Queer people aren’t strangers to shame, or to reclaiming one of the darkest feelings a person can carry deep in their gut. Shame is distinct from guilt in that shame is about doing something nonnormative, whereas guilt implies a breach of morality. Still, the consequences of shame can be profound — isolation, stress, secrets. Shame is relative to our surroundings, to the people who have power over us or to the communities we try to find homes in. For this A+ personal essay series, writers wrote about things they can barely whisper to aloud, things they thought was once a blemish that they’ve turned into crown, things that make them feel like a “bad queer”, or the ways that other peoples’ shame has woven itself into their life and existence. Answers to nagging questions, positive conclusions from difficult times and happy endings are not necessary, and you might not find them in every essay in the SHAME series. But I do hope you fill find something that challenges some shame you might be feeling, that is too relatable, that leaves you questioning whether it is actually serving you to hide whatever it is you’re hiding. As always, thank you for the support that allows Autostraddle to publish the breadth of pieces that we do, whether we’re celebrating the bright spots or descending into the basements of our psyches — this is a space where queer people can pitch, write and publish work like nowhere else.
xoxo,
Nico
“Why do you act the way you do?”
“Why do you act so weird?”
“Why do you act so corny?”
“What’s your problem?”
Questions like these contributed to my belief that everything about me was wrong; the way I talked and acted — and the way my mind worked — were completely different from most people.
It seemed that everything I would say sounded funny or odd to people around me, especially in school. Classmates would comment on the way I talked, telling me that I “sounded white,” or “talked proper” (as if there was something wrong with that). Plus, there seemed to always be something a bit off with the way I spoke. I would say something, and everyone would be quiet for a few seconds. Then, everyone would look at each other and just burst out laughing.
My interests were also a lot different from the other kids. When I lived in Mississippi, I loved to check out Rod McKuen’s poetry books from the school library. Stanyan Street & Other Sorrows, Listen to the Warm, and Lonesome Cities were my favorites. There must have been something about his poetry that really spoke to me. After we moved to Portland, OR when I was 15, I would read a lot of pop psychology books like, I’m Okay, You’re Okay. One time, I was talking to my sister, Ann, about something that I wanted to do, but I said that “my child” wanted to do something different. That’s when Ann guessed that I must have read I’m Okay, You’re Okay. Obviously, that was not the way that most teenagers talked!
On top of that, I got bullied a lot, in grade school and high school. I remember how angry my father would get (AT ME!), because I “allowed” myself to get bullied, and I didn’t know how to protect myself and “show everyone who was boss.”
Toward the end of our stay in Mississippi, a 24-hour crisis line started up. I called them almost every weeknight. I remember how good it felt to finally have someone to talk to, and how good it felt to be understood. I would usually talk to the same counselors, who would always be glad to hear from me. One thing I found significant was the fact that I didn’t call them with any personal problems. I just wanted someone to talk to. Our conversations were always very relaxed, because we would discuss topics such as: our favorite TV shows, comic strips in the Sunday paper that we found funny, jokes that I found in Reader’s Digest magazine – in other words, we would talk about anything and everything, the way I always thought that friends were supposed to do. But this was a new experience for me to feel that relaxed while talking to someone, without ever having to worry about being laughed at. And oh, how I loved making these counselors laugh. This was something I never experienced with anyone else. And there was not an ounce of self-consciousness on my part. What a gift that was to me.
I remember Ann saying that I should keep the phone lines open for people who really needed the crisis line more than I did (i.e. people who were suicidal). But the counselors obviously sensed that I DID need it. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have taken the time to talk to me for so long. Besides, I had very few friends. Most of my classmates didn’t want to be friends with me because they just thought I was too strange. I’m guessing that maybe some kids wanted to be my friend, but it was possible they were just too embarrassed to be seen with me (I’m not putting myself down when I say that; I just know how kids are).
“People could look at the baby pictures and try to guess who they belonged to,” she said. “And whoever has the most correct guesses will win a prize.”
“Oh, yes!” another person said sarcastically. “And when they get to Gloria’s baby picture, they’ll be like, ‘Oh! I wonder who this is?’”
That person thought she was being funny. Everyone laughed but me. I was imagining how obvious it would be to pick out the Black baby among a cluster of white baby photographs. Once again, I was singled out, made to feel different. I was just someone who wanted other people to like her and accept her for who she was.
Just from reading these words, I feel sadness and shame in the pit of my stomach, not just from remembering this incident, but from realizing that interactions like this were routine for me — a typical Day in the Life of Gloria.
