Last month, my cousin passed away. Matt was 35 years old, two months younger than me. We both enjoyed cheering on the Boston sports teams, physical fitness, and trying different restaurants. On a deeper level, as we aged out of our twenties and into our thirties, we shared the experience of being “misfits” in a way. Neither of us was interested in getting married or having kids, as so many of our peers were doing, and we both changed jobs several times in a struggle to find suitable career paths. Matt was an amazing poker player, basketball player, and friend. He loved golf, trips to Encore, and his apartment in the Seaport. In the spring of 2021, Matt suddenly lost consciousness while walking down the street and was diagnosed with a brain tumor. He underwent various types of surgery, chemo, and radiation, all while living life to the fullest extent that his health situation would allow. All of these worked to slow the progression of the cancer, but it eventually returned. Matt enjoyed the company of family and friends, and retained his dry sense of humor, all the way till the end of his life.
While reminiscing about Matt’s life with family members, someone expressed what I consider to be a very meaningful sentiment: that people are not truly gone until and unless no one remembers them anymore. Matt touched many, many lives, as was evidenced by the droves of people who came to the funeral home and to the reception afterwards to pay their respects. I will never forget the moments that I spent with him, talking about the latest Sox or Celtics game, walking along the waterfront, joking, sharing meals and cocktails at local restaurants. And I’m sure this is true of the countless other family members, friends, co-workers, and acquaintances of Matt as well. In this way, Matt will live on in the hearts and minds of all the people whose lives he touched.
As I do with everything, I connected this to the historical figures that I love, and that have become the victims of an unimaginably cruel and heartless genocide. This sentiment is exactly why it is so important that historical figures be preserved in the form of statues, monuments, holidays, and place names. These things are what prevent the historical figures from being truly gone. These are the ways in which the historical figures live, long after they have physically died. And this sentiment is the reason why the genocide of the historical figures has been so deeply immoral, so sickeningly wrong, and so immensely damaging. By destroying historical figures’ statues, monuments, holidays, and place names, you are murdering them. You are preventing them from living on. You are obliterating them from existence as historical figures.
This is why honoring the historical figures, via writing, art, and erecting my own statues, is so important to me. This is why I’ve dedicated my life to these activities and why I consider them my source of meaning and purpose. Because these are the activities that keep the historical figures alive. Just like my cousin Matt, the historical figures will live on in my heart and in my mind.
The other day, my dad and I were in the waiting room of a doctor’s office, waiting for my mom to finish her appointment. The receptionist, in a rather mean and snippy tone of voice, was telling someone on the phone that they were “overdue” for their annual physical, and that they needed to come in so that the doctor could determine whether they were on an “appropriate” level of medication for their high blood pressure and diabetes.
This made me feel angry, even though this situation didn’t really have anything to do with me. I felt that the person’s right to bodily autonomy, their right to decline medical intervention, was being violated. No person should be told that they have to schedule a medical appointment on any particular time frame, or at all, for that matter. It’s their body, I thought to myself, and they should have the sole power to make decisions regarding it. I’m fortunate enough not to have any significant medical conditions. But what if I eventually get high blood pressure and/or diabetes when I get older? I wondered. Would I, like this patient, be told that I had to schedule a doctor’s appointment, whether I wanted to or not? Would my right to bodily autonomy, my right to decline medical intervention, be taken away? These are fundamental rights that should apply to everyone; they should not depend on being free of significant medical issues.
As I was thinking these angry thoughts, my dad started talking to me about a funny picture that he saw on his phone. I muttered a monosyllabic response, hoping that would be enough to end the exchange so that I could finish my thought process. But my dad kept talking, thereby drowning out the rest of the phone call.
Having two sources of auditory input at the same time – the paternalistic and authoritarian phone call plus my dad’s talking – made me feel so overstimulated that my brain physically hurt. I became sullen and non-responsive and was unable to explain to my dad (and later, my mom) why I was so upset. The feeling of physical pain in my brain lasted for hours.
Finally, I regained my ability to think coherently and was able to explain what had happened. And while mulling this topic over, I was reminded of other situations in which I’ve experienced sensory overstimulation.
Like most people on the autism spectrum, I have sensory sensitivities involving sounds and noises. But unlike most people on the autism spectrum, I don’t have any problem with crowded, busy places such as supermarkets, trains, buses, airports, or stadiums. In fact, I work in a grocery store that often becomes extremely crowded and busy, and this doesn’t bother me at all.
The thing about my sensory sensitivities is that when a sound is constant, it doesn’t bother me. A chaotic din, the buzzing of a crowd, a dull roar of noise, none of these things are any problem for me at all. It’s predictable, it’s consistent, and there’s nothing startling about it. What bothers me is sudden noises that come of out nowhere. A door slamming, a horn honking, a loud cough, a burst of laughter, or a dropped object clattering to the floor are just a few examples. These noises startle me and hurt my brain. They come out of nowhere, and I’m not expecting them.
I don’t have any problem with sirens, because they start out relatively quiet and gradually become louder as the fire truck or police car gets closer. But honking horns definitely have the potential to startle and anger me.
Bruins games, Celtics games, public events that draw huge crowds of people… none of these things faze me. But one of my biggest pet peeves while in college was the sound of a person suddenly coughing in a hushed lecture hall while the professor was speaking. And I still cringe when looking back on the excruciating mental pain that erupted in my brain when my parents started talking amongst themselves during the TV broadcast of the opening ceremony of the Olympics.
Despite not being bothered by the aforementioned noisy grocery store, I found myself frequently stressed out by noises back when I worked in an office. I was startled every time someone’s phone rang. Additionally, to my chagrin, something about the hinges of the doors made them predisposed to slam loudly, causing me to jump out of my skin every time someone closed the door of their office. I also found my co-workers’ conversations highly distracting. My brain couldn’t help but attempt to follow what was being said, making it impossible for me to concentrate on my work if anyone was talking anywhere in my vicinity.
During the years of my 9:00-5:00 office job, I commuted via the train, which was packed during both my morning and evening commutes. Being surrounded by hundreds of noisy, chattering people didn’t bother me at all. But now, my work shifts end at 10:00 pm, and during my commute home both the train station and the train itself are quiet and deserted. Somewhat ironically, I’ve noticed that on the rare occasion that there is a person or group making significant noise, it really irritates me. A group of teenagers joking around and roughhousing, a sudden peal of shrill laughter, a young woman calling out to her friend a few feet away. Even the noise of a wheeled briefcase rolling along the ground felt loud to me after a particularly tiring workday.
