To the children,

Slinging insults like snow balls,

Sharp and icy as they hurtle my way,

Sideways glances and “you can’t sit here,”

Attempting to convey a message of my own aberrance,

As if I were not painfully aware of my own peculiarity,

I am not the monster you made me.

When the tether ball connected with my face,

Or the bra straps were snapped,

Or male teacher joined in with sexual harassment,

Christening my body, my psyche, my own sexuality

As theirs before it was fully mine to begin with,

I was not the monster they made me.

You see,

They teach schoolmates and grown men to make monsters out of little girls,

How to shred and belittle

With sleight of hand magic,

Just below the teachers’ noses

Unless they could be tempted to join in,

Until it is not human but filth that is stretched out on the pavement.

I am not the monster they made me.

I was never the monster they made me.

How strange,

How abhorrent,

How terrifying is difference?

Yet we teach them to hurt instead of treat with acceptance.

All the while, guidance counselor suggesting I just…

Try a little harder,

As if I wasn’t tearing myself apart limb by limb already.

To my parents,

Who incessantly dubbed me lazy,

Cutting away at the low self-esteem,

“You’re too smart to be having difficulties with organization and handwriting!

Therefore, we’ve deemed you simply aren’t trying!”

All “what you do isn’t good enough.

Do better, be more, but not too much or you’ll upset your brother!”

I am not the monster you made me.

I was never the monster you made me.

To my riding instructor,

Who nicknamed me space cadet,

Yelling at me mid-course,

Confused why the sudden onslaught of noise seemed to make my abysmal ride worse,

Befuddled by my inability to tell where my leg was or read between the lines,

Who told me at eleven years old that I was the bane of her existence,

I am not the monster you made me.

I was never the monster you made me.

To those who have labeled me as particularly obtuse,

Who have sought to punish as surely my low social skills or repeat questions

Were borne of a desire to be annoying,

To the man in the hospital with wandering hands,

Thinking my temporary forced silence would not be powerfully deafening,

To all who have thought me less than I am,

I am not the monster you made me.

And now, I wish it was I who could clarify for them

Their position in life,

The scrawny and inferior plight that they hold

For making fun of a confused and struggling girl.

I want to scream “I am autistic,”

Like the battle cry it is,

Blood of my enemies pooling from my lips as they realize

What they have done,

For I am not the monster they made me,

Not:

Stupid,

Lazy,

Weird,

Freak,

Space Cadet,

Unwelcome,

Unwanted,

Bane of their existence,

Prostitute.

No,

I am autistic.

I am unique and fiery,

Albeit socially challenged,

Fierce and unwavering,

Marked by my intellect.

I am loyal and kind,

Redheaded stubbornness,

Curious soul,

A poet from another planet.

I have challenges,

Sure.

Difficulties too.

To those who would make me a monster,

I’d argue I’m less vile than you.

I am not some unruly, incorrigible child.

I am autistic.

This is my battle cry.