the girl or the weapon
on autism, poetry, and productivity
Some difficult words poured out of me recently, after years of occupying shadows in the back of my mind. I’m simultaneously eager to share this prose poem and uneasy about setting these words loose, but I think this is the right setting, and you the right reader.
First, though, some background.
I was drawn to traumatized autistic characters in popular culture long before I realized I was one of them. River Tam of Firefly and Serenity, Stranger Things’ Eleven, and the titular character of Hanna* are the subjects of fan debate: are they autistic? Or do they ‘just’ have post-traumatic stress disorder?
This binary is both unhelpful and unnecessary, in my opinion, as it’s rare for a girl-shaped child to be autistic in this world without also being victimized.
Hanna, Eleven, and River were children, bred or selected for their brilliance and intensity of focus. Theirs were three minds diverging from and soaring above what was thought possible—trapped, broken, and reprogrammed into compliant but lethal objects. By governments, by the machines of war. By villains wearing the titles and costumes of science.
They will never pay taxes, the head of the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services said of autistic people last month, seemingly justifying his desperation to destroy us. They’ll never hold a job.
The useful parts of us are used, the rest of us discarded.
They’ll never write a poem, he said.
Here’s mine.
The Girl or the Weapon
Who we gonna find in there when she wakes up: the girl? Or the weapon?
—Captain Malcolm Reynolds, Serenity
I know what’s going to happen, just as sure as if it happened already. (Cassandra, the hissers whisper, but I’ll soon be believed.) It has happened already, whether you know it or not. It’s happened before.
This is not witchcraft, what I do. It’s observing. Tracing patterns. Remembering—what they want me to remember. Forgetting what they don’t. What I want to forget or remember doesn’t enter into it. Does a knife have desires? None that any sensible man could hear. This body is a girl’s. This mind, a knife. The shape they honed. I must have been four years old, once. If ever I was anything. Was anyone. I was fed, cleaned, whetted. Trained in my targets. For toys, maps, lists, diagrams. For a lullaby, the jingle and click of keys in the door.
Extraordinary.
Who are you, and where did I come from? You, I mean. I. Me. This face unknown to me. Mirrorless as I’ve been. Expressions I can’t read. Eyes unfocused anyway. Blurred shapes and bleach-smothered smells. All familiar, still alien. Play: a word I read somewhere. No definition provided. Friend, the same. I know what I shouldn’t, don’t know what I should. The optimal angle of entry between a man’s fourth and fifth ribs. What song sounds like. A bird is a whistle. I think. What she’s capable of and She has no idea. No seams, no zippers, this garment all of a piece, but the fabric’s wearing thin. But secrets. But denial. Nobody. No body. Months upon moments of mists in the mind. No mind. Never mind.
You should be grateful. After all we’ve done for you.
There was no before. There was ever only this.
Were you a child, once?
What was it like?
*
Note to more literal-minded readers: this is a persona poem. Unlike Hanna, River, and Eleven, I’ve never been imprisoned in a covert facility. Not yet, anyway. Even so, for more reasons than I can explain here, I relate deeply to their experiences of being broken, used, and discarded by a government that views them—us—simultaneously as hideous monsters and helpful machines.
on a completely separate note
Not everyone wants to talk about stickers—but I know a lot of you do. Not everyone wants to leave social media, but it sure would be nice if we could.
Think of small potatoes as the middle way: fun and infrequent updates from me, Elinor, and our sticker shop, delivered right to your inbox. In addition to new products and other shop updates, the emails will include links to things we love, access to sales, and sweet freebies like downloadable coloring pages. (There’s an awfully cute snail coloring page available now.) Readers can also weigh in on which items we’ll add to our summer 2025 collection. We’d really love your input.
If this sounds like something you’d enjoy, you can sign up for small potatoes here.
Thanks for reading all the way to the end, and—more importantly—thank you for staying alive with me.
*Reflection on these films and shows is not endorsement of their creators. Joss Whedon can go rot.
Red photos by Jr Korpa via Unsplash. Potatoes by me. Did you see the one with a butt??!
I see you, Kate.
Love to you Kate xxx