Don’t Wanna Be An American Idiot

One of my favorite albums turned 20 last year. The album that I wrote extensive fanfic about, the one I analyzed like any other great work of fiction, one that despite its age feels right at home today in 2025 as it did in 2004. 

Same shit, new regime. 

American Idiot in so many ways felt like it was an album crafted just for my teenage brain. Perfectly edgy, self-deprecating and self-aggrandizing as well as incredibly pointed towards a particular moment in political history. To anyone who dared to say music isn’t political, I’d dare them to say that after listening to American Idiot (or after literally reading a book). 

Protest music is why all of my hoodies are black. Protest music is what kept me going through those difficult Bush years when I was just an exhausted teenager barely understanding the depths of oppression but still feeling its weight. I was mad at my family, mad at the government, mad at America and American Idiot was the soundtrack for all of my dispassionate rage. 

It’s amazing that 21 years later, after several re-listens while doing a lot of the exact same things I was doing at 14 (writing fanfic, talking to my friends online, planning our costumes and conventions) that outside of some of the less than PC language used (really, the f-slur was not needed twice on a single album), the feelings are all the same. The rage is the same. The displeasure, the ennui, the hopelessness that turns in your stomach to and fuels something greater within you: rebellion. 

While a lot has changed in 21 years, a lot is still painfully the same. But so is that fire in me that used to burn to impotent ash as a teenager. I’m not powerless anymore. I can vote with ballots, dollars, attention and time. I can protest by existing, supporting my communities and moving forward. 

I don’t want to be an American Idiot. 

And luckily, I don’t have to be. 

Criminal Minds: The Misrepresentation of Goths and Nerds

I’ve been rewatching Criminal Minds because my personal Chinese spy on TikTok told me to. While the show certainly lacks the subtlety I once thought it had (cue the episode where a man is determined to bring his dead big brother back from the dead by murdering young men, sewing their body parts together and trying to use the ‘magic’ of tornados to bring him back). But one thing that has been a huge surprise in a more recent re-watch was a theme I’m familiar with when it comes to media but I didn’t notice in Criminal Minds: the fear of goths and nerds with special interests. 

Now, let’s get one thing straight. Goths and nerds that have intense special interests especially in history and fantasy have been a low hanging fruit for society and media to crap on for years. We had a whole Satanic Panic over it and the ugly tendrils of the movement rear up every few years or so when the kids inevitably find a new thing for the status quo to be outraged over. But wearing all black and liking Dante’s Divine Comedy a serial killer does not make. Which leads us into why I care so much about this dogpiling happening on Criminal Minds. 

The early 2000s cop dramas like CSI and Law and Order: SVU were full of 90s and 80s bigotry and hatred. You can see it in the shows’ blatant transphobia, homophobia, racism and sexism. There is zero shock at all that a show directed by that bootlicker, Dick Wolf, would use the easiest of tropes and signifiers to show his black and white morality. “Normal” sports playing kids are good, all-black wearing “weird” kids are bad. But some of Criminal Minds’ best episodes and with the darkest themes are directed by series regular Matthew Gray Gubler. And if you’re unfamiliar with Mr. Gubler, I’m happy to provide some sources. But suffice to say, he’s one black t-shirt away from being a guy I would have drooled over in college. Some of the series most disturbing episodes: Mr. Scratch, Heathridge Manor, The Lesson; all of those were directed by Gubler.

And a persistent theme across many Criminal Minds episodes is that “Oh, that weird kid? Probably a serial killer.” Garcia was famously “bad” and “The Black Queen” when she was a goth hacker who lost her parents and was rebelling against society. The episode where there’s an epidemic of teenagers dying in what turns out to be some kind of internet choking game and the main suspect for most of the episode is the one obvious goth kid who turns out was being abused and choked by his dad and the dad was the actual serial killer! In the famous cannibal episode of season 3, the killer’s obsessed with Goya’s Black Paintings. Another episode features a serial killer who is super into Greece and Greek Mythology and has to do a murder about it. 

