The Appropriate Category

      I read a story once imagining the world like a giant machine with people assigned parts like cog or nut or bolt. My teacher said the theme was that everyone’s essential to society’s function no matter what category they belong in.

           I’ve never been good at English, never understood the symbolism of blue curtains versus yellow, but categories I like. Those follow a formula, create organization out of chaos. I don’t like chaos. Or  mess.

           Everyone falls into categories: social or asocial, street smart or book smart, hyper or sedate, et cetera. It takes time to sort people, requires careful study of mannerisms and opinions for an accurate profile. Sometimes, a quick scan is enough to survive an interaction if I portray the proper mask. As I’ve gotten older, my sorting’s improved, but there’ve been enough fuck ups to keep me wary.

Example:

I made the mistake of telling my sister about my categories when we were teenagers. She sat through my whole explanation without interrupting even once, and I almost wanted to resort her into listener, not speaker.

           Except, she looked at me when I finally ran out of words. Her stare seared my eyes until I looked away, fingers scratching at the seam of my jeans.

           “That’s absurd.” She laughed, the sound stabbing at my ear drums like blunt needles.

           What now? I forced my shoulders to shake in an imitation of laughter, tried to hide my fidgeting fingers, twisted my mouth into a smile. Say something. “I guess.”

           “Hey, I think you’re bleeding,” she said, already pulling out her phone.

           I rubbed my thumb over the bleeding finger. “Must’ve caught a hangnail,” I mutter, but she wasn’t listening.

           My sister falls into the social category, either surrounded by an ever-evolving friend group or constantly checking her phone for texts. She always knows the correct thing to say and how to say it.

           When I was little and everything got to be too much, I’d scream my frustration, control slipping away like a kite torn from my grasp. The adults would shake their heads, and my mom would say, “Calm down, dear. This really isn’t appropriate behavior.”

Most categories fall on a spectrum between acceptable and not, but I prefer to consider them neutral because the acceptability of a category is purely situational. Some are binary but never absolute.

Caveat: exploding is never acceptable. Not if I want to be taken seriously.

So, I don’t explode anymore.

Now, my mom smiles and says, “I’m so proud of who you’ve become.”

           I smile back—the appropriate response—and marvel at how obviously the cracks stretch unnoticed behind my masks. It’d be humorous if I didn’t wonder sometimes whether I existed or merely slotted myself into whichever category was most situationally acceptable. At least my mask behaved appropriately even if I didn’t.

           Control is easier when frustration is packed into little boxes and sunk deep in the cracks. Sometimes when I’m alone, I’ll probe open a box, bleeding the frustration out like medieval bloodletting. Always in front of other people, I shove the boxes down, bury them behind walls of indifference and mask facades. To be dealt with later.

Example:

“Hey, Sara.” My sister leans in my direction, mini sandwich in hand.

It’s Easter, and that means extended family brunch and screaming children and scratching, not scratching, my skin because my dress itches. Why’d I agree to lace? So far, I’ve lingered on the outskirts, answering questions when spoken to but otherwise observing the dynamics of a dozen relations who see each other less than five times a year. We’re such a close-knit, down to earth family, you know?

“Do you still put people in boxes? Like I’m social, and Dad’s a bookworm.” She laughs as she says it, the sound grating my ears, but I don’t bother covering them.

I shrug because now everyone’s looking at me. “Sometimes.” Always. And they’re categories, not boxes, but I’ll only sound pedantic if I correct her.

“Daniela,” my mom scolds, but she’s laughing too, a grin hidden behind her hand. “Be nice. Sara has autism; she can’t help it if she processes the world differently.”

The appropriate response is to smile at my mom, to act relieved that she’s coming to my defense. It’s not to tell my mom that it’s okay to call me autistic—pedantic again. It’s definitely not to point out how backhanded that comment is unless I want to get called overly sensitive. Again.

No, I grit my teeth and dig my fingernails into my palms and hope the cracks don’t show. Ignore, those long, significant glances that always occur whenever my mask slips. Unacceptable.

“And look how far you’ve come.” On cue, my uncle leans forward and claps me on the shoulder, the touch like cold slime. Or heat rash. “Ten years ago, people like you weren’t going to college.”

“Plenty of autistic people have attended college,” I say, careful with each word lest I misplace one. Be articulate.

“Of course, dear,” my mom says. “But those are the high functioning, ones like you. It’s harder for people with low functioning autism. Bless those families.”

“Right.” It’s a herculean effort to push one word out, much less attempt to translate my thoughts into linear words. My family nods and smiles like bobble heads, proud of how little I burden them. And they think my categories are strange. Look in the fucking mirror. At least I check mine for accuracy.

My fingers scratch at my legs even when I tuck them under my itchy dress. I want to curl into a ball under my bedsheets and pretend the world doesn’t exist. I want to scream the thoughts I can’t say. I want them to stop staring, avoid the silent judgement at my lapse.

“You know we love you, Sara,” my mom says, placating words. Empty words. You don’t know me because I don’t know me, I want to say, but that won’t be received positively. That’s not appropriate. Boxes, shove it in a box. Deal later.

I force my hands to still and relax my posture; I meet my mom’s eyes and try not to blink too much. “Will you still love me if I take the last lemon bar?”

My mom laughs weakly, stronger as I laugh, and then everyone else joins in. My sister passes the last of my grandma’s famous lemon bars over, but not before taking a bite out of it. I fake a scowl, and she laughs harder. Everyone relaxes.

Except for me.

Crisis averted.