Back in July, I submitted three photographs for a Brattleboro photography contest and, lo and behold, I won second prize! Throughout the month of September, all three photographs will be displayed at The Latchis Theatre, our historic Art Deco theatre, which has been going through an amazing artistic renovation in the past several years. The theatre showcases the work of artists from all over the region, and I am honored to be one of them. My work will also appear in the 2011 Town Plan and other town publications, and in the Brattleboro Reformer Photo Journal.

Since the photographs are now the property of the town of Brattleboro, I can’t display them here, but I will provide links to them when they appear online or post copies when they appear in local publications. I love taking photographs just for the pure joy of it, but it feels wonderful to have my work acknowledged in my local community.

© 2010 by Rachel Cohen-Rottenberg

Food shopping: Going to the co-op is no longer the aversive experience it once was. As I’ve mentioned before, I go in with my earplugs, I communicate in writing, and I enjoy the whole thing. I would love to be able to take out my earplugs there and just talk, but it’s far too crowded and noisy, even during a slow time, and I know that it would cost me too much energy, so I conserve. I love being able to go and buy my own food, though. Since my life, now and always, is a triumph of organization, I try to plan things so that neither Bob nor I needs to go to the store more than a couple of times a week. On the other hand, if we’re missing a few things, I don’t mind popping down to the store to pick up what’s needed on an ongoing basis. I enjoy it. Go figure!

Housecleaning: A couple of months ago, our housecleaner shattered her wrist playing softball. (Ouch!) While she’s recovering, Bob and I have been cleaning the house ourselves, and it’s been okay for me. My main difficulty has always been the dizziness that comes with my vestibular issues, but I’ve learned how to move my body slowly and carefully so as to avoid a lot of it. I’ve been sweeping, cleaning the bathroom, and straightening the house. I’m one of those very weird people who actually likes housecleaning, so this is a big plus for me.

Cooking: I have rediscovered the fun of cooking. For a long time, those vestibular issues kept me from it, because it was difficult to lean down to get pots and pans out of lower cabinets, and to reach up for bowls and dishes in upper cabinets. But, as with housecleaning, I’ve learned to move my body slowly and carefully to avoid dizziness as much as possible. As a result, I now make a great Mexican Mole and Curried Tofu; the latter is simmering on the stove as I write. I’ve also been making gluten-free, dairy-free peach crisp (courtesy of our peach tree that gave us fruit in abundance this year) and having it for breakfast every morning.

Driving: I’m driving again. I’m not commuting 50 miles every day, mind you, but when I need to get somewhere, I can get in the car and go. For instance, I have a friend who doesn’t drive. When she comes over to watch a movie, I pick her up, bring her here, and then drive her home afterward. I’m fortunate in that I live downtown and much is available to me without driving. I love to walk and I can get just about anywhere on foot. But it’s very nice to be able to drive when I want to. I’m planning on driving to my daughter’s outdoor soccer games this fall.

Keeping track of finances and paying bills: For most of my adult life, I paid every bill and accounted for every penny. I was the primary (and for several years, the only) breadwinner in my first marriage, and keeping track of the finances was always my responsibility. I chose it, because it gave me a sense of competence and control—and because I hugely disliked trusting someone else to get it right. When I married Bob and quit my job, I let him take over the bill paying and finance tracking, because I trusted him and wanted the break. Lately, though, I’ve missed it. So now, in addition to handling the finances for my book, I’ve again taken on the responsibility for making sure the bills get paid and that there is sufficient money in our accounts. Bob keeps track of the household finances in Quicken, and I’m going to leave that to him. Were it up to me, I’d keep track of the household finances using check registers and a series of running lists (which have always worked fine for me), but Bob is keen on using Quicken. So I’ll be communicating all the financial information to him, and he will enter it into the program and make sure it’s up to date.

Running errands: Remember when I cringed at the idea of running…an…an…an…errand? Now, I look forward to it. I don’t try to do too much in one day, mind you, but I like going to the post office, the bank, the art supplies store, the hardware store, and any other place without loud music cranked up. I use my earplugs much of the time for running errands, mainly to keep out competing sounds that my auditory system has to work too hard to process and manage. But if I have a question, or need to pay for my items, I can take out my earplugs and talk a bit. Of course, if I sense that any ambient noise is going to become aversive, I put my earplugs back in and let the person know why.