Now, are there serial killers with niche obsessions? Absolutely. Too many to cover in this post about a fictional crime procedural. What’s damaging is that there are plenty of relatively chill people that like wearing all black, Goya paintings and Greek mythology and Dante’s Divine Comedy. I’m a person that wears all black, likes Goya’s paintings and mythology and The Divine Comedy. And still seeing the tired ass trope of being goth or having a particular interest that’s important to you is just plain exhausting: especially from a show that brings me so much neurodiverse comfort. 

May Angels Keep Me Through the Night

I grew up in a Dallas suburb in the 1990s. While looking back at the 90s now, it feels like there was crime everywhere but at the time, the 90s felt like a welcomed balm in comparison to the tumultuous 1970s and 1980s. Clinton was in office. The suburbs were quiet and life was peaceful. But two landmark cases rocked the very foundation of my childhood. And as anniversaries for these deaths and events creep up, I think it’s worth discussing. 

I was an exceptionally cute kid. That isn’t even a vain comment, I was just a very cute little kid. All wide eyes, bright smile and smooth complexion. My parents, in all of their 90s glory, decided that I should be a pageant child. Entering me in hair shows to start, A hair show is basically what it sounds like. Fashion show but for hair styling. But something happened that shook the nation and any hopes I ever had at being a 90s pageant sensation. JonBenét Ramsey was a little girl that was a just month younger than me, born in the same year. She was a pageant star. She was loved and adored. 

But one day, she was killed. Now, if I’m allowed to indulge in some true crime history: the prevailing theory for many years was that JonBenét was killed by a deranged and probably pedophilic crazed fan. That theory held up for a few years and further dives into the case have shown that JonBenét was most likely killed in her home by a member of her family or in a tragic “accident”. But for most of the 1990s, JonBenét’s death was clearly done by some horrible shadowy figure who wishes to do harm to this poor innocent little girl. But the fear of me being paraded around in little sparkly outfits, all dolled up and becoming a recognizable figure was scary enough for my parents to squash my budding career as a pageant star. 

Even with the power of hindsight and knowing that the evil that preyed on JonBenét was likely hiding in her own home, Stranger Danger was big business in the 90s. The 1970s and 1980s both had far too many stories of child abduction, all of them ending in either tragedy or mystery. By the time the country made it into the false security promised by the 90s, there was a strong desire to teach kids about how to be safe. As a child, it felt like paranoia. Having to always look around and be alert and be aware. 

Oh, to be that sweet innocent child again. 

But JonBenét’s passing was not the only tragedy that defined my childhood. The world simply isn’t that kind. 

Amber Haggerman was a little older than me. She was a girl who lived in my city. We could have been neighbors. But one day, Amber was taken while she was out riding her bike. She was found naked and slashed up days later. We still don’t know who assaulted and murdered Amber Hagerman. 

Amber’s abduction and murder shocked not only the state but the entire nation. There was a very present understanding that what happened to Amber could happen to anyone’s child. Did it help that Amber was a little white child? Yes. I’m not here to argue that point. 

But Amber’s death did give us something that protects children all across the nation now: The Amber Alert, named after Amber Hagerman, now signals us to stay on the lookout and speak up because there is a child missing. 

Amber Hagerman is buried in the same cemetery as my mother and maternal grandparents and each time I visit them, I am sure to bring extra flowers for Amber Hagerman. 

My family took the loss of these two girls very seriously. I got the usual dose of 90s Stranger Danger at school and at home we extensively practiced what to do if I saw someone I didn’t recognize or someone came to the door asking for my family. We had a family password, one I still have committed to memory that I was to ask any adult that came to the door to ensure I only opened that door for family. I was closely guarded by neighbors and extended family. 

It was the premature loss of these two angels that guided my family to make better choices and preserve the relative innocence of my childhood. And for that, I am forever grateful. 

My Year in Bloodwork

I’ve always known I’m chronically ill. I knew there were ghosts in the machine that made life more difficult for me than it did for others. And I pressed on through sheer spite and the resilience that only comes with being raised black and hypercompetent. But I always knew that I was sick even when I didn’t have names for the conditions that made me tired, caused me pain, and left scars both physical and emotional. 

