenth. I would much rather see the stars and stripes flapping in the breeze than the hideous, racist Pride flag. And I’d be much more likely to smile if I walked past someone on the street wearing a red, white, and blue t-shirt than, say, a shirt that said “Black Lives Matter” on it.

But for now, the Fourth of July is still tainted.

For now, it still rings hollow.

Perhaps it always will.

bookmark_borderBurlington pride month controversy demonstrates society’s hypocrisy and intolerance

Posted on by Marissa

Recently, a controversy erupted over a Pride month event, and a protest against it, at a school near where I live. The reaction to the protest encapsulates the intolerant attitudes of our society.

For the month of June, Burlington Middle School was decorated with Pride decorations, including the ubiquitous and racist Pride flag (see this post for an explanation of why it is racist) and a poster with the Tennessee Williams quote, “What is straight? A line can be straight, or a street, but the human heart, oh, no, it’s curved line a road through mountains.” This quote, understandably, offended straight students. So a group of students protested, tearing down the racist Pride decorations and chanting, “My pronouns are USA.”

(Source: DC Draino Instagram post)

Appallingly but not surprisingly, public officials criticized the protesting students, as opposed to the intolerant displays against which they were protesting. 

Members of the Burlington Select Board called the protest “unacceptable” and characterized it as both “intolerant rhetoric” and “displays of intolerance and homophobia.” In reality, however, it was the Pride month celebration that was intolerant and unacceptable, because it involved the display of a racially discriminatory flag, as well as a poster which claimed that an entire group of people do not exist.

A statement by school superintendent Eric Conti was similarly lacking in both logic and moral decency.

Conti described the protest as “hateful,” which makes no sense because there is nothing hateful about standing up against racial discrimination or against the attempted erasure of an entire group of people based on their sexual orientation. (Arguably, it is the discrimination and attempted erasure that are hateful.)

Conti also said that the school system is “obligated to provide a safe environment for all students to feel safe, seen, and respected without retaliation.” This is true, but in the opposite way of what Conti meant: to display a flag that excludes white people and a poster that denies the existence of straight people is to ensure that not all students feel seen and respected. If Conti truly cared about the ability of students to feel seen and respected, the Pride celebration, and not the protests against it, would be the target of his criticism.

Making things even worse, Conti pompously declared that “it is not enough to publicly denounce these incidents as they happen” and called on people to “educate our community on the nature of these events.” Actually, “these events” should not be denounced at all; they should be publicly praised, and the racist and intolerant Pride celebrations should instead be denounced. The “nature of these events” is that people protested against a poster telling them that they do not exist. I fail to understand how that is a bad thing. The Tennessee Williams quote that erases the existence of straight people is what should be criticized here, not the students protesting against it.

Conti’s statement also said: “I recognize that discussions and celebrations of individual identity are complex and impacted by individual values, religions, and cultural norms, the result of which may include expressions of racism, anti-religious hate, ableism, and in this case homophobia. The Burlington Public Schools believe in the individual dignity and humanity of each and every person in our community. We embrace everyone for who they are and for what they bring to our schools and larger community. Let us all work on being kinder toward each other.”

But there is nothing homophobic about maintaining that straight people exist. And the problem is that displaying racially discriminatory flags and a poster erasing the existence of straight people is antithetical to believing in the individual dignity and humanity of each and every person in a community. For straight people and white people, these flags and poster deny our dignity and our humanity. So it is clearly false that the Burlington Public Schools believe in the individual dignity and humanity of each and every person in the community, because if they did, they would be criticizing the Pride celebration, and not the students protesting against it. Similarly, the Burlington Public Schools obviously do not embrace everyone for who they are, because if they did, they would be condemning the anti-white and anti-straight displays, as opposed to the students protesting against them.

People do, indeed, need to work on being kinder toward each other. It is people who display a racially discriminatory flag and a poster erasing straight people’s existence who need to work on being kinder to other people. Again, Conti should be criticizing the people engaging in these discriminatory actions, not the people protesting against them.

“I was shocked and horrified,” one parent reportedly whined. But what people should be shocked and horrified about is the fact that Burlington Middle School held a celebration that discriminated against students based on their race and sexual orientation. It is the discriminatory flags and poster that should cause shock and horror, not the students protesting against them.