Staying at home while Bob is travelling: This task used to be my biggest challenge. For instance, I’d been going down to New York City partly because I liked travelling out of town once in awhile, partly to see Bob’s dad, and partly to avoid being by myself. But now, I find myself really enjoying the time alone. The last time Bob was out of town, I painted the door and baseboards in the hallway, cooked up a storm, ran a few errands, did artwork, and slept well, without any fear and trembling at all. What a tremendous change! It’s been a long time coming. Glad I got there.

Going to appointments in which I need to talk and listen for extended periods: Now, sometimes talking works, and sometimes, it doesn’t. Everything depends upon the level of ambient noise, whether the other person is in a rush and talking quickly, how many people are in the room and participating in the conversation, and whether I have time to write things down and ask for clarification. The last time Bob was away, I went up to the local community college to discuss taking some online courses there. I needed to sit down with an advisor for an hour or so, and before I went, I called the office (via TTY) and told the advisor just what I needed. I told her that if there were too much noise or too much rush or too many people, I’d need to use my UbiDuo text-to-text device. As it turned out, she was very sensitive to my needs and we had a very enjoyable conversation in a very quiet place. Unbelievable. I decided not to take courses this fall after all, but I was glad that I was able to explore the option. Six months ago, it would have seemed overwhelmingly beyond me.

Doing community work: I’ve had some false starts and stops on the way to figuring out what works for me. Working at the thrift store really can’t work, because of the crowds and the music, and I’ve been able to let go of that. I’ve been making knitted items for the store to sell this winter, and I’ll continue to do mending work as needed, but I can’t put myself out into the community by working in crowded spaces. However, I’ve begun to find my stride since becoming the Chapter Leader for the Vermont Chapter of the Autistic Self Advocacy Network (ASAN). In this role, I’ve been working to find a space to create a sensory-friendly art studio and gallery in town for people on the spectrum. I went over and looked at a place last week, and loved it, but it wasn’t wheelchair accessible; since full inclusion is the name of the game here, I am continuing to look. As anxiety-producing as it is to talk with people I don’t know, I am getting out there and doing it, making contact with people about possible spaces, and beginning to get more comfortable with the whole process.

In addition, I’ve made contact with the people who run The Vermont Partnership for Fairness and Diversity, a civil rights organization based in Brattleboro that has disability rights as part of its larger charter of supporting a culturally diverse, safe, and respectful community. We are beginning a conversation about the ways that ASAN-VT can work with the organization to further our mutual goals. I’ve also begun to work on putting myself out there as a speaker on issues related to autism and disability rights. So all that is very positive.

Making friends: Yes, Virginia, autistic people can have friends. I have begun making new friends, both autistic and non-autistic, and I really enjoy my time with them. I have learned that I have to seek out sensitive people, no matter what their basic wiring. Sensitive people will respect my experience and listen to what I need, and I can offer exactly the same to them. I am a highly sensitive person, so it makes sense that I would be most compatible with other highly sensitive people.

So Rachel, what happened? Did your autism get better? No, my autism didn’t get better. And, as I understand it now, it really hadn’t gotten worse before. It’s becoming clear that the loss of abilities I was experiencing for a few years wasn’t the result of autism, but of failing to take autism into consideration and live my life accordingly.

As I’ve mentioned before, I spent the first 50 years of my life doggedly attempting to eat, work, play, speak, act, and drive myself to achieve like a typical person, and then some. I didn’t just go full steam ahead like a person with a typical neurology. I went beyond even that, probably in an attempt to compensate for what was different about me. Even if I had had typical wiring all those years, I could have easily driven myself into the ground. As it was, I was like a person with mobility issues trying to run a marathon every day and keep up with people whose bodies worked differently from mine. Burnout was inevitable. And it happened.

In a few short years, I seemed to go from super-functional to struggling with basic things, like going food shopping. I thought it was the autism catching up with me. It wasn’t. It was my lifelong ignorance of my being autistic that was catching up with me. For 50 years, I didn’t know that I was autistic, so I couldn’t take care of myself properly. I never rested. I never gave myself a break. I never took care of my sensory needs. I never said “I can’t” when I couldn’t do something. I just drove myself, and drove myself, and drove myself, thinking that with just a little more effort, everything would work out. And then, when the burnout hit, I had to stop, and suddenly, I found myself unable to do a great deal.

