arpwel-blog

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check out my zine here 

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@arpwel

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@arpwel

[arpwel-blog]

I have no idea how because I wasn't even on Tumblr but I dropped my phone, accidentally kicked it across the kitchen and I ended up on your blog, the stars must have aligned for me to get here!!

haha that’s wild but i’m glad you found me!

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link to the original tweet: https://twitter.com/Arpwel/status/1007042847365885958

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thanks for the shoutout!

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FYI

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The Tainted Beauty of Adirondack Memories - The Tainted Beauty of Adirondack Memories (on Wattpad) https://my.w.tt/ew664YDwAL A short non-fiction piece about a queer and autistic boy’s experiences in the Adirondacks

[arpwel-blog]

The Tainted Beauty of Adirondack Memories - The Tainted Beauty of Adirondack Memories (on Wattpad) https://my.w.tt/ew664YDwAL A short non-fiction piece about a queer and autistic boy’s experiences in the Adirondacks

[arpwel-blog]

The Tainted Beauty of Adirondack Memories - The Tainted Beauty of Adirondack Memories (on Wattpad) https://my.w.tt/ew664YDwAL A short non-fiction piece about a queer and autistic boy's experiences in the Adirondacks

[arpwel-blog]

[Image description: a tweet that says “ableists use disabled people as scapegoats for gun violence, because admitting that mass shooters aren’t ‘insane’ means coming to terms with the profoundly fucked up nature of our society as it exists today”]

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i love how there was a whole tumblr discourse about one of my tweets and i like had no idea lol

[arpwel-blog]

The Tainted Beauty of Adirondack Memories

LINK: https://medium.com/@CArpwel/the-tainted-beauty-of-adirondack-memories-89fc068785ef

We went to a cabin every summer. It was a long weekend spent with family friends from my neighborhood. The cabin sat in a small park along the shoreline of Fourth Lake in the Adirondacks.

I was treated like one of the boys there. I was expected to enjoy “boy” activities — such as fishing, hiking, and talking about girls in our sleeping bags. These times felt so tranquil, beautiful, and wrong, because I was queer, awkward, effeminate, and autistic.

But I always found time each year to stand along the shoreline alone and watch as light danced off the thin layers of water that softly crashed into the beach’s brown sand. In near distance, I would hear the parents jabbering on the porch with an energy that comes from a mild beer buzz in the afternoon.

I recall the drive up to the cabin so well. My friend’s dad would play a mix of NPR and bluegrass cassette tapes as we drove up the evergreen foothills into the wedges between rounded ancient mountains. They were like worn stone monuments to long forgotten gods. I imagined elves, trolls, and other magical creatures inhabiting this sacred terrain. It felt so vast, unknown, and strangely full of potential. The silver minivan I sat in was stuffed with kids, gear, and food — all for genuine pursuit of making cherished memories. Upon arrival in the one-street town of Inlet, we engaged in the tedious process of unloading the caravan of cars and figuring out room assignments. As the years went on, more families were added to our group and we eventually started renting the neighboring cabin as well.

Although I refer to them as “cabins,” they are in fact more akin to rustic Victorian homes. There was heating, plumbing, and a full kitchen in both houses. The furniture was wicker and worn down from years of use. The framed pictures of scenic landscapes were sun bleached and tattered. They were all such fixed features of the houses that I imagined they were permanently fused to the floors and walls. The lack of change in these spaces contributed to the place’s sense of timelessness. Although where we slept changed from year to year, the consistency of these interior settings makes my memories of these trips blend and collide together.

I deeply remember wanting something different for myself during these trips. In many ways, my life was immensely blessed. I was blessed to have loving parents with bountiful material wealth. I had friends and a rich sense of community in my hometown in Upstate New York. Still, living in these idyllic circumstances made being who I am a constant experience of otherness and difference.

I recall standing alone in the outfield during a pickup baseball game. My oversized mitt was hanging loosely from my limp hand as my eyes darted to the birds flying overhead and to the swaying branches of the mighty pine trees that surrounded the field. As the other boys yelled, ran, and scored points, I remained lost within myself as I observed the scenery around me. When a ball flew in my direction, I screamed and ran all the way back to the cabin. I felt so confused, isolated, and embarrassed as I sat curled up and trembling in my sleeping bag. I thought, “Why do I have to do this? What’s the point in playing this game anyway? Why am I so pathetic?” I dwelled on these thoughts until my Dad arrived.

Later, I remember my Dad walking me to the candy store. I was young, but the exact age is unclear to me. I was scrawny, short, and wearing a tie-dye shirt that was far too big for my body. My Dad’s presence and the quietness of our stroll along Inlet’s main drag was an immense source of comfort. I needed time to decompress from my meltdown during the baseball game. A few new families were on the trip that year and they were much more into sports-oriented activities than I had grown to expect. Two boys, named Christian and Tyler, had insisted that we play baseball. They were much cooler and more athletic than I was at the time. Although I had expressed discomfort with doing this activity, I decided that this was just another impulsive fear I had to swallow to please my friends and parents.

My mind and body felt painfully tense and bundled up from this shifting social landscape and the incident that occurred earlier. At the little candy store, named “Finders Keepers,” I promptly picked out a jawbreaker and sugar sticks packaged to look like a pack of cigarettes. I wanted to get more candy, but I had an overpowering desire to show my Dad how restrained and mature I could be, despite what had happened earlier. Although I was still shaken and overwhelmed, I felt the need to prove to him that I was worthy of his immense patience and kindness. Sacrificing my desire for liquorish and sour patch kids seemed like a small price to pay for validation from my Father. Seeing what I planned on buying, my Dad said in a mildly concerned tone, “Are you sure that’s all you want to get? I’m in no rush.” After taking a moment to consider his offer, I meekly responded, “Na, I should be good. I wanna save room for ice cream later.”

As we passed by the town’s ten or so local stores on our way back, my Dad’s tall and imposing frame halted beside me. He then looked at me through his thick glasses and said, “Conor, I know how hard this is for you, but I hope you know how proud I am of you. You’re the bravest person I know.” Feeling like I didn’t deserve this immense compliment, I haltingly said “thank you.” After all, I hadn’t caught the biggest fish that year and I was too afraid to try water skiing. But, deep down, I knew that there was truth in his compliment and that I had to tackle fears and difficulties that others could not always see.

For so long, this quiet emotional burden went unexamined and was deeply suppressed. I had to construct a disciplined reality for myself to survive. Doing well at school, blending in, and making friends were the missions of my life. I didn’t know myself without those driving goals shaping all of my actions. I did so much purely for the sake of pleasing others. My own thoughts, fears, and desires were mysterious forces not to be trusted. They had to be diligently regulated and suppressed if necessary. This mentality helped me grow and achieve normative success at a dizzying rate. Yet, it left me with very little in terms of my autonomy and personhood.

So, when I look back on these times, I feel a kind of tainted beauty along the shores of Fourth Lake. Even during those moments when my life was full of such effervescent goodness, my experiences were more fraught and complicated than what appeared on the surface. I guess that is one of the realities of disability. Even when you feel like you can transcend your pain and your sense of brokenness, it still resides within you and shapes how you experience life.