“Language is a spectrum, just like us”
BY SCOUT DURWOOD, IMAGE BY STEVE KORN, CARA HOWE, LEE JAMESON
Words can feel like a frickin’ minefield. They’re constantly shifting, and not always at the same rate we are. “Nice” was long used as an insult. “Naughty” meant lacking in funds. And yet, these deeply imperfect tools are the best ammo we’ve got in the fight to understand the world around us and also to understand ourselves.
I was raised as a socialised female, so I dressed up like a bride for Halloween and premeditated my wedding with Jonathan Taylor Thomas.
In my late teens I, like many of my fellow manic pixie dream girls experimented with the term bisexual, having been broadsided by an unquenchable thirst for a woman named Lilly. Lilly and I dated for four glorious months and remain friends to this day. Typical lesbians. Only…neither of us identifies as lesbian anymore.
As language started catching up with my de facto gay lifestyle, I started using “queer” not only to describe my sexual orientation and gender, but also to articulate what I was looking for in a relationship. I’ve always been less interested in gay marriage than in granting social status to more fluid relationships, be they romantic or otherwise. No shade to anyone with a monogamy kink, but save some visibility for the rest of us.
It took over three hundred years of using the word “queer” before it had any association with homosexuality at all. It started in the 1500s as a way to describe anything peculiar, including “minor social transgressions” such as being childless by choice or passing counterfeit cash.
Sorry, am I boring you with my obsessive internet research on a topic with which I am newly obsessed? Of course I am. Because I, like many manic pixie counterparts, am late diagnosed neurodivergent—some combination of autistic and ADHD. I’m personally not interested in a diagnosis more specific than that, just like I didn’t need the DSM-5 to diagnose me as “homosexual” to know that I’m gay. Er… Lesbian, though I did go through a period of hooking up with cis-dudes when I moved to Los Angeles due to their extensive availability and my grandmother’s advice to “Don’t die wondering”.
Words may be far from perfect, but they’re the most perfect we’ve got. Getting to describe myself as autistic helps me understand why I take naps in the bathtub when I’m stressed—water is a notorious sensory yum for autistics—why I live most of my life in headphones and spent decades referring to myself as “bad at getting a periods” rather than knowing about PMDD, Premenstrual Dysmorphic Disorder—which has hella high co-morbidity rates among women with ADHD.
That girl I fell in love with in college? He’s a gay man living in Oakland now. Does that make him my ex-boyfriend? Who cares? But being able to describe why I spent years plucking out my leg hair—body focused repetitive behaviour—and still struggle with nail-biting has helped me feel significantly less freakish and alone.
The upshot, in my opinion, is that words are phenomenally helpful until they’re not. My mom grew up being told she was “not very bright.” Now we know she’s incredible at hyper focus because guess what, she also has ADHD.
Language is a spectrum, just like us. Whether used with caution or bravado, both life and the ways we describe it are perpetually in flux. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some buttered noodles to consume because I’m also a picky eater with tons of food-related sensory issues. Neurospicy I am. Actually spicy, I am not.
Apocalypse Cabaret: Songs From The End Of The World will be at the Underbelly Bristo Square Dairy Room at 9.20 pm for the entire fringe for tickets go to www.edfringe.com
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