And now, nearly two years later, I can feel how much my body and mind have healed from the effects of burnout. Now that I understand how I work, taking care of myself has become a reflex. Taking breaks has become integrated into the fabric of my life. Making my needs clear has become a necessity. Being open about the adaptations I need to make has become a source of pride. And acknowledging what I cannot do has become an enormous relief. And what are the things I cannot do? I cannot tolerate noise, so I wear earplugs. I cannot talk with people with a lot of ambient noise, so I ask for quiet. I cannot follow a constant stream of speech, so I ask people to slow down. I cannot afford to burn up energy by going into auditory overload, so if I feel that it might happen, I bring my text-to-text device and let people know that we may need to use it. I am unable to focus in the midst of crowds of people, so I find other ways to be with people, and I feel free to excuse myself from situations that push me past my sensory limits. I cannot schmooze, make small talk, be indirect, or do social networking, so I do not try. I socialize my own way: I talk about substantive things, I listen to people’s problems and attempt to come up with solutions, and when no solutions are possible, I do my best to be friendly, compassionate, and present.

And yes, the world is not exactly set up to make my way of being easy, and so I have to advocate for myself as well as I can. Self-advocacy has been the single most healing, empowering endeavor of the past two years, and I am actually getting pretty good at it. Being a woman and disabled, I’ve got a double set of messages to overcome about sitting down and shutting up, but I am overcoming them just fine, day by day, and I am committed to doing so.

And, just to give credit where credit is due, I have to mention the fact that the process of getting off the Lorazepam has been one of the most healing things I’ve ever done for myself. I’m down to .35 mg per day, and if all goes according to schedule, my last drop of Lorazepam will be on January 9, 2011. And what a difference it’s making! When I was taking 1.5 mg/day of the stuff, my emotions were all over the place, my sensory sensitivities were through the roof, and my brain was so fogged that I couldn’t think straight. My husband has been noticing that my emotions are much more under my control now. I’m becoming increasingly aware that my sensory sensitivities have become more manageable. And my thoughts only become sharper by the day.

Accepting my disabilities and working with them have been the key to healing the burnout and enjoying the things that are meaningful to me. The first 50 years of my life were about surviving. I’m no longer just surviving. I’m living and thriving, and I intend to continue doing so every day for the rest of my life.

© 2010 by Rachel Cohen-Rottenberg

In addition, my friend Elesia Ashkenazy of Aspitude! wrote a pre-publication review of my book that you might find informative. Elesia is on the board of the Autistic Self Advocacy Network (ASAN) and a tireless advocate for the rights of autistic people.

Thank you, Kate and Elesia!

© 2010 by Rachel Cohen-Rottenberg

When I read the first article, I thought I’d entirely put my finger on the problem. The writer, a non-autistic mother of two autistic boys, had only negative things to say about autism, and it seemed clear to me that she was saying that her children were more than a collection of negatives. I don’t accept that autism is an entirely negative condition, so I attempted to argue with her on that basis. I didn’t get very far, mainly because the writer kept asserting that her children were human beings, not just autistic human beings, which pretty much ended the discussion. After all, who is going to argue with the inherent humanity of any person? I didn’t see anywhere to go, even though something still felt very wrong to me.

Then, yesterday, I read another article, this time by someone on the spectrum who has two children on the spectrum. She, too, asserted that her children are “more than their autism.” Her view of autism is not entirely negative, and so I had a much easier time reading and thinking about what she had to say. And yet, the assertion still bothered me. To try to get at why, I decided to apply the question to myself: Am I more than my autism?

That’s when I began to understand the problem.

The term autism is itself very problematic. I agree with Amanda Baggs when she says that there is no such thing as autism, and that there are only autistic people. I don’t feel that autism has an existence separate from me in any kind of quantifiable, objective way. In fact, I’m coming to feel that the word autism is simply a social construct. After all, if it’s all about behaviors, with some behaviors considered impairments, how can it not be a social construct? In some cultures, making eye contact, especially for long periods of time, is considered rude. In some cultures, it’s perfectly acceptable to rock back and forth on a regular basis. After all, observant Jews pray three times a day, and rocking back and forth constantly is part of the ritual. We’ve been doing it for centuries. And yes, some people find it very strange, but their experience of us is a cultural judgment, not evidence of an objective reality.

Even if you move toward describing autism in terms of subjective experience rather than externally verifiable behaviors, it’s still difficult to escape the social implications of what happens to our descriptions of our own experience. I can describe my difficulties with noise, my inability to filter sound, my extreme sensitivity to the energy of other people, and yet, if I take those together and make them part of the definition of something called autism, I’m moving them from the realm of autistic experience into the realm of a category—a category in which my experience can be broken down into a list, in which it can be medicalized, in which other people can become “experts.” That’s a realm that the culture constructs constantly and values excessively.

