Wrong Number

The world is full of mysteries. Some may one day be solved, while others may outlast the lifetime of the universe.

For example: who the hell is “Anne,” and why does she keep giving people my phone number??

I have been getting calls from strangers asking for “Anne” for the last fifteen years or so. Does she honestly not know her own phone number? Do our numbers just happen to be one easily-confused digit apart? Or does she think she’s giving a “fake” number to people she doesn’t want to be contacted by?

Anne, if by some chance you’re reading this: PLEASE STOP GIVING MY PHONE NUMBER TO STRANGERS!

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I Was Being Rhetorical

That’s four and counting…

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Whose Wrong?

When our daughter first started talking, we began asking her what she wanted to be called. My spouse and I had decided that if she wanted to pick a name other than the one we gave her, that was her right.

At first, she experimented quite a bit, and as you might imagine there were some…questionable choices. It was embarrassing at times–I wrote “Car Racecar” on more than one official school form–but we trusted that as she learned and matured, those childish phases would pass. Sure enough, she eventually settled on a lovely, sensible name (one my spouse and I, by pure coincidence, had considered ourselves!) and she’s been happy with it ever since.

It’s unusual, I admit. It’s not a path I would recommend for every family. But I believe it was the right decision for us, and for her.

Every once in a while, we would also ask her what pronouns she wanted to be called. We’d frame the question in the same way we were phrasing questions about her name: did she want us to keep using the one we gave her when she was born, or did she want to be called something different? Just like with her name, there was a bit of experimentation at first, and just like with her name we trusted that if it were a phase or a mistake, she would grow out of it on her own. Long before she settled on a name, she was confident that yes, she really did want to be called “she,” “girl,” “daughter,” and so on. That was about five years ago.

It had been a while since we’d checked in on her decision, so I recently reminded her that she could always tell us if she ever changed her mind. She responded, sounding quite confused, “Why do you think I would change my mind?” Why, indeed. Her girlhood is as self-evident to her as the color of her hair.

Her birth certificate is marked with an “M.”

Many people would be outraged to hear this. They would say we are enabling a delusion or a mental illness. Our current President, in a proclamation issued for National Child Abuse Prevention Month, claimed that so-called gender ideology is “one of the most prevalent forms of child abuse” in the country. Gender extremists, he said, are telling children “the devastating lie that they are trapped in the wrong body.”

Now, I could point out that under-eighteen rape victims outnumber trans kids nearly thirty to one, but that’s ultimately a quibble. All forms of abuse should be prevented, regardless of their prevalence. The real problem with this claim is the assumption that if my daughter is trans, it must be because I’m telling her she’s “trapped in the wrong body.”

Guess what? My daughter loves her body. She loves climbing and running and playing outdoors, she loves being strong, she loves being fast (the second-fastest girl in her class!) The only time she has expressed any distress over her biology was when she came home from school one day and told me she wished her voice were higher. When I asked her why, she said it was because a classmate had told her she “didn’t sound like a girl.”

So it’s true, there are people saying my daughter’s body is wrong–but it is not the people calling her by her chosen name and gender. It’s the people who would tell her that, because of her body, she doesn’t count as a “real” girl; that because she was born with a certain biology, her girlhood is fake, a delusion, a lie. When trans kids are told over and over again that their bodies are the reason their transness is rejected, is it any wonder so many of them end up feeling trapped? I can’t help but wonder: if more people believed, as my daughter still does, that a girl with a penis is perfectly unremarkable…would fewer trans people feel a need for surgeries and hormones? Would more of them be happy with their bodies, if we didn’t insist that one’s gender and biology “match?”

Someday soon, I know my daughter will ask me if she can play sports with her friends. It would be nice to know I’ll be able to tell her “yes”–but that’s not the question that really keeps me up at night. The real question is: will my daughter be allowed to be my daughter? When she tells people she is a girl, will she be heard and respected, or will she be harassed, ignored, bullied, and ridiculed? Or worse, will she be stolen away from the loving family she was born into under the pretense that using the “wrong” words to address her is abuse?

The President ended his proclamation by saying “my message to every American child is simple: you are perfect exactly the way God made you.” The part he didn’t say, of course, was “…unless you were made intersex, trans, queer, brown, neurodivergent, or just generally Different. Those kids need to try harder to be perfect, like the rest of us.”

Who’s telling kids they’re in the wrong bodies, again?

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Guest Post: “Zeus and Pacific”

This story was written by my daughter when she was learning about mythology at school. I’ve corrected the spelling and capitalization, but made no other changes. Enjoy!

Pacific was in a very powerful, indestructible space ship. Zeus did not like indestructible things, so Zeus made a storm, and the lightning STRUCK Pacific’s ship down. The ship traveled for miles and miles. When Pacific’s ship crashed into the ground, it made a big big BIG hole. Even though his ship was not too big, the hole was as BIG as the biggest ocean yet. Over time when it rained, it filled up the hole and became the Pacific Ocean, and that is how the Pacific Ocean came to be. The end.

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Same, Car. Same.

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Lullaby

Before I was ready to call myself an atheist, I used to say that music was my religion.

I grew up with music; one of my father’s many careers was as a musician and there was nearly always something on the radio or record player when I was little. Folk, rock, and classical mostly, but those are such broad genres that in practice I was exposed to a little of nearly everything.

There was always a guitar in reach, or other instruments: flutes and recorders, small drums, a keyboard. A child’s dulcimer complete with follow-along sheet music you could fit right under the strings, and blank sheets to write your own songs with. Later, a gorgeous old upright piano.