And continuing on the subject of my current job, I find that the most overstimulating part of the workday, in addition to the evening commute, is my break. The constant roar of noise in the store itself is perfectly fine… but you know what isn’t? The sound of the microwave door opening and closing, cupboard doors slamming, utensils clashing against plates, and people banging on the handle of the paper towel dispenser in the otherwise quiet break room.
It’s something about the unexpectedness of a sudden noise in an otherwise silent environment, that startles me and hurts my brain. And there’s something about people talking in the midst of an otherwise quiet space that makes their voices impossible for my brain to filter out. I think this is what was going on with the two conversations in the doctor’s waiting room. The space was silent except for the receptionist talking, and so when my dad began talking as well, I couldn’t filter the phone call out. The effort involved in having to process two sources of sound simultaneously caused my brain to crash. Whereas the dull roar of a crowded stadium, train, bus, or grocery store is something that I can tune out easily.
So that’s it. There’s nothing particularly profound about this post; I just wanted to share about my sensory sensitivities and how they’re similar to, and different from, other autistic people’s. If you’ve read all the way to the end of the post, I hope that you have found it interesting.
My entire body was vibrating with tension, frustration, and anger. My chest was tight, a lump was forming in my throat, and tears were forming in my eyes. I was enveloped by an omnipresent sense of time pressure. I felt as if I was being batted around like a ping pong ball, and my head was spinning. There was nowhere to pull over, to regroup, to get myself situated. Inundated with an endless stream of conflicting, contradictory instructions and demands, my brain felt like it was overflowing. “I am so stressed,” I muttered under my breath again and again, heaving one huge sigh after another, but no amount of deep breaths could reduce the level of stress that I felt.
Unfortunately, this is what both my December 23 (Christmas Eve Eve) and December 25 (Christmas) consisted of.
On the 23rd, the chaos was caused by a workday with lots of employees on duty, but not a lot of customers, causing the employees to seemingly spend the entire shift in the break room, talking loudly, causing commotion, and clustering around the free cookies that the boss had brought in for us. (Normally I would be overjoyed at the presence of free cookies, or any type of free food for that matter, but on that occasion the cookies resulted in nothing but chaos, and I didn’t even get to properly look at them and choose which kind to take, because there were so many people constantly crowding around them.)
On Christmas Day, the chaos was caused by a visit to my grandmother at her assisted living place, during which I decided to use the public bathroom down the hall, both because I prefer public bathrooms to those in people’s homes, and because I wanted a chance to get up and walk around. Upon returning, my grandmother and dad looked up expectantly at me, as if I had just beamed down from Mars, and proceeded to interrogate me about where I had gone and why. This is something that if I hadn’t been feeling tired and frustrated to begin with, may have made me only mildly annoyed, but on this occasion it made me feel self-conscious, embarrassed, and humiliated. I was, alas, tired and frustrated because the visit had already lasted longer than I was expecting, and I was well behind schedule on the various tasks I wanted to get done that day.
That being said, I had good days on December 24 (Christmas Eve) and December 26. Overall, I was able to do a variety of festive activities that I enjoyed throughout the season.
On Christmas Eve, the store where I work closed early, so my shift was moved up earlier in the day. Most of my co-workers had the day off, creating a low-key vibe that stood in sharp contrast to the day before. There were a few free snacks in the break room, and I was actually able to enjoy them because there was no chaotic commotion this time. And after work, I had dinner at an Italian restaurant nearby.
On Christmas Day, despite the bathroom snafu, I was happy with the gifts that I got. These included an American Girl doll named Summer McKinny, a tiny Napoleon and his horse Marengo, a tiny Queen Elizabeth II with her corgis, and a tiny Confederate soldier with his dog. (Can you see a theme developing here? Summer did not come with a pet, but she is an animal lover, and she has a dog-shaped purse, which you can kind of see in the picture.)
The day after Christmas, I had a relaxing day working on my hobbies. I also visited this house with a ridiculous amount of Christmas lights in Saugus, Massachusetts.
(more photos of the house and neighboring ones can be found here)
A few other things that I did over the course of the holiday season included taking advantage of Cyber Monday sales to gift my dolls with a plethora of new outfits:
Visiting Christopher Columbus, getting a coffee at Caffe Dello Sport, and strolling through the North End:
The little gnome, ornaments, teddy bear, and Gadsden flag wind sock are all from Confederate Shop. This is a wonderful, family-owned business that I highly recommend to anyone who loves Confederate stuff like I do.
Visiting my town’s Christmas tree at the pond near my house:
Baking a chocolate peppermint loaf cake:
By far the best part of my holiday season was decorating the statues – Robert E. Lee, Nathan Bedford Forrest, and Stonewall Jackson. I got a Christmas tree for them, put it up, and strung it with lights. I put festive bells around their necks (a bow for Nathan, because he’s the only one whose neck is skinny enough to tie the bow around) and Santa hats on their heads! My dad had the idea of piling pine boughs at their feet for an added festive touch. There are no words that can capture the warm and fuzzy feeling that filled my soul upon seeing them.
Visiting the little generals every night upon getting home from work brought joy to my heart. Seeing them with their adorable Santa hats, smelling the piney scent of the tree and boughs, and watching the colorful lights twinkle, truly made me feel the spirit of Christmas.
The good kind of tiredness is what you feel after working hard. The work can be physical or mental. For example, I might feel physically tired after spending hours moving heavy boxes and putting the contents onto shelves at the grocery store where I work. Doing this work requires effort and uses up energy, but the work is meaningful to me because I am accomplishing something concrete that needs to be done. I might feel mentally tired after watching a big horse race, a figure skating competition, or even a movie or show that I find interesting. For me, processing and remembering what I am watching requires a lot of mental effort. But if it’s a sport or a show that I care about, then the effort is worth it. The good kind of tiredness is the tiredness of a job well done. It’s the tiredness that you feel after working hard on projects that you welcome, projects that you feel engaged with, projects that you chose.
