Underneath my yellow skin

What makes a space safe (or not)

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In the last decade or so, there has been an awareness that when you get groups of people together, there will be shitty people who need rules to keep them acting right–or to kick them out if need be. I mean, this has always been true because people are going to people. There are shitty people everywhere, and if you let them act up–they are going to act the fuck up.

Side Note (Yes this early!): I have gotten into several debates over tolerance versus acceptance. I am for tolerance because that’s much easier to achieve than acceptance and because quite frankly, I don’t have a high opinion of people. It takes a lot to change people’s hearts; it’s much easier to change their behavior.

In general, I still hold to tolerance over acceptance. I mean, you don’t have to like me, but you have to treat me like a human being. However, when it comes to safe spaces, that’s a whole different kettle of fish.

When I was in my twenties, I had just discovered that I was attracted to women as well as men. Now, I would amend that to I’m attracted to people of all, any, or no gender. Anyway. I got involved in queer theater and in Asian theater (sadly, separate) and in the former, there was a woman-only performance festival that I participated in. It was clearly stated that it was for women only. People who identified as women, I mean. Which I did at the time. Trans women were included under that umbrella. This was before nonbinary became a known gender, but I would like to think they would have been included. Agender like me? I don’t know beacuse we never get mentioned/thoughht of.

Anyway, it was really cool to perform in front of women only, and I stripped down to my panties by the end of my performance. There’s no way I would have done that in front of men at that age. Hell, I probably wouldn’t do it now in front of men, but for different reasons.

That was a safe space before it was really a thing, and I was very glad to have that opportunity. I felt secure and safe in performing a risque performance under those circumstances. Hell, I probably could have and should have taken off my panties as well (I was using pieces of clothing as different parts of my identity) without feeling threatened.

My issue with safe spaces is that it’s often just a sign and a list of printed rules, and that’s the extent of keeping the space safe. That’s not nearly enough. You have to actually enforce the rules on a consistent basis or they don’t mean shit. This is not rocket science, but it’s hard to do on a regular basis–especially in online forums.

What I have found is that when you leave it to the people in the forum/channel/convention to enforce the rules, it’s not going to happen. Why? Because one, they don’t have the authority. More importantly, though, you can’t really police an equal if you don’t have anyone backing you up.


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The wind and the fury

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I have so much fury that I am constantly reining in. The rage is simmering just below the surface. Or rather, it’s several levels deep because I try not to let it out. But it’s there. I’m very aware it’s there, and ever since my medical crisis, I’ve been struggling to keep it under control. I like to say that the infamous line by the Hulk, “That’s my secret Cap; I’m always angry” as he morphs from Bruce Banner into the Hulk is my tagline.

God. I watched a longer clip than the one I included above, and what a wretched movie that was. That’s the only line I remember or liked. But this one line and the way Bruce Banner smiles wryly before getting serious and transforming has stuck in my head ever since. It just hit me right where I live, and I’ve embraced it ever since.

Side note: Americans aren’t comfortable with anger, especially in women/AFAB people. There’s this eagerness to glide right by it as if it didn’t exist. In tandem, there’s an expectation that if someone wrongs you in any way, you will immediately forgive them as soon as they ask. And, sometimes in some contexts, before they even apologize.

I have my issues with the word forgiveness, which I have gone over several times. As that’s not what the post is about, I’ll move past it with great difficulty. (I don’t believe in forgiveness. That’s the TL;DR version of what I want to say.) I will say that anger was a very useful tool in geeting past some traumas, and I hate the fact that American society wants to deny that.

Thinks.

Debates.

Deep breath.

Let’s it go.

Forgiveness benefits the forgiven/perp, not the forgiver/victim. Especially as the way it’s done in this society and the religious taint associated with the concept. (And, yes, I use the word taint deliberately. Not in the vulgar slang sense, but in the actual meaning of the word. I want the negative meaning to shine through.)