This topic might seem unrelated, and I might sound like a broken record for bringing it up in yet another blog post, but I think it is important to mention the horrific things that were done to Confederate statues and Christopher Columbus statues over the past three years. These disgraceful actions were the most unacceptable, intolerant, and hateful actions ever to take place. These actions were more antithetical to individual dignity and humanity, more antithetical to seeing and respecting people, more antithetical to embracing everyone for who they are, and more antithetical to kindness, than any actions that have ever been taken. And when I say “ever,” I mean ever, in the history of the world.

If people truly cared about tolerance, truly cared about seeing and respecting others, truly cared about dignity and humanity, truly cared about embracing people for who they are, truly cared about kindness, then these are the actions that they would be criticizing, denouncing, publicly condemning, and taking a stand against. It demonstrates appalling hypocrisy and complete moral bankruptcy that society does absolutely nothing to speak out against truly intolerant and unkind actions, yet falls all over itself in its haste to condemn a protest involving middle school students who had the audacity to affirm that straight people exist.

bookmark_borderExcruciating pain

Posted on by Marissa

It figures that less than 24 hours after making a post about my (very slow and very gradual) healing from the destruction of everything that makes my life worth living, the horrific pain would attack again.

This time in the form of two vile and disgusting excuses for human beings, one named Trever Shields, and the other named Harold Carrender.

“Fuck the confederacy,” wrote one of these mindless lumps of flesh and bone.

“What is this? The inbred trash buttfuckers Brigade? Fuck everyone of you traitors!!!!!” wrote the other.

My entire body, my entire mind, my entire soul eviscerated. Shattered into a million pieces.

Screaming and screaming at the top of my lungs.

Howling and howling, desperate for someone to do something to fix it. To stop the pain. Unbearable and excruciating pain. There are no words that can adequately describe it.

Suicide. The only option. The only way to stop the excruciating pain.

The pain of the knife slicing through my wrist, in hopes of finding an artery, would be nothing compared to the pain of seeing these hideous comments, these hideous laughing face emojis.

Because nothing that I do matters, and nothing that I say matters. Nothing that I can do will cause these people to be punished. Nothing will make them feel the same anguish that I feel. Nothing will make the hideous comments, the hideous laughing face emojis, go away. They are burned indelibly into my brain, tormenting me as I go through each day, tormenting me while I lie in bed futilely attempting to sleep, and when I finally fall asleep at 3:00 in the morning, tormenting me in my dreams. No explanation that I could possibly give would be enough to teach these people the truth, to make them understand what I am going through, to make them realize that they are wrong, to make them apologize. 

One tiny thing that actually made me feel happy, made me feel excited, made me feel that there was something to look forward to… ruined. Destroyed. Contaminated with their vile comments and laughing face emojis. 

Enough already. I am so, so tired. This is not how this weekend was supposed to go. I was feeling better, I was healing. I was able to see patriotic decorations and hear patriotic music without being in pain. Over the past few days I had visited and photographed various monuments in my town, decorated for Memorial Day, and was planning to make an upbeat post with the photos. I happily looked up the schedule for the Memorial Day parade, and a dedication ceremony for new statues in the cemetery, and was planning to attend these events. I am starting a new job on Tuesday and was looking forward to using this weekend to relax, enjoy myself, and get a few tasks done around the house so that I could go into my new job feeling organized and well-rested. 

Now, I just don’t know. Whether I am going to attend the Memorial Day events, whether I am going to make a post, whether I will be able to go through with the two art festivals and a storytelling event that I signed up for, whether I am going to be able to start my job, whether I am going to be able to continue existing. 

I hope that all of Trever’s family and friends, and all of Harold’s family and friends, are slowly tortured to death as they are forced to watch. I hope that the images of their loved ones being dismembered, and the sounds of their loved ones’ screams, play over and over in their brains (if they even have brains, which is difficult to believe) forever. Then maybe, just maybe Trever and Harold will experience a teeny, tiny fraction of the pain that they have caused me to experience.

The events described in this post happened last night, and I composed the post this morning. Obviously, I did not commit suicide. And today I am feeling slightly better. But that was brutal. These comments and reactions are completely unacceptable. I am exhausted. Yet I will keep fighting, until I can’t anymore.

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.

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.