Then there’s the bad kind of tiredness. It’s an angry, nasty, irritable kind of tiredness. It’s the tiredness that comes not from working hard, but from chaos, overstimulation, and frustration. It’s the tiredness that comes from things not going as planned, routines being disrupted, unexpected problems arising, people doing things they’re not supposed to do. It comes from being blocked, due to circumstances outside of your control, from doing things according to your usual steps and routines. Your plan A gets messed up, so you have to scramble to come up with a plan B, and sometimes, if that gets messed up too, a plan C.
For example, I’m trying to explain something, but I keep getting interrupted, the listener inserting their own thoughts before I’ve had a chance to fully voice mine. Or the language-learning app that I am using to learn Italian keeps marking my answers wrong for reasons I don’t understand, causing my lesson to be abruptly terminated because I’ve run out of “hearts” for the day. Or maybe my dad asks me to help fold laundry, but before I have a chance to do so, my mom has already done it. Or perhaps I’m looking forward to eating the small pieces of chips that are left at the bottom of the bag, but before I can do so, someone has thrown the bag into the trash. Or I need to get something out of my locker, but someone else is using the locker directly above mine, and I have to wait for them to move, causing me to be late for my next assignment. Or I need to use the bathroom, but someone is in the bathroom, so I decide to go to the sink to fill up my water bottle while I wait, but someone is using the sink so I can’t do that either (and then, if I’m really unlucky, someone beats me to the bathroom while I’m waiting at the sink!). Or I am stocking the meat department, take a box of steaks off of my cart, and am forced to wait idle as customers stand in front of the steak section examining the various options and talking among themselves for what seems like hours on end.
None of these things is a big deal in itself, and it might even seem silly for me to complain about them. But these are the types of things that, for someone on the autism spectrum like me, can quickly add up into a mountain of stress and mental exhaustion. In other words: the bad type of tiredness.
With this type of tiredness, there’s no satisfaction, no pride, no sense of a job well done. Only frustration. It’s a feeling of tightness in my chest, tense muscles, a lump in my throat, and heaviness throughout my entire body, which no amount of huge, exasperated sighs can shake. It’s the type of tiredness that causes me to go to bed without brushing and flossing my teeth, because I simply do not have the energy to do so (sorry if that is TMI). Or worse, to stay up until 2:00 or 3:00 in the morning because I don’t even have the energy to get up from the couch and go to bed. Pardon my French, but the bad kind of tiredness is, in short, when one feels like crap.
Unfortunately, I’ve been having a lot of the bad kind of tiredness lately. It started around mid-December and continues into 2025. As a result, I haven’t had the energy to blog as much as I’d like. (I’m sure I sound like a broken record when it comes to this subject.) However, the holiday season wasn’t entirely negative. I hope to soon have the energy to make a post with more details and photos of my holiday season.
Being a statue, he can’t exactly change his facial expression to reflect what he’s feeling. And I’m well aware that most people would say that he isn’t capable of feeling anything at all. But as someone who loves statues more than anything else in the world, and statues of Columbus in particular, I believe in the idea that a statue can feel happiness. Call me crazy, but I believe that on some level, Christopher Columbus knows about the election result and is pleased with it.
As mentioned above, I decided to visit Christopher today. I had been in a dark and negative headspace regarding his situation, as detailed in this blog post. But with the hope and lightness that the election result brought, I was in the mood to make another trip into the North End to see my favorite statue.
And I’m glad that I did so.
Before even boarding the train, I was beginning to regret my decision. It was one of those days that is relatively warm, but extremely windy. As an autistic person, this severely bothers my sensory sensitivities. Within the first few minutes of waiting on the train platform, I was frozen to the bone and in agony. I was wearing a light sweater due to the fact that the temperature (according to the weather app, at least) was 67 degrees, but I was soon wishing that I had worn a down parka and ski mask. After what felt like an eternity, the train arrived, but it apparently didn’t pull into the station correctly and had to back up a couple of feet, costing additional minutes. Finally, I was able to board the train and therefore to get a reprieve from the ice-cold wind.
Once in Boston, my way was blocked numerous times: by people plodding along the narrow sidewalk, by a chaotic intersection at which a truck was trying to turn but none of the cars would allow it to, and by a gaggle of tourists hanging out near the entrance to the Peace Garden of St. Leonard’s Church.
But once I stepped through the gate of Chris’s new home, the Peace Garden lived up to its name. Gentle music wafted through the air. The biting cold wind ceased. A wide brick path led through the garden, with a delicate-looking fence and elegant lanterns on either side, toward the entrance of the church. To my left were two statues: one of Jesus on the cross and the other of Mother Mary with children gathered around her. To my right were four statues: one of a saint with his arms raised in the air, one of a kindly-looking man surrounded by children, a gold-colored fellow with outstretched arms, and Chris. He stood tall with arms crossed over his chest, as always. Beautiful rosebushes had been planted around his pedestal. The trees cast shadows across his marble face, and their golden leaves drifted softly down to blanket the grass. The sun’s rays cast a warm glow over the peaceful scene.
A few people trickled into the church for a mass that was starting soon, but for the most part, the garden was deserted, allowing me to spend a few minutes with Chris undisturbed. I didn’t actually talk to him, because that would’ve made me look completely insane, but I admired him, took some photos, and sent my thoughts to him telepathically. (I guess that sounds kind of insane too, now that I think about it.)
Hi Chris, I greeted him. It’s me, Marissa. Do you remember me? I came back, like I promised I would. No matter where you go, I will always find you. I will always come back. I will never forget about you. Are you happy in this place? You look nice here. It is peaceful and beautiful. Did you hear the news? Do you feel happy about it?
As crazy as it sounds, I knew that he did remember me, and that he was happy, about both his home and the election results.
Once I had assured myself of this, I took a closer look at the church building itself, a mosaic displaying the names of its benefactors, and a new sculpture called the Noble Journey, which shows footprints of various sizes representing immigrants coming to America. And then I turned and walked slowly back down the brick path and into the bustling, congested streets of the North End.
Bye Chris, I thought as I looked back over my shoulder. I’ll be back. Until next time…
Here are some pictures that I took of Chris, his friends, some other things in the Peace Garden, and a couple of other miscellaneous pieces of public art in Boston:
You can view all of my pictures of Chris at St. Leonard’s here. This album also includes the pictures that I took when I visited him for the first time there in September, which I wasn’t in the right headspace to post about at the time.
