I THOUGHT I understood “joy is an act of resistance” — a phrase first coined by poet Toi Derricotte — like the back of my hand. As someone who is neurodivergent and queer, my existence is political, and my thriving is defiant. Every joke I make, in particular my bad jokes, I make with a wink at all my haters. (The moral arc of the universe bends away from you and toward my bad jokes.)
That, surely, is joy as resistance — being ridiculous when many would rather I be dead. I feel this in my bones. Surely, I thought as I sat down to write this month’s column, I understand this concept well enough to teach my beloved readers how to achieve it in their own lives.
Friends, it turns out I do not actually feel this in my bones. It would be an understatement to say I struggled to write this column. I had to journal about it, talk it out with friends, and take a good long look at myself in the mirror to get to the heart (or the bones, I guess) of the problem, which was, surprisingly, a lack of feeling. A lack of bones? This metaphor is getting away from me.
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