Have you ever wondered what it would be like to always know the right thing to do, to fit in with everyone? In other words, to know what it would be like to be a perfect human being, to match society’s definitions? I wonder constantly. I wonder what it’s like to navigate this world as a person who belongs and knows it. I wonder how that is even possible.
I was diagnosed as autistic when I was 62, going on 63. I always make it a point to say that after a lengthy assessment process, a psychologist confirmed my autism for me. You would never hear me say, “I learned that I was autistic.” That’s because, even though I didn’t know it for sure, based on everything I had read online, I thought chances were high that I was autistic. I had just uncovered too many characteristics in common with autistic people to believe otherwise.
My autism was something I had suspected for at least the past 15 years, and I’d known since the first grade that I was different from everyone else. They — the students, teachers, and other adults — never let me forget it. I also knew right away that according to society, autism was a “bad” thing, and I got bullied throughout my life accordingly. Now that I am older, and shows like The Big Bang Theory have made people more understanding about autism, it seems easier to be able to say the word out loud. I finally have a word that describes me. At the same time, there’s an incredible amount of sadness for all those years of feeling as if nobody understood me, all while feeling as though I didn’t even understand myself.
I just wish more people could honestly say that compassion is their default mode.
Then again, maybe not.
In the mid-to-late 1990s, I began hearing about something called Asperger’s Syndrome and its place on the autism spectrum. When I read descriptions about Asperger’s, I began to relate. For the first time in my life, I felt as though there was a name for what I was. For instance, I would be one of the last people to get a joke. Or I would see internet memes that everyone else found hilarious, but that made absolutely no sense to me. I’d think they were mildly funny at best.
As I read about Asperger’s, I realized that my mind worked differently from other people’s, which I’m sure is another reason why people just didn’t get me, why I didn’t have many friends. Employers would often lose their temper with me, and my coworkers didn’t like me. I thought their reactions to me were my fault. At least, that’s what most people seemed to think — that I was the source of their frustration and that it was up to me to change my behavior, even though I didn’t necessarily know what it was I needed to change. It was so easy for people to lose their temper with me, as well as their patience, even though I still have no idea what I would say or do to cause people to get so angry with me, or why they even needed to “be patient” in the first place. There was nobody in my life whom I felt really understood me. I never had a “bestie,” “best friend,” or a “BFF.” At work, I was once again trying to fit in. I felt as if I were back in junior high.
And you know, even though I’ve been studying and doing presentations on shame since 2017, I still experience shame. It’s not to the same degree that I did before I began to study it. But if I dwell on the fact that I’ve never had a “bestie,” the shame is incredible, even though I know that my inability to understand and be understood is not my fault.
I still feel, so much of the time, as if I really don’t belong, or like I need to work extra hard to make myself presentable and acceptable as a human being. Why am I even here? If I allow myself to be honest, I wonder about that constantly. It’s not considered “okay” to question whether you have a reason for existing. Of course, we’re told that everybody in the world has a purpose. Everyone is here for a reason. Intellectually, yes, I believe that. But at the same time, no, I don’t believe it. I can’t honestly say that I believe everyone has a purpose. If we do, I’m just figuring out what my purpose is.
What I’m starting to see is that my life, my experiences, everything that’s shaped me and made me who I am today, serves as a cautionary tale to others. My life is an example of what not to do. Yet, at the same time, my life bears witness to what it means to be brave, to be authentic. Maybe the purpose of my life is to show others what’s possible. And one thing that is possible is not letting adversity define you.
As I look at my life experiences, even the moments where I allowed other people to tell me who I am, I won’t say that I wouldn’t trade them for the world, because I certainly would! At the same time, I’m just beginning to see why my life took the turns that it did.
I have said many times that the word serendipity — which I see as giving in to chance and the benevolence of the universe — reflects how I live my life. These are not just empty thoughts or platitudes. I believe in the maxim of “things happening for a reason” with all my heart. I’ve seen these truths play out in my life, repeatedly. I’ve seen way too many coincidences take place for me to think otherwise. These events have gotten me closer to understanding myself, understanding my struggles and my purpose. The wisdom I’ve gained has helped me help others. I could not have arrived in this place without these life experiences — the pain of not belonging — which allow me to embrace who I am and all I’ve been through with gratitude.
In 2011, I attended a talk on Sexual Shame. I found it insightful, and it gave me plenty to think about. For example, the speaker provided examples of family members — parents and grandparents, especially– — who do not respect boundaries. This reminded me that my parents (who passed away a decade ago) continued to tell me and my siblings what to do, even into adulthood, and refused to take “no” for an answer. And even though the talk was entitled “Sexual Shame,” what the presenter had to say, especially in the area of boundaries within the family unit, was applicable in so many situations. I was reminded of the importance of community, just because it’s impossible to keep secrets if you have a community supporting and listening to you. That’s because secrets are isolating, and isolation is the antithesis of community.