This is the first time in my life that I have voted for a presidential candidate who won. In 2008, the first year I was eligible to vote, I voted for libertarian candidate Bob Barr. In 2012, I voted for libertarian candidate Ron Paul. In 2016, I voted for libertarian candidate Gary Johnson. I was happy that Trump won, and definitely preferred him to Hillary Clinton, but due to the fact that all of Massachusetts’s electoral votes are basically guaranteed to always go to the democratic candidate, I continued my tradition of voting third party. In 2020, I voted for Trump, and he lost. In 2024, I voted for Trump and – it feels both strange and amazing to type these words – he won.
It is a beautiful day. Things feel lighter, more hopeful. I feel that I can breathe again. A noose is no longer tightening around my throat, the heavy boot of tyranny no longer stomping on my face. For four years, I never thought that this result would happen. To some extent, it feels magical, unreal, almost like a dream. Part of me feels that any moment I will wake up, and this beautiful reality will be shattered.
I am proud of my country today. For four years, the sight of the American flag, the sound of patriotic music, and the mention of the Fourth of July made me feel more pain than pride. For me, these things signified the country that had elected a government determined to force people to undergo a medical procedure against their will and to destroy everything that makes life worth living. But now I feel much more positively towards America. Self-righteous bullies have spent four years pompously lecturing about “our democracy,” but now the very democracy that they’ve spent all this time worshipping and fetishizing has elected Donald Trump! Perhaps this country, this democracy, isn’t so bad after all.
I admit that Trump is not perfect. He almost certainly does not care about statues with the same intensity as I do, or in the same way that I do. He cannot fully reverse the atrocities that have been committed against historical figures, and by extension against myself. He may not even partially reverse them. But for today at least, it feels like a healing balm has been smoothed over my wounds. This election result is the most significant good thing that has happened in a very long time. It does not undo the pain, anguish, and trauma that I’ve experienced over the past four years. But it helps. It really helps.
Four years ago, at this exact time of year, was the rock bottom of my life. Everything that made my life worth living had been destroyed, the historical figures that I love having been lynched, smashed to pieces, set on fire, beheaded, strangled, and drowned with complete impunity, and the people who committed these atrocities perceived as holding the moral high ground in the eyes of society. And by electing Joe Biden rather than Donald Trump, our country confirmed that they didn’t care about my pain, didn’t care about my perspective, didn’t care about the historical figures’ right to exist. Our country’s response to my pain was to inflict even more of it. Our country’s response to my (metaphorical) gaping, bleeding wounds was to rub salt in them. Seeing other people’s joy, exuberance, celebrations, and gloating, after the excruciating agony that I had experienced over the preceding months, was nothing short of soul-crushing.
Now, the situation is reversed. It’s the mirror image of that horrible time four years ago. I never thought that such a thing would happen, and I hesitate to type these words for fear that I will somehow jinx it. But the people who gloated so cruelly and gratuitously four years ago, who fell all over each other in their eagerness to shove their spiteful celebrations down my throat, lost. I won, and it is now my turn to gloat. Part of me wants to do exactly that. The people who hurt me deserve to be punished for their actions. Retribution, revenge, justice… these words are all synonyms to me, and all are completely justified in this situation. But another part of me sees the merits of what is commonly referred to as “taking the high road.” If I gloat as nastily as my enemies did, then that makes me like them, at least a little bit. Part of me feels that the people who caused my pain deserve to experience the same pain in return, while part of me feels that no person deserves to experience pain so horrific.
Regardless, I am happy today. I intend to savor this feeling, to soak it in, to enjoy it for as long as I can. For the past four and a half years, positive experiences have been hard to come by for me. This is a big and important one, which I truly appreciate.
In an Instagram post which you can view here or below, Breitbart News described Trump’s victory as “indisputably the greatest political comeback in American history,” and I can’t help but agree. Trump is only the second president, after Grover Cleveland, to win two non-consecutive terms, and as the post mentions, he overcame “multiple prosecutions; two assassination attempts; censorship on social media; overt media bias; and even efforts to intimidate his lawyers.”
Breitbart’s mention of overt media bias is no exaggeration. Starting with their coverage of the capitol protest on January 6, 2021, the news media has completely given up on even pretending to be neutral. Their coverage of that protest was appalling, disgraceful, literally sickening, beyond unprofessional, and absolutely shocking to the conscience. Nearly 100% of their political coverage over the ensuing four years has fit those descriptions as well. Any semblance of neutrality, or professionalism for that matter, has completely vanished. Prior to 2020, the news media certainly had a progressive bias, but at least it was covert. Now their bigotry, their closed-mindedness, their utter contempt for anyone who deviates from their totalitarian social norms, is naked, blatant, and on full display. I have been hurt, enraged, and traumatized dozens if not hundreds of times over the past four years thanks to the news media, and this is despite making the decision to almost entirely cease news consumption due to finding it so hurtful, enraging, and traumatizing. Every time I so much as glimpse a biased headline, I am reminded painfully of the fact that news consumption, previously an enjoyable and interesting way to gain information, has devolved into just another way for society to torment me by expressing its rejection and hatred.
Which brings me to the most amazing and remarkable thing about this election result: for possibly the first time in my life, the people who hurt me didn’t get what they wanted, and I did. The gloating “friends,” acquaintances, family members, and strangers on social media. The mindless conformists who displayed Harris/Walz signs on their lawns in order to remind me every time I walk down the street that they support the lynching of the man that I love. Democratic politicians, activists, and government officials determined to eradicate every last shred of diversity and individual liberty from the earth. Their despicable accomplices in the aforementioned news media, who have traumatized me dozens if not hundreds of times. Bullying prosecutors. Orwellian social media executives. Wannabee assassins. All of these people lost. And I won. That’s something that has never happened to me before, and I am in awe of it.
One final observation about Trump’s victory is that it provides a bit of justice, even if only small, for the historical figures. Particularly the statue of Christopher Columbus who stood at the Minnesota state capitol until being lynched by a mob of bigoted bullies in summer 2020. Perhaps statues weren’t in the forefront of voters’ minds when they cast their ballots, but rather overshadowed by more mundane issues such as inflation, social security, immigration, and the economy. Regardless, the man who chose to allow this lynching to happen, and later to characterize it as an understandable act of civil disobedience, lost his bid to become vice president. So today I am thinking about Christopher Columbus of St. Paul, Minnesota. Nothing can undo the atrocity that was done to him, but today brings him a quantum of justice. He, and what was done to him, must never, ever be forgotten.
