Empowered by Cyberspace by Alex Masse
An abstract digital graphic of pink lines and matrices floats. Blurry faces can just barely be made out in the background, looking at the pink lines.
I am proud to consider myself an emerging artist. I write prose, poetry, plays, and articles, and I also write, produce, and perform music.
I’m also proud to be neurodivergent. I was told I’m autistic at age 7, and told I have other things in the years since, such as anxiety and OCD. I’m also in the process of getting diagnosed with ADHD. At this point, I feel like doctors want me to rack up half the DSM!
A white midi controller with buttons and knobs for digital music creation sits on grass.
As I said, though, I’m proud of who I am. I don’t let my disabilities hold me back. I embrace them. After all, I don’t know who I’d be if I hadn’t been born this way; would I have the same strengths, gifts, and passions?
That said, I live in a world where the dominant neurotype is one different from mine, and that means I often struggle with getting by, and have access needs others don’t.
This, to be honest, made it very difficult for me to break into the local arts scene, and for a number of reasons. Most days, I have a rather limited amount of energy - and that energy can be taken up by just about anything, from a break in routine, to not sleeping well, to running into a bout of loud noise. Sure, nobody likes any of those, but for me, it’s a real shock to the system, and can leave me exhausted and off-kilter for days on end.
For example: I live in Surrey, but do most of my work in Vancouver - it’s where a lot of the art is. But, getting to Vancouver, is an hour or two of transit. If I wanted to do a once-a-week mentorship, I’d not only have to find time for it outside school and other commitments - shifting my precious routines around - and keep my energy levels high enough for hours of transit there and back. Often, my mentorships would happen on the same days as my schooling, which already left me tired.
These energy levels also affect the severity of my second problem - if I’m tired, I won’t have the energy to mask my neurodivergency.
For better or worse, when I’m not consciously mimicking neurotypical behaviour, I am visibly neurodivergent - or, at least, I’m neurodivergent in a way that’s visible, even if it’s not recognized as such. I’m fidgety–often doodling, fiddling with my phone, wringing my hands, or moving around even when I’m talking to people or listening to a presentation. My vocal inflections and facial expressions are sometimes misread as disinterested, upset, or condescending, whether or not I mean it. I also often wear noise-cancelling headphones when I’m out, even when I’m socializing, and I hate eye contact more than anyone I know.
Some days, these symptoms are manageable. If I have it in me, I can not only pass as allistic (non-autistic), but appear peppy, fun, and full of energy and excitement!
But if I’m already tired, I don’t have it in me to, say, make eye contact or go around in public without my headphones. I come off as standoffish and bored.
I don’t think people are automatically ableist for making those kinds of assumptions. I don’t have the average presentation, and it’s not anyone’s fault it’s less common, but it’s something I find myself worried about. Like, what if people assume I’m disinterested in them and it ruins potential opportunities or friendships?
My first serious paid creative mentorships were in-person, in early 2020. That was on my mind throughout our weekly meets: would I be accepted by my fellow creatives, or was I just weird (and not in a good, artsy way)?
For better or worse, I wouldn’t be asking myself that question for long - enter COVID-19, stage left.
A green mug sits beside a laptop with a virtual meeting in session on the screen.
Thriving in the Digital World
The two mentorships I was in went online. I tuned in from my bedroom, far from everyone I’d spent the last two months with. Little did I know, this would be a blessing in disguise. For starters, the fact I didn’t have to take transit meant I had more time on my hands - time I not only used to rest, but to spend seeking out other opportunities. Online ones, sure, but I digress: the digital world gave me the ability to take on more work and make more connections.
And even with this extra workload, I found myself having more energy, now that it wasn’t sapped by transit or breaks in routine. All I had to do to arrive at my commitments was crawl out of bed and shamble over to my desk. I used my spare energy to actually get dressed and look nice which was a cinch because people only ever saw me from the chest-up! Plus, if even that was too hard, I could just keep my camera off.
The digital world also dealt away with some aspects of body language that’d always stressed me out. I could fidget out of my camera’s view, and eye contact didn’t matter anymore, because everyone was looking at their screens.