Someone trangresses and confesses (because they got found out). They and/or their church immediately pressure the victim to forgive so ostentible everyone can forget and move on. THis is to the perp’s advantage, by teh way, because they are the ones who want the transgression to be forgotten. I’m talking about high profile transgressors, but it happens in less public occasions as well.

I don’t know when this happened, but there’s been a shift in Christianity that made it the burden of the victim to forgive their transgressor the second the latter asked for forgiveness. I mean, Christianity has always been on the side of the transgressor–


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Big braining and small braining, part three/seven

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Let’s talk more about how I brain–or don’t. One of the most frustrating things is to be told not to worry/be anxious, etc. Or to be told that it doesn’t help. Of course it doesn’t! I already know that. I try not to talk about my anxiety because I know it doesn’t help, but that doesn’t mean it’s not there. I hide it better than most, but it’s still pretty bad.

I noted that when I had my medical crisis, I came out of it with my depression down by 90% and my anxiety down by about 60%. Now, it’s because up to depression about 80% of what I used to have and my anxiety is about 90%. I’m talking of the original depression and anxiety. Granted, it’s still down from what it used to be, but it’s still not great.

It’s so frustrating to know that much of my problem is (literally and figuratively) in my head. I am am used to thinking my way out of my problems, and I can’t do that when my brain is the  problem in the first place.

Side note: I have been working on my Taiji/Bagua routine. I have it somewhat hammered out in that I do all the Taiji stretches/warmups every day. I also do one section of the Taiji Solo (Long Form) every day. In addition, I do the Swimming Dragon Form (left side or right side) every day. All of these are easy and gentle, which is why I can do them every day. Before, I had all my weapons rotating on a weekly basis. This was fine when I only knew a few weapon forms. Now, though, I know…let’s count them. Sword Form (left and right); Saber Form (left and right); Cane Form (left and right); Cane Form with Saber (left and right); Double Saber Form (right); Double Fan Form (right); Fan Form (right); and I’m learning the Bagua Knife Form (right). I’m almost done with it; I’m hoping to finish it in a month or two. I also do a staff/spear set that is not a form. I’m hoping my teacher can teach me the two-person forms for the staff/spear–they’re all very short. Or the two-person form.

I want to work on Push Hands (which is the basis for the two-person form. I’ll write more about that later.

Back to the weapon forms. I was doing the forms a varying amount of times a week. The Double Fan Form I do every day as it’s my newest form, and I want to make sure it gets in my body. Plus, I’ll be doing it for the next demo, so I want to have it down.

When I knew four or five weapon forms, it was fine to practice them all every week. I did one a day, and I was good to go. Now, though, it’s overwhelming. The whole routine takes up to two hours, and that’s too much. I was starting to hate practicing my weapons. Or rather, not hate, but dread. That’s when I needed a change.


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The hidden costs of my way of braining, part…two/six

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I want to talk more about my brain and how it works, but also how I have to constantly monitor what I say. In the prior post about the former, I was talking about how fringe I am, even in places where I feel mostly welcome. In the latter category, in yesterday’s post, I mentioned how I have to constantly figure out what Ican say to normies and what I can’t.

Side note: Because I’m usually extremely good at reading the room, it really bugs me when I fuck  up. Quite plainly, it’s part of my anxiety and how I try to control my environment.

Side note to the side note: I see it in my mother, and it’s so clear how she tries to control her anxiety by endlessly spinning out over what might happen. She tries to plan for every little thing that could possibly happen in a vain attempt to make sure nothing bad happened. I do the same, but iI do it inwardly and not outwardly. That’s one reason it’s so hard for me to listen to her–it echoes the voice in my head.

I know that other people aren’t thinking about me as much as I’m thinking about myself. However. I also know that people notice me because I stand out like a sore thumb. I’m Asian an a very white area, and I just have a distinct look. I wear all black, have a funky pair of glasses, and my hair (that I wear up in a high pony and halfway braid) reaches my waist (when done up). And I have huge boobs. Believe me–I don’t fade into the background.

