Generational Weird Pride and the importance of Weirdo Role Models

Happy Weird Pride Day, y’all! 🎉

I’m excited to have recently found out about this excellent holiday, because it can mean so much to so many people. Regardless of whether you are considered weird by your local hegemony because you’re neurodivergent, queer, mentally ill, physically disabled, an immigrant, an ethnic minority or just because, you get to be proud of your perceived weirdness, own it, flaunt it, and let other weirdos feel less ashamed and more empowered to just be weird.

My mom taught me many important lessons, but one of the most important ones I learnt just by observing her: how to be a proud weirdo. She started setting a personal example while I was still in her womb, when she turned down my dad’s proposal. Thank you, mom, for not even considering social norms and refusing to marry a tyrannical bigot who, according to you, made you feel small. 

My mom raised me in a flat furnished with second hand and found articles, and decorated by her own handiwork and grain stalks she collected in the fields. There was a huge poster of Laurel and Hardy being silly, and one of Franz Kafka, who my mother thought was hot. She drove me around in a hilarious Renault 4, whose roof was so rusted out that one day we found an actual meadow growing in the back seat, after rain water and sunshine met leftover grains from her decorative forays. We loved our little field, and let it run its course in the back seat of our car.

She used to dress me and herself with clothing we either found at the bargain heap in the market, or she sewed herself from bedsheets I refused to sleep in, because they weren’t 100% cotton. Another source of clothing was hand-me-downs from her various friends, that she then would bedazzle with sequins or add lace to. We were very colorful and pretty weird-looking. With puberty looming, that started to embarrass me. I first wanted t-shirts and Levi’s (we could only afford one pair), and later refused to wear anything that wasn’t black. My mom complained it was boring, and I complained she was being a weirdo. Her response: So what?

Once my “black period” was over and I started wearing flowing flowery dresses, my ex-best friend said I looked like I was wearing a curtain. I already had the answer: So what?

And this is my point: my mother showed me by example, and I’ve followed in her footsteps, being weird and proud to this very day. And now that I’m the age she was when she was setting an example for me, I try to also be a proud weirdo role model for others. 

Let me share a little anecdote that illustrates what I mean.
I like singing. It’s one of my favourite stims. So every once in a while I go with a group of queer neurodivergent friends to Monster Ronson’s Ichiban Karaoke (who sadly isn’t supporting me or Aut2Aut financially. Not yet anyway, wink wink, Monster). We like going on Mondays, when you never know who will join you in a booth. We go early, settle in in an empty booth, and usually at some point either more queer folks join us, or a lone man who sings surprisingly well. Like, really well.
This time it was an older and a younger person, maybe mother and daughter, maybe queerdo and a cool aunt, maybe none of the above. We didn’t ask. When they walked in, I was in the middle of a very involved rendition of Aerosmith's Amazing, which I was singing partly because I love this song (though not the video!), and partly to cheer up a broken hearted friend who was there with us. About a minute into their first time at a Karaoke venue, as it later turned out, they had the honor and privilege (or so I tell myself) to witness me doing the rock scat bit (min 3:29, in case you were wondering), with all my heart. I was half repeating the original, half making it up as I went along, half singing and half shouting, all the while dancing in my leopard pattern hoodie and maybe headbanging a bit, with my cap and yellow glasses on.

At first, they were taken aback. They gasped and stared, then smiled and maybe even laughed. Who’s to tell. But when it was their turn to sing, they gave no less involved performances, danced, screamed and fooled around, because they saw it was acceptable. They saw me being a big, fat, proud queer weirdo, and they knew they had the permission to be their versions of weird in there too.

So my message to all of you out there, and especially those of you who have loved ones who look up to you, is:
Be proudly weird if and when you can safely do so, so that others can follow your lead, and feel empowered to be proud weirdos too!

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