Not a Misery Chick

When I was younger,

My peers thought I was "abnormal" because I didn't have crushes like the others,

Or if I did, they lived in stories,

Fictional, far away, untouchable.

In high school,

I wasn't much like Daria,

I was involved.

Vice President in my third year,

Competing in quiz bees,

Active in journalism,

Taekwondo on weekends,

Not for trophies,

But for strength.

One day,

A guy I knew since elementary,

Joked in front of his girlfriend,

After our council meeting, no less,

Said he would've 'courted' me

If I wasn't manlier than him.

Without missing a beat, I shot back,

Who said I would've wanted you, anyway?

Everyone laughed, even his girlfriend,

And I saw how people saw me.

For women, I was just like them—

Into fashion,

Into strange, geeky things,

Unapologetically me.

But to male peers I was

Domineering,

Emasculating,

A jock may be,

Leaning into my "masculine" side

Just to mock their stereotypes.

Back then,

I didn't have the words for it.

Maybe I was on the ace side of queer,

But it didn't matter.

Gender, sexuality —

I never felt bound by them,

I was just me.

If I were drawn to someone,

It could be anyone—

Like that manic pixie dream girl

I once saw at a train station.

Daria, you,

With your sharp wit,

Your army jacket and dark skirt —

You were never labeled,

But to me,

You were ace-coded.

You smashed the stereotypes.

We're not cold and robotic,

And we don't all love the same.

In "Misery Chick", I realized

It's okay to ignore the rigamarole.

Normal is relative,

And I'm not a misery chick.