You know that The Hulk quote, “That’s my secret, Cap. I’m always angry.” That’s me. I’m always angry. Before my medical crisis, I was able to keep in in control except on rare occasion. Now, I have a much harder time modulating it. I would add, “I’m always anxious” to that. Anxious about being outed as a weirdo. Or rather, as being super weird. I thin kit’s fairly obvious just by looking at me that I’m not normal.

You know what? I’m not sure that’s true any longer. Now that I’m middle-aged, maybe I can get more of a pass. I still have huge tits, though. And I still have people talking to me when there’s no need for that.

*Restrains urge to go off on a thousand-word rant about charisma*

This is how my brain works, by the way. Me going on tangent after tangent until there’s no main path any longer. I’m used to it by now, but I’m still slightly amused when I start veering wildly off path. I promise you that I fully intend to write what I initially thought about in my mind. It’s just that so many things are interconnected to me, I can’t stick with just one.

At least now I know why that is rather than when I was a kid and just thought my mind was haywired. Well, to be fair, at first, I thought everyone thought the way I did. I mean, it was so clear in my head, why wouldn’t it be clear to others as well?


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What I think versus what I say

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I have spent a lifetime figuring out what is ok to say in polite society and what isn’t. That doesn’t mean I always say the safe and bland thing, though. Sometimes, I say the ruder/more honest thing on purpose, and sometimes, it’s because I did not draw the right line. And, sometimes, I’m so tense about saying/doing the right thing that I just blurt out the first thing that enters my mind. Or do whatever my brain tells me to do. Thankfully, it’s never inappropriate–it’s just sometimes very awkward. And embarrassing. But I’m used to that.

I have a running track in my head that tells me what I’m saying is wrong, stupid, and I should just shut the hell up. That’s on a bad day. On a good day, the voice is calmer and not saying the mean words, but it’s basically the same message. “Dear, is that really what you want to say?”, “Maybe you should say that in a different way.”, and the like.

The track was installed by my parents when I was very young, and while I’m getting better at dampening it, it’s still there. It doesn’t help that I’m hard to understand when I’m not styling myself for normies to listen to me.

There are several reasons for this. One is that I think very differently than others do. And I think in very complex and, yes, convoluted ways. That’s part and parcel in having a broken brain. I see connections that other people don’t, and I can’t explain them to my satisfaction. I’ve told this story over and over again.

I once was talking to my then-therapist about how frustrating it was when I could not explain something to someone to make them understand what I was trying to say. In my mind, it was my fault because I could not find the right words. She said, “It’s because you think at a level five while they think at a level one or two.” She told me that they literally could not understand what I was saying, and that it wasn’t because I could not find the right words.

It was a relief to be released from the burden of trying to find the right words. I still tend to err on the side of me thinking I’m not saying the right words, but I have found some relief in the idea that maybe it’s not me.

See, this is one of the issues with being neurodivergent–I always assume it’s my fault. Before I knew I was neurodivergent, I just assumed that my brain was broken, and I was a weirdo. I mean, the latter is true, but the former is…not true in the way I used to think it was. It doesn’t mean I monitor what I say any less, but at least I’m cognizant of why I’m doing it.

It felt treacherous when I was younger to say what I really thought. I’ve done a lot of work to figure out what the ‘right’ thing to say is and what the ‘wrong’ thing to say is. In addition, I have been programmed to always put others feelings first, which makes it difficult for me to voice my opinion.


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The way my brain works (or not), part five

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I want to talk more about my brain, neurodivergence, and the constant masking I do. And why I don’t want to have a/any romantic relationship(s). At least, that’s the plan. As I have shown over and over again, I don’t always stick to the script. In yesterday’s post, I wrote about autism and how the stereotypes of who had it prevented me from seeenig it in myself for decades.

