When I was in Middle School, it felt like the emotional (and sometimes physical) equivalent of the weeping and gnashing of teeth in Hades.
Each day was a nightmare and fight to survive. The only thing that gave me a reason to wake up in the morning was my closet and jewelry box.
I didn’t think much about it, but I was expressing my creativity and offering my unique perspective of the world through fashion.
My parents were wonderfully supportive of my unique choices influenced by Blossom, Beverly Hills 90210 and Nickelodeon’s Clarissa Explains it All (Melissa Joan Hart WAS Clarissa in my opinion).
The early years of the 20th century’s last decade were bold, colorful and fun. I couldn’t understand why so many of my bland, NT peers weren’t into dressing like this:
“Clarissa Explains It All” Nickelodeon 1991-1994
Each day was a nightmare and fight to survive. The only thing that gave me a reason to wake up in the morning was my closet and jewelry box.
I didn’t think much about it, but I was expressing my creativity and offering my unique perspective of the world through fashion.
My parents were wonderfully supportive of my unique choices influenced by Blossom, Beverly Hills 90210 and Nickelodeon’s Clarissa Explains it All (Melissa Joan Hart WAS Clarissa in my opinion).
The early years of the 20th century’s last decade were bold, colorful and fun. I couldn’t understand why so many of my bland, NT peers weren’t into dressing like this:
“Clarissa Explains It All” Nickelodeon 1991-1994
The layers. The patterns, the mixing and matching. The funky accessories. I wore my ensembles like armour, protecting me from those vile beige and yellow cinder block walls and linoleum flooring.
Unbeknownst to me, my peers didn’t share my point of view. Along with my clumsy gait (I was told I walked like a duck) and obvious sensory sensitivity any time there was a fire drill, I unwittingly drew bullies like stink on shit.
Hindsight is 20/20. The saying is cliche, but pithy and easy for me to remember.
I wish someone had told both my parents and I about compromise. Not moral compromise, but the social compromise that would have helped me to fly under the radar a little without hiding my authenticity.
Me sporting a mullet, sunglasses, paisley sleeveless dress, motorcycle gloves and black tights with black stripes at my 17th birthday party in 1996.
Bullies are predators by design. They look for someone-anyone to take out their insecurities and emotional pain on. Some might say that I asked for every threat, punch and body slam I got by wearing these outfits. Others might be wondering what my parents were thinking.
My parents didn’t know about autism. Nor did they have any form of parental support. The schools wanted to get rid of me, but there wasn’t any place to send me aside from behavioral ed classes. Private school tuition costs a lot of money in the U.S. Homeschooling sans internet or parent who could devote the time and teaching skills meant public school hell.
I didn’t understand at age 11 why others couldn’t calm the hell down and mind their own business. I didn’t understand anything social. All I wanted was one friend, to be allowed to express myself and concentrate on learning so I could pass along to the next grade, one step closer to liberation.
My mom and dad never let me look like a slut. Anything that showed the hint of cleavage or buttock was promptly hung back on the rack.
As grunge made its way to the Midwest, I wore flannel shirts, stovepipe pants and (off label) Birkenstock-style sandals. Soon, the pop tart princess look was in: navel baring spaghetti strap tops, baby buns and body glitter. Who the hell needs body glitter? It gets everywhere you don’t want it to be!
Anyway, it didn’t matter what was in the window of Gap or Merry-Go-Round. Whatever inspiration I drew from them or a model in a magazine was recipe for continued bullying.
I tried dressing more conservatively a few times. I felt numb inside. It was like having a lobotomy performed on my spirit.
I thought isolation was worse. I tried doing dance moves to gain some sort of attention anytime there was a dry spell in bullying activity. Kids actually threw coins at me when I performed the
MC Hammer dance and ended it by shouting “Hammertime!” I was confused. I was hated, and yet they paid me to do it.
You can’t touch this! Me with chlorine hair from the pool wearing a black, rhinestone hat, purple tunic and a long, silver chain with bobbles attached. My hand is extended as I’m attempting to prove that I am very cool, at least in my twelve-year-old brain.
My parents didn’t know about autism. Nor did they have any form of parental support. The schools wanted to get rid of me, but there wasn’t any place to send me aside from behavioral ed classes. Private school tuition costs a lot of money in the U.S. Homeschooling sans internet or parent who could devote the time and teaching skills meant public school hell.
I didn’t understand at age 11 why others couldn’t calm the hell down and mind their own business. I didn’t understand anything social. All I wanted was one friend, to be allowed to express myself and concentrate on learning so I could pass along to the next grade, one step closer to liberation.
