Image Caption: The author as a toddler, sitting serenely on a bed.
Once upon a time I was a high achiever, but I didn’t “do it right” — which either annoyed the f*ck out of people or endeared me to them. (This is why Amanda Seales’ controversial Shannon Sharpe interview struck a chord in me. Our lives differ in many ways, yet I know how it feels to consistently be a problem and not have the language for why.)
In the era of Issa Rae, I adopted “awkward” to describe how jarring it felt to be myself in this world, but “awkward” wasn’t quite it, was it? I was not a quirky girl who tripped over her shoes, or felt sexless. In fact, I could be elegant and stylish, and regardless of what people claimed publicly, I understood that I was desirable. I knew, even when it was not affirmed, that I was funny, thoughtful to the point of earnestness, and that I tried to be kind. And if I failed at being kind I tried to course-correct. Those qualities, to me, were desirable because they were lively, and they were what I looked for in other people.
But adults in my life, sometimes elders, sometimes just olders, wrung their hands over me. The goodness I possessed was all good and well, but how was a black kid like me going to survive in the world if I didn’t become more sociable? I didn’t have the language to tell them that I looked at already-established groups of friends and couldn’t fathom how to become a part of them except by biding my time. That was always how I made friends — by biding my time. Was that not what everyone did? Why was this stern adult warning my mother that my life would be full of suffering if I didn’t adopt a different social strategy, which no one had described to me, and which I couldn’t imagine?
Some peers, too, detested my sociality. I did well in school, I could write and speech my ass off, but I wasn’t “doing it right.” I remember, I was part of an extracurricular group in high school for people who wanted to go to college. A nonprofit. I’d gotten a scholarship, and I heard a boy behind me fuming about it. He wanted me to hear him. He was angry that I got a scholarship when I didn’t even know what to do with it. Did I even want to be a capitalist, or an engineer or a medical doctor? I was taking a spot someone else, like him, should have. I didn’t deserve it. The adult who ran the group didn’t intervene. He agreed with him. I could sense that he didn’t like me either, and I remember trying to win him over to no avail, until he needed me for something. I complained about it to the only friend I had in the group. Everyone else was an acquaintance. He sympathized, but he did not disagree with the people who thought I wasn’t “doing it right.” Didn’t they have a point? he asked. Are you my friend? I wondered. In hindsight, I don’t think he was unlike other boys in the group, who said girls that have sex deserved to be played and slu*tshamed. The adult who ran the group didn’t intervene there, either.
I didn’t want to be a capitalist, an engineer or a medical doctor, though I sometimes feigned an interest in becoming a sociologist to make myself seem more respectable. I wanted to be a writer, a philosopher, a professor — I thought I had what it took. I had budding feminist and anti-imperialist politics. I was beginning to think I was queer, which I kept to myself. I was doing it all wrong. I chose the wrong friends — people who were good to me instead of people who could get me somewhere. If I was going to have a boyfriend I should’ve had one who was as high-achieving as me. I was one of my school’s valedictorians, and I wanted to write my own speech because I was a writer, and I didn’t know, when I was doing well in school all those years, that they would give me a speech to read. Was the role I embodied in my school not supposed to be imbued with me, with my essence? I insisted on edits. I didn’t want to wear bright lipstick so my face would look better on camera. I felt increasingly uncomfortable. All of the universities I received offers from seemed the same — just businesses with classes. What was everyone else so excited about? I wanted to get away from it all, and my mom was moving back to New York anyway. I went to Dartmouth College. The only thing that seemed different about it was that I didn’t have to worry about housing or money or food too much, and I could visit home on a cheap greyhound.
I did college wrong too. I was skeptical of people who had questionable motivations. I hid from them. The creeps. I didn’t network enough. I meant what I said. I was elusive and available in the wrong ways or at the wrong times, I don’t know. People assumed I was playing when I was being earnest. I was unmedicated, and no one noticed. I didn’t (couldn’t?) read between the lines. I danced the way I’d always danced, simple rotations of my hips and limbs. I wasn’t good at choreography. I didn’t take classes based on who else was taking them. I questioned the politics of awards. I expressed anger at betrayal and hypocrisy. I repressed, and then I let it all out. I let some people have it. I unfollowed people, blocked people, I didn’t act like nepo babies were better than me because they weren’t. I stayed because it seemed like there were creeps everywhere in the world, and I graduated decently, with some last minute accolades that came with reminders from mentors of how I didn’t do it right, how I would’ve gotten more if I’d done it right. Someone I love told me they were disappointed that I’d done college wrong, that I hadn’t done college as right as I’d done high school (which I’d also done wrong?), and I spiraled for months, indulged, indulged, indulged.
For a year I worked and spent a lot of time alone and didn’t let anyone know what I was up to. I tried some sh*t and failed and still felt better than in previous years because I wasn’t being surveilled. I thought about never stepping foot on a university campus again, or maybe I would, I wasn’t sure what to do because everything I’d ever done, I’d done wrong. I had a breakdown and started therapy and took medication that lifted a veil from me.
The doctor looked at me like I was an alien when I talked about my life, because hadn’t anyone suggested to me that I might need support? Hadn’t anyone come through? Hadn’t I ever thought I needed support? No, I explained, no, because the problem was that everything I did was wrong. If I deserved support wouldn’t I have been supported? I frustrated my therapist.
I’m getting a Ph.D. I’m a professor, a philosopher, a writer. It’s going well. I’m experiencing the most love I’ve ever experienced in my life. My partner’s family understands autism, and we joke about being on the spectrum. I tell them I’ve wondered if I am for years, but when I asked someone I loved about it, they told me it was the wrong question. I wasn’t autistic — I was just doing everything wrong, and I couldn’t fathom how to stop.
I remember going to Emory University’s Scholars Weekend at the end of high school, a prestigious thing for prospective college students. I remember running away from a fancy dinner in my white thrift store dress. My tight consignment heels clacking on the cement. That was one of the freest moments I’d ever had. I feel that way more often now.
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