This year has been a year where I returned to focusing on health. After years of neglect and living up to the African-American “stereotype” of not seeing doctors, I finally was sick and tired of feeling sick and tired and went back to my primary care doctor. That one appointment opened up Pandora’s Box and one appointment turned into two referrals, two referrals became three specialists and new conditions to add to my list and to treat. 

When I was a kid, I was pretty fearless, but the one thing that scared the ever loving shit was needles. I hated needles ever since I had a flu shot from a church volunteer that felt more like being stabbed than a small pinprick in my early childhood. Even the post-vaccination church nachos didn’t stop my whimpering and growing resentment and dislike of needles. The older I got, the more I did my best to avoid the use of large needles in the medical sense but I was dutiful with my vaccinations. I just had to look away or crack jokes to keep my attention away from the literal steel object piercing my skin. 

But having sick parents, sick grandparents, sick aunts and sick uncles put you at a statistically high risk of being sick yourself and it all started with routine blood work. 

So far, the most vials of blood I’ve had to give at one time to be tested was 15. I had already given 14 vials of blood and right at the end of the appointment I was told I needed to have one more vial collected. I think my veins are still mad at me for the abuse. 

But in all the blood I’ve seen being taken from my body and siphoned into vials, I’ve learned things about my body that have helped me feel stronger and better in spite of my many illnesses. 

My severe anemia is now being properly taken care of with iron and lifestyle changes. The kidney disease that has lurked in my bloodline for decades is being treated after noticing my levels were abnormal especially for someone of my age. My mood and outlook have improved because I am no longer severely deficient in Vitamin D. 

I still have a long road ahead of me and being chronically ill is less about achieving one big goal but small victories that turn into better days. 

I have things that I want to do. Places I want to see. Things to be deeply nerdy about. 

And I need to be around to do it all. 

After the Election 2024

I wanted to write this days ago. I wanted to write something when the feelings were still fresh and raw. 

I spent the day immediately after the election talking friends and loved ones down from metaphorical and literal ledges. 

I spent that day crying, bitter, angry, hurt and confused. 

I spent the day trying to be strong and optimistic in a situation that is deeply pessimistic. 

The election happened. The Fascist won. 

But after several therapy sessions with both me receiving therapy and me providing unofficial therapy to those close to me: I’ve been focusing on what brings me peace and makes me happy. Not to selfishly ignore the looming crisis, but to be better prepared mentally, spiritually, and physically for the fight ahead. 

Here are some of the things I’ve been doing to keep myself sane during the calm before the storm. 

Comfort Shows and Videos: 

This is not the time for my love of dense, complex and deeply existential documentaries. This is the time for a “guilty” pleasure of mine, Monster Factory. This is the time for only season 9 of ER. This is the time for shows that are exciting but predictable. No surprises, no plot twists, no crying in the middle of a new movie. 

Uptempo Music

While I am known to wallow in the soothing embrace of sad songs, I am plenty sad enough. I did enjoy The Saddest Song (I’ve Got) thanks to aforementioned ER re-watch but for the most part it’s been my gym hardstyle playlist, a whole lot of Joost Klein and that catchy little K-Pop tune Bruno Mars did. It’s been nice to hear music with a fast beat and lyrics that aren’t about the sad feelings associated with a bad ex. 

Comfort Food (In Moderation) 

I’ve been on a bit of a “health” journey but I’ve also made big strides not to demonize or moralize food. Food isn’t bad, it’s fuel, even if the fuel is pizza. The night of the election I ordered pizza, watched some shows that I like, turned my phone off and went to bed. Since then, I’ve eaten at Chili’s of all places, enjoyed some lovely pastries and worked hard to find an alternative to soda because my love of Dr. Pepper is likely to put me in an early grave. I picked up this delicious brown sugar and maple syrup butter from my local Trader Joe’s and I’ve been obsessed with it. It’s perfect on sourdough toast and makes everything taste like a warm fall hug. 