You used to be mine. Obviously, not in a literal sense, and not in a legal sense. But I always thought of you as mine. My own special statue.
You stood in the park, on your awkwardly large pedestal, looking out over the sloping green lawn and the colorful flower beds. You were the perfect centerpiece, nestled between two leafy trellises. Boats bobbed gently in the ocean behind you, its glittering blue surface stretching towards the horizon. No one really seemed to notice or care about you. Tourists didn’t snap photos, businesspeople walked briskly past, children frolicked in the park but never seemed to glance your way. But I noticed you. Your existence meant everything to me.
I remember the first time I saw you. It was a warm, summer night in 2009, and I was volunteering at a political event at a restaurant called Tia’s. From the patio, I saw you, lit up beautifully in the fading light of dusk. I was surprised to see you. Until that moment, I had no idea that you existed. I had been taught in elementary school that you were evil and horrible, and I was surprised that any public place would have a statue of you, let alone a city with such a liberal reputation as Boston. Your existence meant that Boston was a place for me. It meant that people like me – people who are unpopular, rejected, misunderstood, different from the norm – were welcome there. I had never really identified much with the city or state that I am from, but from that day on I was proud to be from Boston. From that day on, I became interested in exploring Boston and photographing its neighborhoods and landmarks. From that day on, you were mine.
Years passed, and I visited you numerous times during my travels. I graduated from college and switched jobs a few times, eventually landing at a law firm that was just a short walk from your park. I went to visit you nearly every day during that time. I looked forward to my lunchtime walks, which took me along a gravel path, past tulips and sunflowers, up a short flight of stairs, and under the trellis to where you stood on your pedestal. Every time I walked past you, you made me smile. When I had a stressful day at work, you lifted my spirits. Sometimes, seeing you was the only positive thing in my day. Some people might have been put off by your serious expression, your arms crossed sternly over your chest. But I found you beautiful. You were different from all the other statues in Boston. You were like me.
I didn’t think about how you came to be in the park that bore your name. I didn’t think about who made you, or when, or how the money was raised to do so. I didn’t think about who legally owned you, whose property you were, or who was responsible for your protection or maintenance.
I loved you.
Every day, you were there, surveying the park from your marble pedestal at the intersection of the two trellises.
I thought that you would always be there.
Photo titled “Standing Vigil” by Nate Dow. To me, this photo perfectly encapsulates the way that things used to be, the way that things are supposed to be. This is Christopher in his rightful place. I wish that I had taken a photo like this of Christopher, but he was murdered before I had the chance. Link: https://www.flickr.com/photos/natedow/49782524371/
June 10, 2020 changed all that. Four and a half years later, I am overcome by grief and rage so strong that my soul feels like it is being eviscerated, when I think about what happened on that date. I remember where I was when I found out. I was working from home, in my living room, and decided to turn on the 4:00 local news. What I saw on the TV screen caused a sickening feeling like nothing that I had ever felt before, and which words still cannot full describe. That day changed me irrevocably. The Marissa that existed before June 10, 2020 is dead. The bigot who ripped your head off your shoulders and smashed it on the ground killed her, just as much as he killed you.
The mayor issued a bland, lukewarm statement. The police department made a perfunctory promise to investigate the crime, but no leads ever turned up. The Friends of Christopher Columbus Park, the organization that was supposed to take care of you, took no position on your murder and instead continued to post pictures of flowers, kids’ activities, and pumpkin festivals, as if you had never existed. The Boston Arts Commission held hearings at which, voice shaky and hands trembling, I testified, desperate to be heard, desperate to convey how much you meant to me. In what would be a sign of things to come, my voice didn’t matter. The city announced that they would give you to the Knights of Columbus, to be displayed at their new headquarters, which would also serve as low-income housing. Events continued to be held in the park, street musicians strummed their guitars, people took part in outdoor yoga and zumba classes, workers strode briskly through as if nothing had changed, children played tag around your pitiful empty pedestal, seemingly oblivious to its tragic significance.
I learned things about you that I hadn’t known before, researching every fact and compiling every bit of information that I could, as if that would somehow enable me to make sense of what had happened. I learned that you had been created by a sculptor named Andrew J. Mazzola, out of marble from Carrara, Italy. You were commissioned by an organization called the Friends of Christopher Columbus Committee and then donated to the city of Boston, which placed you under the jurisdiction of the Boston Arts Commission. Numerous citizens and businesses of the North End had contributed money for your creation. On October 21, 1979, you were unveiled in the beautiful park on the waterfront, at a ceremony that was attended by Mayor Kevin White, Governor John Volpe, and various dignitaries.
Now, thanks to the bigot who destroyed my world on June 10, 2020, the thought of that park, with its stately trellises, its colorful flowers, and its sunny waterfront, makes me sick to my stomach. Now, I have no pride in being from Boston, no interest in its history or culture, and almost no interest in its sports teams. It’s difficult for me to bring myself to take the train into the city that I used to love. I quit my job at the law firm, in large part due to what happened to you. It was too difficult to continue on as if nothing was wrong, surrounded by so many painful associations and reminders.
Is that what they wanted? Was that the goal of this despicable action? To destroy the life of an autistic person by taking away the one thing that made me feel represented and included? To inflict indescribable, excruciating pain on a person who did nothing but try to get through each day as best as she could? To make me feel like the entire world hates me, and like I would be better off dead? Because that’s what was accomplished. By physically ripping you to pieces and obliterating you from the park that is your rightful home, the bigot psychologically and spiritually ripped me to pieces as well. I don’t call that social justice. I don’t call it diversity, I don’t call it equity, and I certainly don’t call it inclusion.
Three years later, you rose from the dead. Your head was somehow reattached to your shoulders, and you materialized in the parking lot of the new Knights of Columbus building. I visited you a couple of times, talked to you, left you flowers and a note. I saw the cracks in your neck and near your hairline. I marveled at your resilience and strength, and at the skill of the sculptors who put you back together. Just as I was starting to heal, to feel somewhat okay about your new location, you moved again, this time to the Peace Garden at St. Leonard’s Church. Apparently, the leaders of the Italian American and North End communities had gotten together and arranged for the Knights to gift you to the church. In late summer, I visited you in your new home, but I haven’t been able to bring myself to post the pictures.