And, of course, singing.

One of my earliest memories–quite possibly the earliest memory–is of the lullaby my mother used to sing to me and my sister, starting when we were still infants. I sing it to my own children, now. She got it from a book on baby massage; it’s in another language and I never learned what it meant.

When our oldest was an infant herself, right after we’d moved out of the studio apartment we’d lived in when she was born, I spent one long night rocking her back and forth as I paced the dark apartment, humming the most soothing tones I could invent, silently begging her to stay calm just a little longer, so her renny could get some desparately-needed sleep.

One pattern of notes in particular started to repeat itself, a sort of melancholy tune, fitting for a lullaby. I spent much of that night working on it, infant in arms: getting the melody just right, coming up with words I could put to the notes. It was the first song I’d written since that old dulcimer I’d had as a child.

I named it “Stars.”

When planet Earth stops turning
When all the stars go dark and cold
When Time itself is ending
My love for you will still burn bright
My love for you is infinite

When planet Earth was stardust
When all the stars were newly born
When Time itself was waking
My love for you was ancient
My love for you is infinite

Climb to the highest mountain
Dig to the planet’s molten heart
Fly to the constellations
My love for you’s already there
My love for you is infinite

Count every rock and raindrop
Span every cell and galaxy
Weigh every star and black hole
My love for you is vaster yet
My love for you is infinite

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Hypothesis

Observations:

  • “Right” policies tend to be more reactionary, focusing on preserving the past.
  • “Left” policies tend to be more revolutionary, focusing on preparing for the future.

Conclusion: even if we assume Rightists and Leftists are about equally likely (on average) to be in the wrong about any particular issue at any particular point in time, we would still expect societies as a whole to gradually shift Leftward–which is, in fact, what history shows.

Thoughts?

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It’s a Fact

My spouse: “I’m probably biased, but I genuinely think we have two of the cutest dogs in the world.”

Me: “You are absolutely biased, and also correct.”

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Attention Directing and Holding Deficit

As I’ve previously mentioned, I have ADHD. I didn’t receive an official diagnosis until just a few years ago. This is because I’d completely dismissed the possibility for decades, for two main reasons:

  • When I was in about fifth grade, one of my teachers suggested I might have ADD (as it was known back then), so my parents had me diagnosed. As they later told me, the doctor said that if I was able to sit still and pay attention to things for long periods of time (which I definitely was), I didn’t have ADD.
  • As the years passed, I saw no reason to question that diagnosis. In fact, as ADD came to be known as ADHD, I had more reason than ever to doubt it, since I never struggled with “hyperactive” tendencies any more than average, and in fact had an easier time sitting still and being quiet than most kids my age.

So what changed my mind? Coincidentally, it was also two main things:

  • First, I learned that ADHD has subtypes. The disorder lies on a spectrum with the “hyperactive” subtype (which is largely physical) on one end; the “inattentive” subtype (which is mostly mental) on the other; and a broad swath of “mixed” subtype in between. (You can think of the hyperactive and innatentive subtypes as being sort of like “A_HD” and “AD_D,” respectively.) Once I realized that physical hyperactivity wasn’t necessarily part of it, a lot of my reason for rejecting the possibility disappeared.
  • Once the possibility no longer seemed so far-fetched, I started doing some research. It immediately became clear that (1) yeah, I probably did have the “inattentive” subtype, and (2) “Attention Deficit” is kind of a misnomer. A lot of the apparent “deficit” in a person’s ability to pay attention comes from the hyperactivity part of the condition–the stereotypical kid who can’t sit still or stay quiet, interrupts constantly, is always fidgeting, and so on. Especially when they’re put into a classroom, kids like this look like they’re “not paying attention.” But, as my parents’ old doctor failed to understand, people with ADHD absolutely can pay attention.

More than that, in fact: in the right circumstances we’re able to pay better attention than neurotypicals. The term for this ability is “hyperfocus”–a state of mind closely related to flow that allows us (or, more often, compels us) to concentrate on some extremely specific detail, problem, or idea, to the exclusion of all else. When someone with ADHD looks like they’re “zoning out,” they’re probably not just staring into space–much more likely, they’re staring into their own heads, focusing intently on some idea or thought that’s developing at breakneck speed.

People with ADHD do not “lack attention.” We have attention in spades. What we lack is the ability to consciously direct that attention.

(This is one reason why meditation can be so helpful for those with ADHD–and also why meditation seems so difficult to us at first: it helps train the mental muscles that control our focus.)

Hyperfocus can be frustrating, but it can also be a huge asset. When people with ADHD are able to work on the things that interest us, we can be almost superhumanly productive. On the other hand, if we have to work on something that doesn’t automatically engage us, just keeping ourselves from wandering off can quickly use up all our spoons–sometimes before we’ve actually gotten anything done!

People with ADHD aren’t lazy, we don’t have a poor work ethic, and we’re not “wasting our potential.” That amazing focus and productivity can’t be switched on at will. Our potential often is wasted–but in many cases, it’s only because we’re required to survive in a world built around abilities we don’t have, while the abilities we do have are forced onto the sidelines: as hobbies, second jobs, and fantasies.

(Like so many other things, a Universal Basic Income could help a lot with this problem!)

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I’m Slow!

Undertale.

Under. Tale.

Under, like…underground. Like in a cave.

Tale, like…a story.

An underground story.

A cave story, if you will.

HOW DID IT TAKE ME TEN YEARS TO GET THAT REFERENCE???

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