In the end, most local folks I’ve met since 2020, I met online first. A lot of them I still haven’t crossed paths with in real life. It’s bittersweet, but sometimes I’m relieved they knew me online first. It let me have a first impression without my disability taking centre stage, even though I’m really quite open about it. I guess in a way, I didn’t quite closet myself, but got rid of any indicators that I thought would bring about unconscious bias.
Boy, though, did it pay off. In the pandemic, I thrived. I kicked off a freelance writing side hustle, and wrote articles for a variety of publications on the regular. I released two EPs, as well as commissioned work and collaborations with theatres, festivals, and other creative projects. I worked with Penelope Scott, I performed at Vancouver Pride, and I did it all as my authentic, creative, neurodivergent self.
Of course, nothing lasts forever. And it’d be really nice to give a handshake or hug to some of the people I owe my creative journey to. Despite the advantages the online world has given me, I promise, I’m just as tired of this pandemic as everyone else. It just so happens my creative journey benefitted from what changes this all brought about.
Whenever the world goes back to normal - hopefully sooner than later - what I’m happy about is that I’ve already taken my first step. When I did, I had boundless energy, control over how I was perceived, and the chance to evade any subconscious ableist biases. Whatever my next steps are, what matters is that I’m already walking. People in the scene already know me, so I don’t have to dread first impressions as often anymore.
Sure, I’m not exactly overjoyed to go back to the noisy, exhausting “real world,” but it’s nothing I haven’t handled before. In fact, I’ve seen this pandemic make people turn heads and actually care about accessibility, so the world we’re moving towards might be better for people like me. They’ve learned the importance of captions, of taking breaks, of offering remote options for events. They understand that some days, people are too burnt out to want to appear on camera. Whatever our “new normal” looks like, I have a feeling these takeaways on inclusivity aren’t going anywhere anytime soon.
Besides that, I’m leaving this pandemic a stronger person. I’m on antidepressants, I have a therapist, and I also have a really wonderful support system of friends and family to fall back on - and some of them are in the very scene I’m proud to say I’m now a part of!
Being able to break into the arts virtually gave me the start I’d needed for so long. Now, I’ve been awakened to my full potential, and I know others have, too. I never wanted to hide my disability - again, I was always quite open about it - but now that I have the connections and platform I do, I want people to know that if they related to my neurodivergent experiences, they shouldn’t have to feel bad. Whether it’s worrying how you come off to neurotypicals or quietly enjoying the Zoom world because it’s more accessible, there shouldn’t be shame.
I really do hope that this pandemic’s taught people to be more accepting of those with different needs and behaviours. I hope captions at events become more commonplace, I hope online and hybrid events continue to happen for those who can’t make it to their in-person equivalents, I hope there’s less judgement around acting a certain way.
We’ve all more or less been through a traumatic event together, and I hope that’s brought awareness to the spectrum of needs people have and how much more critical meeting those needs become in stressful times. I hope that those of us who found solace in cyberspace are given patience and respect, rather than being dismissed as a weird little minority. If you benefitted from not having to transit out for some distant event, or from having captions on something, or just being able to turn off your camera because you didn’t have the energy to smile through a whole Zoom call, you’re one of us.
Again, I don’t want the socially-distanced digital world to remain our only reality. But hey, when we get out of here, let’s leave the judgement behind and work on accessibility and all the wonderful ways that can look.
About the Author
Alex Masse, AKA Fairything, is a writer, musician, and student residing in what is colonially known as Vancouver, BC. The arts are a longtime love of theirs, and their work has been seen everywhere from the Scholastic Writing Awards to Vancouver Pride, as well as in collaboration with Penelope Scott, She Does The City, Broadway Records artists, and more. They’re also a neurodivergent nonbinary lesbian, which greatly affects their process.
When not writing, they’re making music, and when not making music, they’re writing. Occasionally though, they can be seen working on their Communication degree or cozied up with a good book. Follow their creative journey on Instagram, where they're @itsfairything, or tune in on Spotify, where they're just Fairything, or check out their portfolio website, https://alexkmasse.ca/.
Explore Possible
This blog post is part of Explore Possible, an initiative by Manitoba Possible to amplify stories, perspectives about disability, accessibility, and inclusion.
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