So the very idea of using the word autism as though it is separate from my personal, subjective, daily reality is very fraught. I didn’t feel that way when I named my blog Journeys with Autism, but I feel that way now. (And no, I’m not changing the name of my blog again, because if I changed it every time I had a new realization, I’d drive everyone nuts.)

But there is something more about the question “Am I more than my autism?” that is very troubling. Or perhaps it’s the expected answer that’s troubling—the expected answer being “Yes, I am more than my autism. I am a human being. Autism is just a part of whom I am.” This answer is very problematic, for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that it threatens to divide me up into component parts: part autistic, part Jewish, part female, part this, part that. I don’t feel like a series of component parts. Everything I am is completely me: I am entirely autistic, entirely Jewish, and entirely female. If you split one of those things off, I wouldn’t be myself anymore. You can’t take away my Jewishness and think that you will recognize me. You can’t take away my being a woman and end up with a complete human being. And you can’t take away my being autistic and think that I will continue to exist, any more than you can take away all my veins and capillaries and arteries and think that my heart will continue to circulate blood throughout my body.

Even more important, though, is that my humanity is implicit in my being a woman, in my being Jewish, in my being autistic. After all, am I more than a woman? Is my husband more than a man? To say yes, we are both human beings, is to miss the point entirely. Being a woman automatically means that I am a human being. Being Jewish automatically means that I am a human being. Being autistic automatically means that I am a human being. Being female, and Jewish, and autistic, are not component parts of being human, nor is being human somehow above and beyond them. Being human saturates them. Being human is what makes being female, and Jewish, and autistic worth the effort.

And make no mistake: being a woman and being Jewish are not easy, any more than being autistic is easy. Being a woman and being Jewish are not entirely positive experiences, any more than being autistic is an entirely positive experience. For some reason, it’s easier to speak of the mixed experience of gender and ethnicity than the mixed experience of being autistic, at least in this day and age. No one but a misogynist would deny that being a woman is a wonderful experience in some times and places, and a horrendous one in others. No one but a dyed-in-the-wool anti-Semite would deny that being Jewish can be extremely joyous and extremely difficult, depending on circumstances, and often at the same time. But there are days in which I’m hard pressed to find anyone saying anything positive about being autistic, as though being autistic were in some other sort of category, as though the usual paradoxes of being human don’t apply.

Many, many people don’t really see being autistic as being fully human, and in that blindness lies the problematic basis of the original question. When people say that their children are more than their autism, I think what they’re reacting against (and rightly so) is the pernicious idea that somehow being autistic and being human are mutually exclusive. And yet, at the same time, they run the risk of playing into this idea by asserting that there is something more than being autistic, and that is to be human. I’m not saying that the risk of separating the categories autism and human always results in the two becoming mutually exclusive, but it sets up a dichotomy that can easily reinforce the prejudices of a great many people.

When you come down to it, perhaps what parents are really saying is that their children are more than the stigma of the word autism. They are more than a medical diagnosis. They are more than the cultural refusal to celebrate them. They are more than the daily reminders that there is a construct called “normal” in which life is supposed to be easy and they don’t fit.

I have no argument with any of that.

But I’m not going to answer the question “Am I more than my autism?” because I do not accept its premises or its implications.

I am an autistic person, and I’m deeply thankful for it, even though I struggle and find myself vulnerable in ways that non-autistic people do not. I am a woman, and I’m deeply thankful for it, even though I struggle and find myself vulnerable in ways that men do not. I am Jewish, and I’m deeply thankful for it, even though I struggle and find myself vulnerable in ways that non-Jewish people do not. I am thankful for my life, whether or not it’s painful, whether or not it’s easy, and whether or not it measures up to the dreams I once had for myself or that other people had for me.

A dream is only a starting place. Life is where the action is.

© 2010 by Rachel Cohen-Rottenberg

Thank you, Gavin!

© 2010 by Rachel Cohen-Rottenberg

“Hi, I’m Rachel, and I can’t keep myself off Facebook.”

(Chorus of voices) “Hi, Rachel.”

“Hi. I’m going to my Higher Power on this, because my willpower is availing me not. It’s the same old story you’ve all heard: After a late evening foray onto Facebook, I think ‘Okay, I can’t take it anymore. I’m never doing this again.’ So I deactivate my account. Then, the next day, after I’ve slept off the whole soul-destroying experience, I think, ‘I can do Facebook. I am strong. I am invincible. I can reactivate it!’