There’s a Brené Brown quote that I use whenever I present “Transcending Shame.” It’s possible that I also heard this quote in the “Sexual Shame” presentation: “Shame needs three things to survive: secrecy, silence, and judgment. Empathy is the antidote to shame. The two most powerful words when in struggle? Me, too.”
Several years ago, I was in a long-term relationship with someone I’ll call “A,” who possessed an incredible amount of sexual shame, to the point that whenever we ran into each other in public, the awkwardness was palpable.
“A” found so much fault with me; yet, at the same time, the only area where he had no complaints was the area of sex. He couldn’t say enough about my sexual skills! He seemed to think that was all I had going for me, which didn’t help my self-esteem in the least.
When we first began to see each other, there were several red flags that I didn’t see right away, but my friends certainly did. For example, our feelings for each other weren’t reciprocal. And when I told a friend that I was in love with “A,” but he wasn’t in love with me, they said, “Wow, that doesn’t seem right.”
Occasionally, my friends would mention that I talk a lot about “A,” but they rarely saw him. And he was definitely not interested in hanging out with me and my friends. I would just use excuses and say that he was shy, for instance (even though he definitely wasn’t).
If I had taken advantage of the community that was available to me, I would’ve talked openly about what didn’t feel right to me, in my relationship with “A.” I would’ve brought him around to meet my friends (even though that wasn’t what he wanted to do), and they would’ve given me their honest opinions. I would’ve listened to my friends’ misgivings about him (“You can do better than that,” for example). In other words, I would no longer have kept secrets about my relationship, which would’ve just compounded my shame and kept me isolated. Instead, I would’ve brought everything — his lack of regard for me, my low self-esteem, his wanting to keep me a secret — to the light. I would’ve taken advantage of my community by discussing with them and working through my shame, something that would’ve been impossible to do if I was still operating from secrecy.
In 2016, I heard about a brand-new conference in Vancouver, BC called, “ConvergeCon.” It was a sex-positive conference that was looking for presenters. Almost at once, the words, “Transcending Shame” came to me. So, at least I didn’t have to come up with a topic! I’ve been presenting “Transcending Shame” since 2017, and it’s certainly evolved over the year.
In December 2013, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. Of course, I was devastated and afraid until I had an epiphany, shortly after the diagnosis. The breast cancer diagnosis showed me just how short life is. It showed me that I could no longer take life for granted. The diagnosis also showed me that we have no idea how much time we have left on this earth — nobody does. Somehow, that diagnosis brought this home for me. But here’s an experience that made it impossible for me to remain closeted.
You see, in the summer of 2014, a journalist with an LGBTQ magazine interviewed people in Seattle’s Bi+ community to find out how much and what kind of support they received as bisexuals in Seattle. Somehow, the more the journalist and I talked, the more they became intrigued by the fact that I was also polyamorous and sex-positive. Eventually, they ended up interviewing me in more detail for an upcoming magazine article in this LGBTQ publication. When the time came for the article to be published (after I got to review it, that is), I told the journalist that I didn’t want my real name or my whole name used, since the article was very frank and honest. But then, I caught myself and I thought, “That doesn’t make a bit of sense for me to say, in one breath, that I didn’t care what people thought of me and that I was out and proud as sex-positive, bisexual, and polyamorous — and yet, in the same breath, to say, ‘But I don’t want you to use my real name!’” I finally said to them, “Please use my real name, by all means!”
This was when it began to dawn on me that being closeted and hiding who I am makes no sense, if life is short. I don’t want to live the rest of my life in hiding. Because life is short, I no longer have to hide who I am. So that was when I came out, LOUD and PROUD as bisexual, polyamorous, and sex positive. I stopped accepting crappy treatment from others and began to set personal boundaries. I also stopped caring what other people think of me.
Part of my epiphany also involved realizing the following:
As a queer, autistic, Black female abuse survivor with mental illness, learning that there was NOTHING wrong with me (nor has there EVER been anything wrong with me) was the most liberating realization in the world.
Ooof, this piece (and this whole series) is so good. Thank you for sharing your wisdom with us.
Thank you!
This piece really is excellent, thank you for writing it! This is the sort of thing I subscribe to A+ for
Thank you for publishing a piece by someone who is over 40. I don’t have an official autism diagnosis Gloria, but my experiences mirror a lot of yours. I am currently struggling with trying to unlearn the shame assigned because of being considered “weird” or “different” by friends, “challenging” and “insubordinate” by employers. I’m not there yet, but I hope in time I will be.