I got a decent amount of sleep last night. In fact, more than decent. Nine hours in total! That’s almost unheard of for me. Now, I’m exhausted. I always feel more tired after getting good sleep than before it. It’s because my body realizes how sleep deprived I am and then demands more. Before that, it kind of grits its teeth (stay with me) and just deals with it because it thinks it has no other choice. Once it become cognizant that I actually have a choice about how much I sleep (to a certain extent), it wants more. I don’t blame it, mind. I just find it hard when I actually do right by it that it then wants more.

I’m a bit down. I was talking about the channel of the Discord I’m in that is a chill place to hang out. Today, I was reminded of how I was still an outsider in several ways. One is because the Americans in the British-centric Discord have been talking about having an American get-together. I don’t think I’d be comfortable attending because of my immune system  issues, but I was interested in hearing about it. We all suggested places, and my contribution was Chicago. Several people suggested Southern cities, and that was when I knew that it was not for me.

I’m not going south of the Mason-Dixon line (and yes, I chose that for a specific reason). In 2026 with all that’s been going on, I’m just not. I mean, look, my own city/state has been iffy, but that wasn’t our fault. Let’s not forget that we were invaded and besieged by our own government half a year ago.

As a Taiwanese American bisexual agender person who is old and tired, I’m not going to the south. I’m just not. They are enacting a raft of anty-queer laws AND anti- immigrants laaws, and I don’t feel safe going to, say, Nashville. I don’t care that it’s a major city–it’s still in the Deep South that is DEEPLY hostile to people like me.

I don’t want to be the one to bring it up and make everyone feel bad, but I also resent the fact that I have to be the one to bring it up. Yes, I know that’s part of being a minority of the minority in a group, but that’s one of the reason it’s such a fucking drag to be a minority.

I haven’t brought it up because it’s all theoretical right now. We’re talking about ‘oh, wouldn’t it be cool to do this?’, which is far away from having an actual plan, not to mention an actual date. And, as I said, the chance that I will actually go is slim. But if it’s in the south, the chance of me going is zero. I just will not go. I am not willing to put myself in that position nor the discomfort it would elicit from me.

I hate that I have to think about this and weigh my discomfort at bringing it up with my discomfort of actually going to the south. I will say that I’ve always been chary of going to the south, but now, I just won’t do it. That’s not even a question in my own mind.


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Thinking about thinking (and my brain), part four

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Let’s talk more about my brain and how I think. In yesterday’s post, I was talking about how the stereotypical depiction of autism prevented me from recognizing that I might be autistic until just a few years ago.

One thing I  mentioned was how I know not to natter on and on about my obsessions because it annoys other people. I also don’t mention them for another reason–because they are precious to me and talking about them with people who don’t feel the same way can make me feel some kind of way.

One trait of autism is being easily swayed/manipulated. This was another reason I thought I could not be autistic. When it comes to important issues–I am an unmovable force. Take abortion, for example. Once I realized what it was and how important it was for the autonomy of women, I have not wavered in my support of it. And, by “it” I specifiaclly mean abortion. Yes, I am pro-choice, but in this case, I want to emphasize that I specifically support abortion.

Side note: It irks me how pro-choice has been crafted to mean, “Yes, it’s so terrible that some people have to get abortions, but we support them in their difficult moments”. It can be terrible/hard/traumatic, but there are plenty of people who felt it was an easy decision and felt relief/joy when they had it done. That never gets talked about. No, it has to be all about suffering and tragedy–as does most things that traditionally pertain to women.

Side note to the side note: When I decided I did not want to have children and realized I didn’t have to, I felt such a sense of relief and joy. I could not explain it, but I felt as if a million-pound weight fell from my shoulders. I knew deep in my heart that this was the best decision I hahd ever made in my life, and thirty-five years later, I feel it even more strongly.

That’s another thing that at that time, women were apologizing for–not having children, I mean. I looked for anyone who felt the same way (remember, this was before the internet was the behemouth that it is now). I found one anthology from women, writers and not, who decided not to have children. I was so eager to read it, but to my disappointment, every single one of them apologized, excused, or made themselves smaller as they talked about their decision not to have children.