My mom and dad never let me look like a slut. Anything that showed the hint of cleavage or buttock was promptly hung back on the rack.
As grunge made its way to the Midwest, I wore flannel shirts, stovepipe pants and (off label) Birkenstock-style sandals. Soon, the pop tart princess look was in: navel baring spaghetti strap tops, baby buns and body glitter. Who the hell needs body glitter? It gets everywhere you don’t want it to be!
Anyway, it didn’t matter what was in the window of Gap or Merry-Go-Round. Whatever inspiration I drew from them or a model in a magazine was recipe for continued bullying.
I tried dressing more conservatively a few times. I felt numb inside. It was like having a lobotomy performed on my spirit.
I thought isolation was worse. I tried doing dance moves to gain some sort of attention anytime there was a dry spell in bullying activity. Kids actually threw coins at me when I performed the
MC Hammer dance and ended it by shouting “Hammertime!” I was confused. I was hated, and yet they paid me to do it.
You can’t touch this! Me with chlorine hair from the pool wearing a black, rhinestone hat, purple tunic and a long, silver chain with bobbles attached. My hand is extended as I’m attempting to prove that I am very cool, at least in my twelve-year-old brain.
There is no excuse for bullying anyone, ever. I did come to learn some heartbreaking explanations for why some kids bullied. I had a few friends for a few years and saw first hand how having an alcoholic parent could break the kid’s spirit. It was a wonder none of them bullied.
I attended school with a lot of kids who lived in a bad section 8 housing complex. It was full of drugs, homicides and absentee dads.
By contrast, home was my safe haven. I sometimes took out on my loving parents what had been done to me at school that day by swearing, being sarcastic and even one time, throwing a snowball at my dad in a way too rough, not playing around manner.
It was terrifying hearing him say “I think I lost her”, as my dad talked with my mother outside my room, down the hall.
He thought in that one moment that he had lost me as a daughter. I sobbed at the thought of disowning my dad because he got after me for throwing a snowball at him, even if I was mad. I was taking out my rage from being bullied out on someone who was safe. He yelled at me to stop throwing snowballs at him, and I snapped, throwing more.
I inadvertently bullied my dad without realizing it. We did reconcile, later that night. My mom helped us.
I’m wondering if being abused and wanting to be accepted by any group of people makes a kid a bully, preying on whatever they can find, especially when the object of their rage carries an army green, fishnet purse.
Back to clothing, I see now how I could have compromised without losing my creativity. Here is an example:
Me test driving a golf-cart on vacation in 1993.
I attended school with a lot of kids who lived in a bad section 8 housing complex. It was full of drugs, homicides and absentee dads.
By contrast, home was my safe haven. I sometimes took out on my loving parents what had been done to me at school that day by swearing, being sarcastic and even one time, throwing a snowball at my dad in a way too rough, not playing around manner.
It was terrifying hearing him say “I think I lost her”, as my dad talked with my mother outside my room, down the hall.
He thought in that one moment that he had lost me as a daughter. I sobbed at the thought of disowning my dad because he got after me for throwing a snowball at him, even if I was mad. I was taking out my rage from being bullied out on someone who was safe. He yelled at me to stop throwing snowballs at him, and I snapped, throwing more.
I inadvertently bullied my dad without realizing it. We did reconcile, later that night. My mom helped us.
I’m wondering if being abused and wanting to be accepted by any group of people makes a kid a bully, preying on whatever they can find, especially when the object of their rage carries an army green, fishnet purse.
Back to clothing, I see now how I could have compromised without losing my creativity. Here is an example:
Me test driving a golf-cart on vacation in 1993.
As you can see in the photo above, I have a toned-down boho look going on. I had on a white, ribbed round-neck shirt and terra-cotta colored 12 inch shorts, a brown belt, white socks and Keds. Also, I wore a shark-tooth choker length necklace as that was in fashion at the time.
Me sporting my “Collegiate” look. A gray hoodie with the word “Classic” in all red caps and some kind of crest and symbol trio below. Those pair nicely with denim shorts and a pair of birkenstock-style sandals-especially if worn in winter for some reason only my NT peers knew. Normal is whatever the majority wants.
I was further inspired by “Blossom” each Monday on NBC back in the early to mid 1990’s.
1993: This babydoll dress paired with a black choker with a silver flower and black cardigan is what I would considered “toned down” and still on theme. Blossom would approve.
I hope this post provides further insight as to social compromise as an autistic person or someone with some type of disability without compromising authenticity. Don’t blend in. Be you, but please be balanced in doing so.