Neurodiverse Will Hunting

Jesus Christ, I'm recognizing something.

Bear with me and the intense emotions this realization is bringing up, please, dear friends, but my brothers and sisters in this situation with me have suffered immensely and I am only just now this week coming to the understanding of who I am and the powers, both natural and conveyed by protection under human rights and manmade law, I have.

God bless you all who have loved and enjoyed and appreciated me, and I pray you will continue to do so. Now that my commonalities with a particular community and a rightfully protected class (up to 10% of the population, says a recent New York Times article) are dawning on me, so so SO much is slipping into place.

I feel fucking split wide open and the brilliant light pouring out is blinding me while I bathe in its warmth. I weep, I weep.

A million thanks to my dear colleagues with and without training in recognizing exceptionalism who have extended compassion and understanding to me and stuck with me through the last few hellish years. I am fortunate to be blessed with a freaking hot gorgeous whipsmart hubby and two brilliant daughters who seem already in their own ways to surpass their parents in thinking and creativity. This support system kept me going despite the threats and ostracization from the non-comprehending that have prevented much sleep over the last years. To be honest, when the adrenaline strikes me wide awake at five, I have no complaints. I love the energy rush and I love the early morning light.

“You’re like an SNL skit,” said a dear friend. We laughed. I felt so seen. And loved—for exactly who I am. I was sitting with friends around our dining room table, the huge wooden six-footer that Randy and I bought from a Mexican furniture store on Milwaukee Avenue in the 90’s. “Gordita” is the table’s name, for the luscious curves of her fat carved legs. She still bears the Magic Marker traces of Mia and Nora’s artwork — a few years I considered sanding her tabletop anew, but now I treasure these precious marks. Some may see the colorful traces as mars; I do not. Earlier in the conversation, another friend, an internist, mentioned how necessary it is “to be patient with people’s thought processes.” I yelped with recognition. “That’s me!” I squealed. “I have to be more patient with people’s thought processes!”

Reading the literature and learning from the Tiktoks this week has been a rollercoaster experience, to say the least. My sisters in this sorority have been discriminated against, misunderstood, sexually abused (it’s a thing! who knew!? you can look it up! Jesus!), and many also have reached the heights of success. Hilary Clinton looks very different to me now. So does Beyonce.

I’m tired now so I’ll wrap this post up but, damn. Damn. I understand so much about my past now, and I am so fucking excited about tomorrow.

IlliNOISE!!

 Illinois at the Chicago Shakespeare Theater, a story told through dance and Sufjan Stevens’s immortal music from the album of the same name, is a BANGER.

“Did you know someone in the show?” asked the woman who sat behind me after the last of the audience’s wild applause and affirmative shouts had died away.

I laughed and said no (even though Ahmad Simmons had blown me a kiss during curtain calls), I just loved this album and hadn’t she had it on repeat when it came out?

She may have been referring to my shoulders shaking with sobs I muffled with my hands during “Casimir Pulaski Day” or maybe the way I chanted along with “I made a LOT OF MISTAKES” or perhaps my calls of “BRAVA” after Rachel Lockhart tore down the stage in “Jacksonville.”

Regardless, if the producers are billing this as a dance/CONCERT hybrid and if the players insist on bringing such brilliance, then you better bet they’re gonna get some pretty passionate responses.

But our audience emotions weren’t all jubilant — after the John Wayne Gacy song faded away, with its excruciating lyrics “Oh, the dead/Twenty-seven people/Even more, they were boys/With their cars, summer jobs/Oh my god” still resonating, the entire packed room sat in stunned silence. It was only after the first notes of the next song broke the spell that we exploded into cheers.

I'm grabbing strangers on the way out, asking for a hug, sobbing with joy, babbling about the goodness of it all, and when we hit the lobby, there's one more thrill through the floor to ceiling windows -- the sight of our glorious city and resplendent lake spread out before us in the afternoon light. The crowds on Broadway who flock to this show will never have this unique Illinois experience.

“I’m still vibrating,” said the man in the lobby who witnessed my selfie with Dario, and I know he is not alone.

Here's the New Yorker review, and the