If I were to write for an anthology about my decision not to have children, I would be celebratory and jubilant. I’m not being hyperbolic; if anything, I’m understating my emotions.

The other thing I read that stuck in my brain was an article about mothers. Not because of the article itself, but because of the commenter who was brave enough to say that she regretted having children and why. Other commenters chimed in with similar sentiments, and it was the first time I saw an honest conversation from women who wished they hadn’t had children.


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More about my brain and how I think, part three

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Let’s talk more about my brain, how I think, and the difficulty  I’m having with sleep. In my last post, I talked quite a bit about how I never really thought I could have autism because the stereotype of it did not feel like it fit me–at all.

I didn’t want to go on a thousand-word rant about the patriarchy because I’ve done it many times before, and it wasn’t the point of the post. But let’s all acknowledge that we know that the patriarchy has a long reach.

It’s not often than I say plainly that the patriarchy is the reason I reacted in a certain way (or didn’t), but it’s completely true in this case. I had no idea I could have autism because the image of it in my head up until maybe four years ago was of a boy (probably white, but not necessarily) between five and fifteen.  Someone who fidgeted and stimmed constantly, and, of course, someone who was awkward in social interactions and could not make (or sustain) eye contact.

None of that fits me. Except maybe the last. I don’t make eye contact, but I can do the ‘look at their nose’ thing.

When my autistic friend told me to take an online autism test unmasked as much as possible, that was eye-opening. The test itself talked about masking and how so many autistic people did it automatically. They wanted you to take the test as unmasked as possible, and they even padded the scores to include masking.

Knowing all that, I still struggled taking the test without automatically masking. I have been doing it most of my life–for fifty-years plus. I don’t know how to be unmasked any longer. It had a Likert scale and would make statements like, “I feel comfortabel with my social skills in a crowd”. Then, of course, you had to pick a number. 1 was like highly agree, 2 agree, 3 neutral, 4 disagree, 5 highly disagree or something like that.

The instructions explicitly said to put down the number that described you before you put on your mask–and I had no idea. As I said, my mask was installed in me at such a young age and so firmly, I just could not imagine myself without it. I tried. I knocked a point off here and there, but I honestly had no idea what to score myself. That’s how ingrained the mask is on my face. Er, on me.

I scored in the low range (meaning the very bottom of I could possibly be autistic). The thing that was important, though, was that it opened my eyes to the idea that I might be autistic. It might be harder for me to find my way to what the actual truth is (and I don’t know if I’ll get tested or not), but just knowing it’s possible that I have autism has lifted a huge weight from my shoulders.

The thing is that even if it’s not autism per se, it helped me realize that I definitely have some kind of neurodivergence. I’m pretty sure it’s autism–just heavily masked. When I look at a list of the traits, I fit most of them–at least in my heart. Oh, and there have been studdies that suggest that transgender and nonbinary people have a higher rate of autism. Which is very interesting to me.


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Diving deeper into how I think, part two

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Let’s talk more about how my weird brain manifests itself. In yesterday’s post, I was talking about how my neurodivergent brain thinks very differently than how normies think. for the longest time, I thought there was something I could do to make my brain work more normally. I didn’t want to do it, mind, but I always thought it was possible.

I did briefly consider in my early thirties that I might have ADHD. I had the hyperfocus part down pat, but too many of the other symptoms/traits didn’t fit. At that time, I had a great memory and was never late. I did ping from one thing to another, but I was also able to focus–not just hyperfocus. It really was only the hyperfocus and the changing from interest to interest that pinged the ADHD meter.

I can’t stress how much at the time (twenty years ago) that autism was portrayed as a young boy’s diagnosis. It was definitely considered a kid’s thing–and only boys got it. OBVIOUSLY. Most people never even said that because the thought that it could be present in girls was unthinkable.