Going to the Gym 

Never thought I’d become the worst possible gym rat. But I’ve been pretty steadily going to the gym at least twice a week since August and while I can’t say I find the gym particularly fun or exciting, it is great that my friends and family motivate me through it. My friends have been amazing at hyping me up as I walk and try the stairmaster all while listening to either the most gym bro hardstyle phonk or Unsolved Mysteries (there is no in between). 

Tiktok

As scary as it is, the Tiktok algorithm adapts quickly. The moment I stopped paying attention to political content, my FYP became full of cute animals, delicious food, Japan travel tips, neat birds and memes. Sure, some of the content is still very much political but it’s mostly from the perspective of women, queer people and women of color; all voices I’m happy to hear. It isn’t the endless doom of what’s ahead but rather the delicious schadenfreude that comes with conservatives realizing that their “victory” is short-sighted and that their privilege will not save them. 

The next four years are going to be a lot. Even if we don’t take the liar at face value, his cabinet full of absolute buffons and his xenophobic and sexist grand ideas are going to test this country. But during that time I promise to maintain an open and safe space for LGBTQ+ people. I will continue to be an outspoken feminist. I will continue to talk about being black, being a woman, and being queer. 

The next four years are going to ask a lot from us. And I’m going to need to be ready to stand with those that face oppression. For now, I’m taking it easy, but it’s all in preparation for what’s ahead. 

The Opal Thief

The Valentine’s Day before my Father died, he gifted my Mother and I each a ring. I got my birthstone: a ruby flanked by diamonds on a gold band. My Mother received a stunning opal set with earrings, a necklace and a ring. 

These gifts were meant to show just how special my Mom and I were to my Dad and any normal child would be thrilled to receive such gorgeous jewelry as a gift. 

However, I was not a normal child. And my Electra Complex refused to accept a mere ruby. I coveted my Mother’s opal. I needed that opal. I wanted nothing more than that opal. I would watch my mother fire her opal and I stare, transfixed as blazing flashes or orange, green and blue. The more my Mother swooned over that opal, the more I craved it. I needed to not only stand as one of my Father’s special girls, I needed to be the only special girl. 

Now, before anyone breaks out the pitchforks and torches: no, I was never abused by my Father. That isn’t a cover, that isn’t an excuse, literally I was just a typical Daddy’s Little Princess without it being gross. I was competitive with my Mother for my Father’s attention because I loved my Dad and my Dad was a fun guy to be around. I was competitive with nearly everyone over my Dad’s attention. 

Since Dad passed away just 6 days after Valentine’s Day, the opal that Mother received transformed from a beautiful and thoughtful gift to practically a holy relic. Mom wore that damn thing everywhere. Whenever there was a reason to dress up: church, school functions, parties; almost any occasion was the perfect occasion to break out the opal jewelry. Before going out, she’d fire her opal with rubbing alcohol to coax out even more vibrant hues and flashes of orange. And just like before Dad passed away, I would sit there with the deepest envy of the fiery opal Mother wore with such pride. When Mother wasn’t around, I’d look at her opal jewelry set. I’d put on the necklace and ring and stare at its beauty and complexity and pretend like it was mine. I resented every time I had to return Mother’s jewelry to her jewelry box. Especially after losing Dad, that opal should be mine. Or at least, that was the persistent lie my brain continued to tell me. 

Mother kept her opal for over a decade before Heaven called her home and back to her husband. And while burying her, it was the responsibility of myself and my aunts to decide what Mother would take with her to her eternal rest and what we as a family would keep as ways to remember her. After over a decade, now was my chance. My greedy little dragon heart could finally get exactly what it wanted: the opal could be mine. 

But when we picked out the outfit Mom would wear for one last time, when I was facing her body, looking at her before the casket was closed; something came to me. It felt wrong to try and separate my Mother from her treasured jewelry. So even when given the chance, I let Mother keep her opals and her wedding ring; just as Dad was buried with his. 

She got to keep her opal and I put aside the part of me that wanted to hoard the fine jewels that had stuck around since my pre-teen years.