The consensus among the Italian American community is that the Peace Garden is a better location than the parking lot. And logically, I see the good points about your new home. I want to like it. I want, more than anything in the world, to be able to feel that your story has a happy ending. But I don’t like it. And this resolution doesn’t make me happy.
You used to be mine. And now you aren’t.
Before 2020, I had never really thought about the fact that you were owned by the City of Boston and maintained jointly by the city and the Friends of Christopher Columbus Park. When I contacted the Friends to voice my hurt at your murder and their neutrality regarding it, they defended the security measures that they had taken but refused to apologize for “focusing on the positive.” I felt like a fool, a weirdo, for being so emotionally invested in what I realized was a piece of stone owned by someone else. If the organization tasked with protecting you isn’t upset about your destruction, I asked myself, then why am I so devastated? As you’ve come into the ownership of the Knights and then the church, I’ve experienced similar sentiments. I question myself and my feelings. I wonder if by loving you so much, I’m somehow sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong. I wonder if I am the equivalent of a stalker, obsessively focused on a celebrity who doesn’t even know they exist. Community leaders worked out a deal for your transfer, coordinated the logistics, and announced it to the public once you were already in your new home. I wasn’t privy to this process, and logically I see that I would have no right to be. But somehow the fact that your fate is up to others, and that numerous people are far more involved with you than I will ever be, feels like a knife twisting in my chest.
Things were more straightforward back when you were in the park, where you are meant to be. You were simply mine. I didn’t need to think about any of these things, to feel left out, to feel like a stalker. But now, the innocence is gone. Now I realize that you were never really mine at all.
Perhaps a day will come when I will be able to appreciate the fact that you rose from the ashes, that you endure, albeit with some additional scars that you didn’t have previously. Perhaps a day will come when I will be thankful that you are in the heart of the North End, with flowers planted around you, cared for by people who like and respect you. I’ll be thankful that I can visit you easily, that your location is highly visible but still secure behind a metal fence. Perhaps I’ll appreciate the fact that, as a devout Catholic, you’d likely be flattered to be among a statue garden of saints. Perhaps I’ll be happy that you are happy in your new location, and entertain the idea that you might even prefer it to the old one. Perhaps I’ll be amused by the idea of you hanging out with your new friends. Perhaps I’ll even contact the church office, talk with them, and try to become involved in the church.
But today is not that day. Right now, all I feel is sadness. The thought of you in the Peace Garden, surrounded by your saintly friends, brings nothing but stabbing pain. Now, all I want is for things to go back to the way they were before. I know that this is impossible, and I know that there is no practical utility in feeling this way, but it is the way that I feel, and my brain just can’t move past it. All I want is for things to be the way that they are the picture above. The picture depicts you the way that you are supposed to be. And right now, for me, nothing else is acceptable.
You used to be mine. And now, thanks to the actions of a heartless and soulless bigot, completely lacking in empathy for anyone other than himself, everything is ruined.
The past few blog posts have been pretty negative. It is true that the past few months have not been a great time for me, with numerous setbacks and challenges that have exacerbated my autistic burnout and landed me in a negative headspace. However, things have not been 100% negative, so I wanted to take a break from the negativity and share some things that have brought a smile to my face:
This entertainment column in a local newspaper (called “Aldo, The One on One”) specifically mentioned Columbus Day and Christopher Columbus himself.
I wore this t-shirt to a community event, featuring a drawing of Christopher Columbus that I made. I knew from looking at the schedule for the event that there was going to be a “Land Acknowledgement,” something that I find both hurtful and potentially able to trigger a PTSD attack thanks to its connection with the ideology that is responsible for the traumatizing events involving statues. Because of this, I considered not going at all. But I ultimately decided to go, while wearing this t-shirt as a statement that Christopher’s life matters, and mine does as well.
After my co-workers caused a PTSD attack by calling Columbus Day, “Indigenous Peoples’ Day” (as explained in this blog post), I decided to wear a Columbus-themed pin the next two days, leading up to Columbus Day. I am not entirely sure what my company’s policy is regarding such pins, but I figured that it would be okay given that a handful of co-workers wear Palestine pins at work. Plus, many co-workers wear jewelry, headbands, and hair accessories in celebration of Halloween, Christmas, Valentine’s, Easter, the Fourth of July, and St. Patrick’s Day, and Columbus Day is a holiday just as those are. Ultimately, no one gave me a hard time. That could just be because the pin was too small for anyone to be able to see what it was, but I at least felt that I was making a statement in defense of Columbus.
Also on the Columbus theme, I took baby Christopher Columbus out of his display cabinet and did a photoshoot with him.
My American Girl dolls decided to organize a little get-together to celebrate Columbus Day.
After numerous weeks of lacking the time and energy to do so, I was able to take photos of the beautiful fall leaves, after all. These, for example, were spotted at a local park where I volunteered at an event with my local Republican committee:
I don’t have a photo for this next one, but things are looking up, for the moment at least, with my special interest in sports. The winter sports season has started, and the amount of coverage that NBC and its networks are showing appears to actually be manageable (knock on wood). I am currently caught up on figure skating, am almost caught up on horse racing, and am looking forward to the Breeders’ Cup, which is starting today. And miraculously, I have begun the laborious process of going through my backlog of Olympics recordings, something that until recently, made me nauseous to even think about doing. I watched the very beginning of the equestrian and swimming competitions, both of which involved an officiant ceremonially pounding the ground with a staff to signify the official opening of the venues. Even when watching the events three months later, it was beautiful to see the sun shining through the fog in the background of the early morning dressage competition at the Palace of Versailles.
On a different note, I came across these Trump stickers at the parking garage near my work:
Additionally, I finally got a Trump sign, which my little statues wanted to pose with:
Last but not least, my “Mini Lee” arrived at my house! This is a tiny replica of the Charlottesville statue of Robert E. Lee that was sickeningly destroyed. As you can see, I showed him to the bigger statues, and they think he is pretty cool. These are being sold by Monuments Across Dixie to raise money for a full-size recreation of the statue at a location to be determined. If you are interested in getting your own Mini Lee, more info can be found here.