Side note: This is how medicine works in general, by the way. It’s heavily skewed towards white cis males, so much so that some studies that talk about pregancy use ‘he’ when talking about the patient. This is an extreme example, but it’s littered throughout medical documentation. Also, Asian people need much less meds than do white people–but that isn’t mentioned, either.

I realized this when I tried sleeping pills when I was in my late twenties. The psychiatrist didn’t even examine me. She just listened to me for two minutes, then wrote a scrip for sleeping pills. I felt really seen, I’ll tell you what (that’s sarcasm).

I took a pill and did not wake up for over sixteen hours. Same when I cut it in half, and then in half agaian. No, I didn’t sleep quite as long, but it was still longer than I wanted, and I felt so groggy when I woke up.

When I tried Valerian, I felt as if I could not make my thoughts connect. I was three steps behind, and my tongue felt so thick. I am always chary about taking drugs because they affect me so much. And, sadly. many medical people don’t listen when I say that I react strongly to meds. when I was unconscious in the hospital and the medical professionals were trying to wake me up. My mother said to my medical team that I was more sensitive to drugs because of the Asian thing, but they apparently didn’t listen or pay attention.

Not surprising, really, as medical people are pretty notorious for ignoring information that does not agree with their preconceived notions.

This is one reason that I had no idea I was autistic. I’m AFAB; Asian; have a very high EQ; have excellent social skills; and I don’t do any kind of stimming. That was all I knew about autism, that it was for boys who couldn’t stand still, who stimmed, who thrashed when touched/hugged, who could not maintain eye contact, who could not relate at all to other human beings, and who were did not feel anything at all.


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Celebrities and keeping my chill

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So, in the Discord channel I’ve been talking about in the past few days (because it’s a place I can go and talk about a variety of tihngs I normally wouldn’t), there’s someone who works in a bar/restaurant in LA. He mentioned that he got to meet Mike Ness, the lead singer of Social Distortion when he (Mike Ness walked into his (the person in the Discord) place of employment. The latter, let’s call him Bob,  got to talk to Mike Ness and said that while he (Bob) wasn’t the type to ferak out over celebs, he was pretty stoked to meet Mike Ness.

I chimed in and said I loved Social D, even though I had only heard of them for the first time a few years ago. I did not say this in the Discord, but Mike Ness could still get it. I said that the only person I would get a bit giddy meeting would have been Alan Rickman (yes, still). Other than him, though, I didn’t think I would be at all freaked out.

My brother and I talked about if we ever met Obama, how we would act. I respect him a lot*, and I would enjoy speaknig with him about weighty issues and topics, but I would not be starstruck. There is no one alive I can think of who would make me squeal or freak out. And it’s not because I’m better than other people or anything like that, but it’s because…well, for a few reasons.

One, I believe that everyone is equal in terms of hierarchy when it comes to worth as a human being. I know that’s an incredibly awkward way to phrase that, but it says what I mean the best. I mean that everyone is worthy of a base degree of civility just for being a human being.** I can appreciate someone who shines in their area of expertise/popularity/fame, but I don’t think of them as better than me as a person.

I think this is partly beacuse of my neurodivergence. Not that my way of thinking about hierarchy is necessarily tied to neurodivergence, but that the way I think might be. Or rather, the latter might be influencing the former. It’s true that neurodivergent people don’t necessarily see social constructs in the same way as do ‘normies’.

I mean, that’s kind of our thing–being socially awkward, I mean.*** It’s only with several decades of intense training (by carefully scrutinizing other people) that I can mimic normies to a probably unhealthy degree. In fact, I do it better than many normies do. That doesn’t mean I like it, though. Donig it, I mean. It’s second nature by now, and I would feel uncomfortable not doing it–but that still doesn’t mean I like doing it.

I have a flat affect by nature (and by nurture). When I explained to my autistic friend how I processed information and transformed it into emotion, she said that it was a very autistic way of doing things. Note, she wasn’t saying that it meant I was definitely autistic–just that it might be a reason for it.


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