I do wear opals now. I’m fond of their fire and shine but I prefer ones a little different to Mom’s. I prefer pinker hues and the rainbow fire of black opal. I like round or oval shapes rather than Mother’s teardrop shapes. I favor rose gold or silver to my Mother’s yellow gold. 

Mother and I are different. That’s why we wear different opals. And now I have my own to covet and care for and use as a memory of my parents who share the birthstone. My opals are no longer worn out of simple spite or jealousy, but to pay homage and honor my parents. 

My ADHD Is Not a Superpower

My aunts were in town recently and I was happy to show them my unique version of San Antonio (the kind with less gentrification and more hand-pulled burrata). One of those stops was inevitably the museum where I’ve spent plenty of Sundays seeing the main collections and absorbing the history and art. While there, I amassed a little bit of a crowd. A family had assumed that with all of my knowledge about the historical background to various art pieces that I was some kind of wayward museum employee. 

A similar incident happened while at the farmer’s market where a bunch of folks from out of town said I clearly sounded like I knew what I was talking about and asked me for a recommendation. 

My friends and family could tell you stories about me being a defacto tour guide and captivating people with the bits of knowledge I’ve learned over the years (my favorite being the time a bunch of ladies on a church tour got to learn about Vatican burial practices from me while at the National Museum of Funeral History in Houston). But while I’m full of trivia and historical knowledge, it doesn’t always feel like it’s the most productive thing. 

When I was sitting with my aunt, she was confident in saying that my knowledge, my ability to communicate and be a charming and charismatic speaker were all gifts from God. And while I took the compliment, I’ve felt conflicted about it ever sense. Not just because my relationship with “God” is essentially very complicated but because being this full of knowledge doesn’t feel like a blessing. Most days when I’m unable to focus at work or can’t relate to my coworkers or find it hard to feel stimulated during dates, it feels like a burden.

The knowledge I have started with my Dad. Dad would quiz me on car manufacturers and their countries of origin, I had to know all of the major Italian mafia crime families in the US, and of course I absolutely needed to know everything about dinosaurs (okay, that one was all me). I took refuge in books, especially thick reference books. I ate books like air as a kid and as a teenager I found obscura (books about incredibly niche topics). I kept learning because I felt awkward in my own skin and struggled with relating to my peers. I read because my mind was racing and if I kept on reading and watching documentaries, I couldn’t have the down time needed to sink into self-loathing. 

I made friends with books when I couldn’t connect with real people. 

I kept on studying because I felt alone. 

I absorbed trivia and history and facts because my mind was racing and I couldn’t focus on other things. 

And that’s only the parts that are hyperactive. My aunt certainly doesn’t see the days I’m in bed, rotting away. She doesn’t know about the hours mindlessly scrolling on TikTok. She doesn’t feel the many minutes spent prone after a shower trying to find the energy to just get up and go to work. It’s not a magical power, it’s a curse.

There are people who like to say that being neurodivergent is a superpower: that somehow with our special, special minds, we have savant-like powers that only those with brains touched by “difference” can access. But being neurodivergent has never felt like magic or a power to me, it’s felt like this silent thing that’s walked alongside of me for my whole life, hiding behind other conditions and obfuscating itself under the guise of being a “quick study” or having a “great memory”. There are people’s names I can’t remember but I can tell you a horrifying amount about the crimes of America’s first serial killer: H.H. Holmes. 

When at drinks with a client, I noticed he had a tattoo of Anubis and I mentioned it had been a while since I had read the Spells of Coming Forth by Day and was crestfallen to find that “normal” people don’t read this kind of stuff for “fun”. 

While podcasting and blogging has provided me with some fantastic outlets for all the knowledge stuck up in my head, my ADHD isn’t a superpower. Controlling it and focusing it towards learning rather than entropy is a skill. And I’m lucky that I get to find people who genuinely are impressed by all the things I know and it’s a nice feeling. Those people, however, do not need to know about the manic learning goblin I become to avoid the moments where my brain gets a little too quiet and conjures up the most vile thoughts about myself, my life and my life choices. 

If I keep reading, keeping those pieces of knowledge; maybe I’ll find the right thing to help me love myself more.