I was assessed for autism spectrum disorder at twenty-one in a stuffy psychologist’s office. I sat in a leather armchair with my shoulders tense in defense while the doctor introduced himself. First, he asked me How are you doing today? To which I answered, Is that Wrigley Field in that photo on your wall? He took a beat, head turning to my left (his right), where a panoramic photograph of the Chicago baseball field from the nosebleeds hung. Oh, yeah, it is. He smiled briefly. I wanted to make him feel more comfortable, like he was doing for me. Dr. Wrigley spoke in a voice more monotone than I throughout the three-hour clinical interview– he spoke as if I were a wild animal scooped up from the side of Highway 94 that would scitter away at the slight of heightened emotion. I knew he was trained to act this way, but part of me hated the smooth cadence he used to glide through questions. I spent two weeks answering hundreds of questions across interviews and questionnaires, but grew increasingly frustrated by the definitive, binary ranking system used to distinguish whether I was “normal” or not. I yearned for a free response section where I could write my sensations and perceptions authentically without Dr. Wrigley’s shorthand translations. It didn’t come. I was disappointed.
What are your main interests?
I tell Dr. Wrigley I am a poet. Not looking up from his notepad, he echos oh poetry, very nice. How many poems would you say you write in a week? I don’t respond at first, looking at him like he’s a child who couldn’t know better. I tell him typically one, because that answer feels easiest, but he needs to consider how much goes into writing a poem. I don’t just “write a poem”.
Most mornings, I wake myself up from REM cycle bliss before alarms have the chance because I find myself counting syllables for a sonnet while I dream; I mull over duplex subversions while my coffee drips from the Kureig, cereal turning to mush in my cheap plastic bowl as I swap spoon for pen; crossing the river on my commute to work I stare down into the eddying ripples and wonder if a haiku lives within; checking emails, I keep tally of interesting words, whether they could be turned into a sestina; I keep myself up into the grey weak hours of the night because my mind swims free in verse, incessantly typing into my notes app, scribbling through the darkness into dream journals as not to forget what could be precious, precious poetry.
Dr. Wrigley interjects: So you think about poetry a lot then?
What do your social connections look like?
I used to have a muse. That was when I felt the most connected to a Person. People make the most sense once I have been able to describe them. I don’t have trouble understanding People; they just need to understand me. Those I love most, I perceive in poems: I don’t look them in the eyes because everyone describes eyes; I watch the way their mouths move when they speak– their teeth, tongue, Adam’s apple shifting in throat. Poetry is an oral tradition, so it only makes sense to focus on the mouth and voice. I consider someone a friend or an enemy once their soul makes it into a poem, someone with the proximity to warrant appearing on a page in words.
I think part of me hopes that in this practice, those who read can begin to understand how it feels to process and perceive in this little brain of mine.
Was there anything you wanted to let me know before we conclude our interview?
For a moment, I get choked up. I tell Dr. Wrigley the thing that I had been hoping to write out: I feel so much, all of the time. Up to this point, aside from the occasional joke, I navigated our assessment interview with a neutral, professional demeanor. In this moment, I felt my body flood with all of the emotions I wrestle with throughout my days.
I am filled with the most intense joy over the smallest things– red fruits / buttons hand-sewn onto flannel shirts / houses with hexagonal bay windows / scent of pine needles on campfire / the words “terracotta”, “differentiated”, and “brother” / the sound my antique watchface makes when I wind up the timer and let it run / the way my friend says “interesting”.
I cry. A lot. When someone explains the work they put into a piece of art / when children ask for their mothers / when the sky is so perfectly blue, and we all act like it’s no big deal / when I have to prune a wilted leaf from my grandmother’s Christmas cactus / when I am walking home on a brisk spring evening and think too hard about Jack Twist or Samwise Gamgee / when two people are having a conversation but I can’t hear because the fleece lining of my jacket is louder.
I get angry at the slightest things, and that fact in and of itself makes me angry, too. I don’t understand why People can’t just treat each other how they want to be treated / why the TPMS light glows orange when I start my car, even when there is nothing wrong / when me and my peers are viewed as dollar signs rather than human beings / why People call me silly and stupid for doing things that make me happy / when people sing in public when I am mentally writing my ode to the sunbeams pouring through the windows / when there isn’t even something to be angry about.
Dr. Wrigley, it’s important to me that you understand how I work. I don’t just “write poems”. My feet, no matter where I roam, are planted in poetics; I cannot navigate the world around me, look People in the mouth, or discern emotions without the answering of my writing. So, for you to not provide a segment of my assessment for me to describe / answer / muse / write, is to neglect my authenticity.
Once the three hours are up, Dr. Wrigley bids me farewell, and I leave to count syllables and draft lines another day.
I.
Do you know who you are? Really, truly, see yourself.
You don’t know how to perceive yourself truly without poetry as a vehicle for expression. As a transgender person, it’s nearly impossible to exist in each moment without being aware of yourself—dreading the view of the mind and body that others see beyond your control.
You are both scared of writing about your person and drawn to it in one. Poetics mirror transitioning tauntingly; you cannot escape the vulnerability in perception. Writing has always been an outlet, but putting words to feelings means confronting and announcing said feelings.
Are you ready for those kinds of eyes?
II.
You must learn to reacquaint your mind with your body when a second puberty begins to sprout. Like poetry, this transition spreads and impacts every part of your adult life. Your mother asks if you really need to use a writer’s pseudonym when being published; binding your chest is tense like a sonnet; conversations edit in real-time, searching for the correct adjective to describe you.
You begin to imagine your life like a sestina—cyclical but fluctuating—and you wonder what words you’d find repeated down the page: bind, sore, cry, shout, raw, real. The words sound crude and melancholy, but that couldn’t be more wrong in your eyes. The variation and room for expansion with those words are frankly exciting. The tension, the volume, the destruction, and recreation all feel like home—something you never thought you would feel in this way.
III.
The most noticeable changes three months in:
The voice in your writing reads different. You’re not sure if it’s the word choice or the decision to write anger into your poems, but there’s a deeper base. Something is hitting deeper in your chest, much like the vocal cords warping in your throat during conversation.
There is a hunger. Every other day, you say you can body a rotisserie chicken / you say you can perfect five sonnets in an hour. Your eyes are bigger than your stomach, but the drama of appetite is what gives the feeling of satisfaction.
There’s desire. You don’t know how to put it pleasantly or in a way that doesn’t ruffle feathers. You need the syllable count and repetition of a duplex to tie you back and let you writhe. At any given moment, you could explode with poetics / explode in erotica.
What this means is you are learning yourself. You ask again: Do you know who you are?
Slowly, you begin to find that answer, you begin to find yourself. And the best part: you’re only three months in. Think of where you’ll find yourself on your literary journey six, nine, or twelve months from now.
The transgender poet.
Doesn’t that make you want to live?