The world often feels like it is trying to make it impossible for me to have a life that is worth living. But I will continue to fight for such a life, one small glimmer of hope at a time.
Lately, I have been finding it difficult to go on.
I have been thinking about the idea that everyone has the right to their own perspective, their own viewpoint, their own feelings, their own emotions. Some people would argue that it makes no sense to say that a person’s feelings are wrong, or that someone has no right to feel angry or upset at a situation. According to this way of thinking, if a person is angry or upset at a situation, then they automatically have a right to feel that way, because that is the way that they feel. As a believer in objective moral truth, I am skeptical of this idea. I believe that if something is objectively not bad, then no one has the right to criticize it or feel any negative emotions about it, because to do so is to punish someone who has done nothing wrong.
But I digress. Regardless of which side is right in this philosophical debate, what has bothered me so much about the events of the past four and a half years is that people have not merely felt, or voiced, negative emotions about the historical figures that I love. They have enacted those feelings in ways that have involved the physical destruction of the historical figures. And regardless of one’s feelings about the historical figures that I love, regardless of what one thinks about their merit as historical figures, everyone should agree that physically eradicating historical figures from the earth is wrong. Everyone should agree that disliking someone does not give you the right to murder them.
Yet everyone, clearly, does not agree with this.
I’ve had to watch, through pictures, videos, news reports, and social media posts, the man that I love be strangled, lynched, beheaded, smashed to pieces, drowned, burned. I have had absolutely no power to stop this, to prevent it, to reverse it, to gain any sort of compensation or restitution for that harm that has been done to me. I don’t even have the power to voice my pain and be heard. Because no matter how hard I try, no matter many different ways of explaining I attempt, society refuses to recognize that any harm has been done to me at all. Whenever I try to express my viewpoint, to voice my grief and anger, to present any sort of argument for why what happened was wrong, I am met with insults and ridicule. People call me a racist, an idiot, a moron, say that I should be barred from public spaces, laugh in my face using Facebook’s hideous “laughing face” reaction. When I contact public officials, I am either ignored entirely, or lectured about how I am wrong, and how the murder of the man that I love was a good thing, and how I need to have more empathy for others and to educate myself about the harm caused. The fact that harm was caused to me by the murder of the man that I love is denied and disregarded. The idea of others actually having empathy for me is not even acknowledged as a possibility.
This is why I’m outraged upon coming across the following quote from Tim Walz: “How is it fair that you’re paying your taxes every year, and Donald Trump hasn’t paid any federal tax in the last 15 years?”
Walz’s sentiments are so lacking in empathy that it’s appalling.
After being forced to watch the man that I love be strangled, lynched, beheaded, smashed to pieces, drowned, and burned, dozens upon dozens of times, I don’t care a whit about how much tax money Donald Trump pays. What I care about is the man that I love, and the fact that he was murdered.
Tim Walz, in fact, made a deliberate decision to allow the man I love to be murdered. Tim Walz knew that a group of bigots and bullies were planning to lynch Christopher Columbus at the state capitol building in St. Paul, Minnesota on a particular day and at a particular time. And he ordered the state police to stand down, to do nothing, to make no attempt to stop the lynching. So the man that I love was lynched, brutally and excruciatingly, on the steps of the state capitol, as dozens of cops stood and watched. The images of the noose being tied around his neck, his metal body crashing to the ground, a bigot named Mike Forcia standing on Christopher’s pedestal and thrusting his arms into the air in sickening triumph, mindless bigots posing with their knees on Christopher’s neck as he lay pitifully face down on the ground, a line of cops standing at attention and doing absolutely nothing as these horrifying events took place, are indelibly seared into my mind. The excruciating agony will be with me forever. It burns my consciousness and torments my soul as I type this sentence.
But to Tim Walz, the lynching of the man that I love does not matter. It is not important, not a problem, not worth doing anything about. Tim Walz thinks that the amount of taxes paid by Donald Trump is more important than Christopher’s life, more important than the soul-crushing trauma and pain that I’ve been subjected to.
Lately, my mood has been low and down, my soul feels crushed, and everything feels heavy. For four and a half years I’ve lived with trauma that never goes away, that contaminates nearly every person, organization, place, and activity, that eats at my mind when I’m trying to fall asleep, that erupts into a volcano of anguish at the smallest reminder. And no one cares. Society thinks that the problem is me, that the man I love deserved to be murdered, that I am racist and bad for loving him, and that I need to change so that I’m not as upset about the fact that he was murdered. It’s difficult to imagine a path forward, a life that could be meaningful, given these circumstances.
Meanwhile, the people who lynched the man that I love have faced no negative consequences at all. Their needs are being met, just as they always have been. They haven’t suffered trauma. They are told that they are perfectly fine the way they are (righteous and honorable even, depending on who you ask), that they don’t need to change. They are able to live their lives, spend time with friends and family, love their romantic partners, raise their children, engage in their hobbies, and voice their views without criticism, without insults, without laughing face emojis. Tim Walz is able to campaign for Vice President of the United States with his wife and children by his side, participate in debates, speeches, and interviews on meaningless issues, and almost entirely avoid any accountability for his decision to facilitate the lynching of the man that I love.
In the eyes of society, the people who hurt me, the people who murdered the man that I love, hold the moral high ground. In the eyes of society, I am condemned as shameful, disgusting, and morally bad for having been hurt, and the man I love is ridiculed for having been murdered.
In other words, the person who has done nothing wrong in this situation bears 100% of the negative consequences, and the people who have done something wrong, by causing the horrible situation, bear 0% of the consequences.
Today, my heart hurts. I feel exhausted, drained, and demoralized. I feel weak and tired, my brain feels dull, foggy, and slow, and my body feels heavy.
I have not been blogging as much as I would like. For the entire month of September, I did not blog at all, and so far in October, I have done so only sporadically. This is beyond frustrating, because there are so many thoughts in my brain that I want and need to express. But I can’t. I simply do not have the time, or the energy. Things have not been going well for me. I have been experiencing autistic burnout for four and a half years, and for the past two and a half months it has been particularly severe.