I just can’t live like this anymore. (sniff) I need to let go. (sniff) Thank you for being here. (sniff sniff)”

(Chorus of voices) “Thanks, Rachel. Keep coming back! It works!”

So, that’s it. I’m going cold turkey. I’m deleting my Facebook account. You can do actually do that, you know. The Facebook Team doesn’t make it easy to find out how to leave “The Land of People Who Have Twelve Thousand Friends and You Only Have 89,” so I Googled “Deleting Facebook Account” and found this link. It works. You submit the deletion request, and if, by the grace of your Higher Power (however you choose to define it), you can keep yourself from reactivating your account for 14 days, said account is gone forever.

But don’t get the wrong idea from the title of this post. I’m not deleting my account because I think that the people who own and operate Facebook are bigots. I have no opinion on the matter, because I don’t know them from a hole in the ground. I’m deleting my account because too many people on Facebook express retrograde, mind-numbing prejudices about autism on a regular basis, and I just can’t stand it anymore. It’s like being on Usenet, except with commercials.

See, the problem with Facebook is the same problem we face in the age of AIDS. When you have sex with someone, you might think that you’re just having sex with that one person, but you’re actually having sex with everyone that person has ever slept with. On Facebook, you seem to be able to set up your privacy settings, choose your friends, and share tidbits about your life only with them, but in reality, all of your friends’ friends get to share with you. You get to read everything that the friends of your friends say in response to what your friends say, and some of the things that the friends of your friends say are well, let’s face it: complete garbage. In the past week alone, I’ve heard enough crazy-making prejudice about autism on Facebook to last me a lifetime.

To give you just one example of many: A friend of mine who works with autistic children and young adults mentioned that he’d spent the past several days in the company of people on the autism spectrum. The response?

One person said, “Story of my life. I feel your pain.”

What? Was that supposed to be funny? If someone had said, “I just spent the last several days with African-Americans” and had gotten the same response, more than one person would have been all over it. After all, people who are in touch with their humanity pretty much agree that it’s unacceptable to say something like that when it comes to race.

However, there is no such agreement when it comes to saying such things about autistic people, even to someone who works with autistic people, even though that person might, by some astronomically insignificant probability, have autistic friends on Facebook who might, by some astronomically insignificant probability, have feelings. Go figure.

And then there was the nice woman who mentioned that she worked with an autistic child and expressed her empathy for my friend’s (supposed) plight by saying of autism, “It’s a strange little condition.”

A strange little condition. That’s what I have. A strange little condition—a condition in which, by the by, I don’t know how to empathize, like this fine woman does. Okay dokey. If this woman worked with African Americans, I can’t imagine her saying that they have “strange little skin,” but apparently, it’s perfectly okay to say something like that about the very nature of an autistic human being.

Being an autistic human being who just can’t stand this kind of talk, I realized that I had to say something. So I quietly opined, “It’s only a strange condition if you don’t have it. For me, it’s perfectly normal.”

I thought that might quiet things down. But no. Someone else said, “But aren’t all of us on the spectrum?”

I couldn’t let that stand. I mean, I just couldn’t. So, I began, in an even tone, “Well, there is a neurological spectrum, and on that spectrum, some of us are on the autistic portion and some of us are not.”

I know, I know. It was like saying, “Well, you know, some of us have daddies who work in offices, and some of us have daddies who work on firetrucks” after someone has asserted that everyone’s daddy works on a firetruck. But, of course, that was hardly satisfying, because it didn’t really speak to the heart of the matter, so I decided to go for it: “And by the way, I thought [our friend] was talking about working with autistic people as a positive. I enjoy hanging out with autistic people. I also enjoy hanging out with non-autistic people—although they sometimes say negative things about autistic people when they don’t think that autistic people are listening, which is very troubling to this autistic person.”

Yeah, it was kind of an autistic thing to say. Someone else might not have bothered. But back in the day, before I knew I was autistic, it was just an ethical thing to say, and truth be told, it still is. I mean, how is it okay to say something like “Story of my life. I feel your pain” about hanging out with autistic people? Is it because we’re almost universally seen as a burden? A freak show? The walking weird? Why is that kind of statement considered acceptable? It was like hearing a “Jew joke” when the people involved couldn’t tell I was Jewish, except that no collective gasp went up from anyone else involved.

