invited

Hello, reader.  How are you doing?  I’m glad to be asked anywhere.  I’m rarely invited to any gathering, to the point that being invited to a party or workshop is cause for celebration.  I consider it carefully.

Recently I was reading an acquaintance’s social media post about being nonbinary, assigned female at birth, and invited to women-only-plus spaces.  The acquaintance, original poster, and friends in the comments were saying how uncomfortable it is to be an enby in those women-only spaces.  The original poster said they receive invites almost daily to women-only spaces, or women-plus spaces where anyone is welcome except for men.  I was shocked to hear some people are invited almost daily–wow.

To be invited is a kindness.  But to be welcome / unwelcome once I arrive is another thing.  I can speak up, ask questions, and try changing the culture of an event if I’m there.

difference

My fat, disabled body might challenge event organizers.  And my autistic sensory needs as well as social differences are huge.  Being multi-different, I’m easier to leave off the invitation list.  Or if invitation is based on whether I’m considered sexually desirable or networking desirable– to most people, I’m not.  I’m not a professional with lucrative connections.

As a humble disabled anarchist artist-writer, living below the poverty line, what can I give you?  I can give you my heart.  Some handbound zines, edgy wisdom, maybe friendship.  I could give you a hug.  A promise, a shared project.  All that is work.  You would have to meet me halfway.  You would have to figure out what to do with my heart, find time to read the zine, do your half of holding our bodies together in a basic hug– feeling emotions, if only small ones.

Maybe at the beginning it could seem thrilling.  Then if you were asked to do something significant, the payoff isn’t worth the work.  Most wander off.

As for sex, unless you’re my trusted spouse Ming or my lover, my body is busy.  Bedding me will not increase your social capital, and who would I be on your arm?  Illegible at best.

comfortable

At any rate, I’m mostly not invited.  The social media post also shocked me because the idea of being comfortable in a space seems entitled.  It’s my default that I’m not going to be comfortable in a space. My sensory and social needs are not going to be met, my body probably won’t have an ok chair, I can’t hear over the music, there’s no way I can eat the food, I don’t drink alcohol…

I enter any space knowing I probably won’t be comfortable and budget for that, with a lot of rest afterward, and ask for help.  It’s a question of payoff.  Sometimes I’m glad I went because I meet an amazing new person or get a fresh idea or art experience that nourishes me.

Other people go places and expect their needs to be met.  Wow!  For me, whether it’s emotional or physical or sensory, my needs are only met in my home.  So it’s a ton of energy to go out, and I decide carefully what might be worth it.

My dearest ones will help make a place for me where I can be ok.  Most people wouldn’t even know where to begin.  The plug in “air freshener” of toxic perfumes would destroy me if nothing else!  The TV sound, a dog jumping on me, flies, mold, a chair that creaks when I sit down.

blueberry magic

Oh yeah, picking blueberries that one time, the white plastic chair collapsed under my weight, and I tumbled to the ground.  You know how people want to help you up right away, to undo what happened.

But I lie there looking at the sky, enjoying the view, trying to feel if anything is broken.  How did I get here on Parent Earth?  What a blessing, to have this body which falls and fails.

For one moment, I will center myself, not centering the panic of the blueberry worker.  She can hold her own discomfort that I’m in the dirt, and she’s standing there looking down.

intimacy

I’ve lived a life you don’t know and probably never will.  Yes, intimacy is uncomfortable.  It’s easier to move on, and not invite me.

But I’m going to make events, and I’m going to invite you.

What you do with your life is your choice, and who you draw in.  Who’s welcome to the tables you set?  That’s justice.  It matters–it’s personal and political.