The Olympics marked the beginning of this bad stretch of time. Sports have traditionally been one of my biggest special interests, so this was something that I had been eagerly anticipating. But NBC’s coverage decisions meant that I was unable to watch all of the coverage that I needed to. There was simply too much of it. And so what I thought would be both a challenging and exciting experience turned into a nightmare of overstimulation, information overload, mental exhaustion, and sleep deprivation. I managed to alter my goals and mindset regarding the Olympics, allowing me to endure the experience. This was extremely difficult for me as an autistic person, and is something that I am proud of myself for doing. But being proud of oneself for accomplishing something is not the same as having a positive experience. The Olympics turned out to be something that I needed to endure, rather than something enjoyable and rewarding. And that is not great, to put it mildly. Not only was I subjected to an inordinate amount of stress and exhaustion, but I was denied the rewarding experience that I was picturing and expecting.
Also starting around this time, I began to feel vaguely physically unwell, which continues to this day. I have been suffering from a runny and stuffy nose, sore and scratchy throat, cough, itchy and watery eyes, headaches, earaches, and low-grade fevers. These symptoms come and go, waning and giving me hope that they will finally be gone, only come roaring back the following day. These symptoms haven’t reached a level of severity that would cause me to miss work or cancel any activities that I had committed to, but they have caused me to be constantly miserable. It has really taken a toll on my mental health and quality of life.
Throughout August and September, I also had an inordinate amount of difficult interpersonal situations put onto my plate to deal with. Texts and messages that I didn’t know how to respond to, uncomfortable phone calls that I had to make, requests for social get-togethers that I knew I wouldn’t be able to do but that were excruciatingly painful to say no to. I have made the decision to quit socializing, because friendships simply don’t work for me given my autism and history of trauma involving interpersonal situations. But people continue to ask me to socialize with them, and every time they do, the wound is ripped open and I essentially am forced to make the painful decision to quit socializing anew. These situations have been emotionally exhausting and have used up a lot of mental resources.
Because of my overall level of exhaustion, I have been sleeping very late, even when I go to bed relatively early. As a result, I essentially don’t have time to do anything other than getting ready for work, and working. I don’t have time to take walks, I don’t have time to run errands, and I don’t have time for writing. Such an enormous amount of time is spent sleeping, that there is no time for anything else. Despite this, I wake up exhausted, and it is painful to wrench myself out of bed. In other words, even this enormous amount of time spent sleeping is not enough. Most likely, no amount of sleep would be enough to make me feel refreshed and well-rested. Normally, I enjoy walking around the pond near my house, in the woods, and in the center of town, looking at the beautiful fall foliage and photographing it. But I haven’t really had time to do this. The fall season is passing me by, and I’m not able to enjoy or experience it in any meaningful sense. This is a depressing way to live. In fact, I would argue that it does not quality as truly living, but merely as existing.
I’ve also had numerous workdays get screwed up. My work is usually a source of stability and routine. I can focus on something concrete, such as ringing up customers’ groceries at the cash register, bagging the groceries, collecting shopping carts in the parking lot, or stocking groceries in a section of the store. But I’ve been subjected to various instances that have turned my job into a source of dysregulation and chaos. On multiple occasions, I’ve been trapped with slow-walking and talkative co-workers during the commute home, causing me to miss the train and preventing me from doing Italian lessons on my phone. One night, the staff was asked to stay an hour late (not a problem in itself) and a co-worker pressured me into getting a ride home with another co-worker rather than taking the train as I usually do (apparently thinking, for some reason, that the fact that it was an hour later made it unsafe to take the train). Another night, the manager didn’t give clear instructions, so I didn’t know what section of the store I was supposed to work on or when I was supposed to stop. And another night, too much frozen food was ordered, so I ended my shift by pushing boxes of food with all my might in a (futile) attempt to force them into the completely packed walk-in freezer.
Worst of all, when my manager was explaining how the Columbus Day holiday would affect projected sales, one of my co-workers interrupted to “correct” the holiday name to “Indigenous Peoples’ Day.” When my manager responded that people could call the holiday whatever they wanted to, another co-worker interjected, “As long as you don’t call it Columbus Day! Anything but Columbus Day!” If you know anything of my feelings about Christopher Columbus, you won’t be surprised to learn that this caused me to be flooded with excruciating, agonizing pain. And it brings me to the next cause of this recent exacerbation of autistic burnout: Columbus Day.
Given that I love Christopher Columbus more than anything in the world, Columbus Day should be the best day of the year for me, or at least a better than average one. But this year at least, it was horrible. I attended and sold my artwork at an Italian festival, which should have been fun and exciting. However, I had to stay up late the night before in order to get my work ready, it was cold, rainy, and windy (all things that severely bother my sensory sensitivities), and a friend came by to sit at my table and help break it down at the end of the event (despite the fact that I had previously told her, as nicely as possible, that I did not need or want her help). This all amounted to an uncomfortable, angering, and draining experience. Instead of celebrating and honoring the man I love, I spent the day coping with an experience that was exhausting, out of control, and chaotic.
Plus, as has been the case every year starting in 2020, various people, companies, and organizations used the occasion to attack Columbus, and therefore myself. I am too mentally exhausted and in pain to describe these things in detail, but the culprits include various cities and towns, American Gril (yes, the doll company), and every museum and park in Boston. Every time I see the words, “Indigenous Peoples’ Day,” I am filled with agonizing pain. There are no words that can adequately express the hurt of seeing other people’s perspectives validated, suffering acknowledged, cultures celebrated, and voices heard, while my perspective is dismissed, my suffering ignored, my culture shamed and condemned, and my words ridiculed. No matter how hard I try, I cannot force others to listen to my ideas, understand my point of view, or empathize with my pain. When you combine this with all the other things that I’ve described in this blog post, I feel beaten down. My spirit is crushed. So many things that used to give me pleasure have been taken away, contaminated, ruined. There is almost nothing that I can direct my time, energy, or attention towards that does not cause excruciating pain. It is difficult for me to see a path forward.
I am trying to keep the faith. I am trying to remind myself that I have felt this way before and have survived, and have returned to a state of happiness again. I am trying to remind myself that at some point in the future, my body will have more energy, and my brain will once again feel sharp. But right now, that isn’t the case. Right now, everything feels heavy, dark, and hopeless. Right now, everything hurts.