This kind of thing is simply prejudice, as defined by such unimpeachable sources as the Merriam-Webster dictionary:

a (1) : preconceived judgment or opinion (2) : an adverse opinion or leaning formed without just grounds or before sufficient knowledge b : an instance of such judgment or opinion c : an irrational attitude of hostility directed against an individual, a group, a race, or their supposed characteristics

And what are our supposed characteristics, on which we are judged, and laughed at, and stigmatized, and discredited, and dismissed, to the point that lots and lots of autistic people stay closeted for fear of losing their jobs, and their friends, and whatever level of acceptance they’ve managed to acquire from the world in which they live? Here’s the short list:

Rude
Lacking in empathy
Self-centered
Abnormal
Burdensome
Bizarre
Impaired
Disordered
Not quite human

I suppose if you think those things about an entire group of people, it’s perfectly okay to say just about anything about them. And then, of course, if someone from that group of people gets angry about it—well, it’s just further evidence that they’re just who you say they are, because after all, why should someone get so pissed off at an offhand comment, and be so blunt about expressing it, and not realize that she shouldn’t take things so seriously, because there was no ill intent, don’t you know?

I have only one answer to that: It’s because we’re perfectly human. I’m not sure how many people would believe me. After all, I’m autistic, and thus, discredited before I even open my mouth. But hey, that’s not going to stop me. Not anymore. I’m not going to step into a cesspool of this kind of bigotry if I can help it, but when I meet up with it, I’m going to interrupt it. I’m not going to give it a place to stand. I’m not going to be quiet. Not again. Not anymore. I’m done standing there, feeling sucker punched, with tears in my eyes, saying nothing.

The world deserves better of me. I deserve better of myself.

So I will continue to fight anti-autistic prejudice, but not on Facebook, which I only joined to keep up with friends, and where serious, considered, constructive discussion is virtually impossible. I can keep up with friends in other ways, and I have other venues for fighting the good fight—venues that are far more positive for me and far more constructive for others.

© 2010 by Rachel Cohen-Rottenberg

I go through phases in which I read new blogs. Sometimes, when I’m done, I feel like I’m not angry enough, not alienated enough, not analytical enough, not atypical enough to even call myself autistic, much less be interesting. And then I read other blogs, and I feel like the most unbelievably pissed off, blunt, can’t-let-go, if-I-hear-the-word-disorder-one-more-fucking-time-I’m-going-to-scream autistic person the world has ever seen. I feel like I’m just going on and on and on, and other people are shaking their heads, saying, “Poor thing. There she goes again. She just doesn’t understand.”

Either way, I’m not “in.” You know what it means to be “in,” right? I know what it means, too—mainly by its opposite, which is to be on the outside, looking in. Even in the autistic world, I seem to be on the outside, looking in. It appears to be my home, that little perch in which I happily sit cross-legged, looking through sun-dappled leaves at the busy, busy world. I’ve hung out on that little perch all my life. I know it well.

But I do have an affinity group. It seems to be composed of all the other people sitting on the outside looking in, too. People who aren’t joiners, people who go their own way, people who spend a lot of time in the margins, on their own little perches, observing the goings-on in the world with alternately amused, confused, and horrified expressions.

It’s a pretty big group, I think. I mean, it can’t be too big (and it certainly can’t be organized), or we run the risk of having other people sit in the margins, looking at us with alternately amused, confused, and horrified expressions. Or maybe they are already? G-d forbid. If they are, I hope they tell me, because I’ll have to do some serious soul searching and stop whatever it is that’s causing it.

But I’m not complaining.

Well, okay, maybe I’m complaining, maybe a little. Maybe, for once, I’d just like to know what it means to be on the inside, to “get” it. I don’t know why. Just for the experience, I guess. For the variety. The camaraderie. The view. Kind of like changing your perspective by sitting in a different chair at the dinner table. That kind of thing.

Inevitably, though, I’d end up being the most inconvenient person in the room—the one who just can’t compromise enough to please, the one who doesn’t know how to keep her mouth shut when something is wrong, the one who hangs onto her ideas years after they’ve gone out of style, the one whom everyone calls stubborn instead of principled. You know that person, because some of you are that person.

When the day is done, I’d just end up being me, back on my perch, observing the goings-on. I like it there. When I look at it properly, I see that it’s a place of great power and liberation. I can come and go as I please. I can help anyone I want to help. I can be who I am. I can say what I want to say. I don’t need to worry, because I’ve got all my friends in the margins, sitting in their little perches, and we all understand that it’s home.

And that’s all right by me.

© 2010 by Rachel Cohen-Rottenberg