Dear Self,

As I look back into my past actions, I realize that there were things that I should have changed. It’s interesting how so many authors, politicians, philosophers have written about ‘the past’ in relation to our present selves, but we continue to belabor the point. McCarthy states in All the Pretty Horses, that “Scars have the strange power to remind us that our past is real.” Without this reminder, we won’t learn the lessons that the past has taught us, but rather repeat them mindlessly as if we don’t know any better. As I recall my worst mistake, I realize today, that it could have been circumvented by simply communicating clearly. However, if you’re like me, and the problem is within the family, you omit speaking in order to be respectful and not hurt the feelings of those you love.
I’ve also learned, that when you speak your mind and express yourself concisely, you get the result you need: understanding. Without talking, how can others know how you’re feeling, or even how you’re affected by a particular event? Added to that, by discussing the problem, calmly, you get to see the different perspectives that each individual is coming from, rather than assuming you already know. I’ve learned that assuming someone’s motives for an action may be wrong, and that is what leads to greater misunderstandings and conflict.
I think that Katherine Anne Porter says it best, as she expresses it best in saying: “The past is never where you think you left it.” By that she means that with the information, maturity you had at the time, you can grasp a part of the events that occurred. However, in retrospect, having changed, become wiser through various experiences, makes your perspective of the event change with time. Here I don’t mean the actions that took place, but rather the reactions and assumptions that you had made.
I’ll sum up with my poetic version of this:

Communication is a tool
You use to oppress the pool
Of depression, that spawns from regret
Over actions taken in past event.

Couch your speech,
Make it into a delicate flower to preach
Behaviors that promote, compassion,
Understanding, love, and devotion.

Best,
Your wiser self

©️ Malak kalmoni chehab ©️

Dear Me,

Thank you for taking the time to sit with yourself and process your thoughts and feelings. This year, you really took yourself & your ideas seriously. Your perseverance through rejection is admirable and I appreciate you, even when others don’t.

When you lost your job in January- you didn’t beat yourself up.

When the bank funds were low- you leaned on your family for support while pushing through to find a new job.

When you felt broke, busted, and disgusted- you sought wisdom in books, the Bible, and your family.

You manifested cool opportunities & got creative with the tools at your disposal.

To me, you may not be exactly where you want to be, however, you’ve come farther than you expected. You could’ve chosen to listen to well- meaning advice, but you listened to your gut & for that I respect you!

Thank you for being you- which is the hardest thing to do.

Love you for life,

Me (V) 🧡

A poetic/fictitious mixed short about greeting your melancholy with kindness and making your mind into a nice place to call home.
—–
The autumn flush bashfully comes in during this time of year. Traces of red and orange line the green just enough to give the sense that it might actually get colder than fifty, but it never does. Most of the homes in Tomales are farm-style. Less greek revival, more horse and buggy. Wrap around porches hug the treeline rooftops parallel to an unneeded chimney. Hummingbird feeders hang nectar on every doorstep like there might be a modern day Passover. I once even heard someone call their laundry closet an ‘alcove.’ The neighborhood is literally so pretentious and inviting that you can practically taste Grandma’s cookies underneath a family timeline of Stanford cap and gown photos.

Houses like that are meant to be shared. Mine is just for me.

There was a Victorian on the hill, half a mile south of the city limits. There were rumors about it. Ghost stories that were best left dismissed. With fresco painted ceilings and a view of the bay, I’d blindly bought in. The previous owner even left behind an old piano. I called it a steal.

Economically sound: the only type of echo I’d ever considered when buying the house. The first creaky floorboard fell through while I was carrying in the dishware. Termites. And if that wasn’t enough, the flip of the switch fried the chandelier’s circuit in one go. Ridiculous of me to expect the house to do more than look like the photos.

“Goddamnit.” I collapsed onto the piano bench for the first time. All of my boxes were just inside the hall. The air was stifled by thick humidity. I could feel myself getting sick in the first breath. Nobody had lived here in years. Perhaps no one was meant to.

I’d left the city to learn more about myself. My friends found it a bit extreme: “You’ll be all alone up there, away from the city.” Their voices carry through the thirty-two miles in between us. But, I’d never been alone before. Truly alone. There was always the buzz of life swarming me into a perpetual FOMO. And in some manic-state, I decided to discover the sensational melancholy that William Wordsworth wrote all of those poems about.

On the first night I’d been on the air mattress. That was when I decided that the air quality might be getting to me. Around one in the morning I woke up to the sound of my own floorboards giving in fours. The sounds of a horse. I thought myself to be crazy – exhausted from moving. But, when I peeked out the bedroom door into the hall – I saw it. A ghost-white Shire tiptoeing across the fragile wood.

The next morning, there were the slightest indentations in the floor. So faint, that suggesting a horse might be responsible was insane. Still, I called my mom to tell her the news. She suggested a hallucination remedy, a new brand of air filters, and sent over a list of psychologists – just in case.

Still, the horse visited me. New air filters and all. Nineteen hundred pounds creaking through the halls on four legs. Sometimes when we made late-night eye contact, the horse would spook and kick hind legs into the air. If it weren’t for all of the holes born in the walls – I’d pass it off as delirium. Too frightened to unpack and settle in, and more afraid to abandon the purchase: I’d tell myself one more day. I can do one more day here. And for days, the house remained as it was. Empty and unusable. Every night brought new holes in the hallway walls.

The ninth day, something changed. Call it boredom or insanity, but I went for a walk. The cookie cutter houses allured me in their simplicity. Transformation of a new perspective. With flower beds lining their white picket fences and patio furniture I felt a sense of inspiration to decorate my own lawn. Wandering down the street further, I found myself at the market.

“A single potted plant and a carrot?” The cashier chuckled briefly before a glance at the dark bags sunk under my eyes.

I set my plant up on the porch that day. The only unboxed item in two-thousand square feet. And while the house had a long way to go, it was something pleasant. Something small.

That night I set the single carrot outside my door, in hopes to soothe the fear of the Shire. And to my surprise, I slept through the night. Full of rest, my feet found the floor next to my air mattress and when I opened the bedroom door, the carrot was gone.

In a burst of unwearied energy, I unpacked the first box. Dishware. Some cups and plates chipped from the move, but the functionality remained in tact. I organized them neatly into the cupboard. At the bottom of the box was a glass vase, sized perfect for the window sill in the front hall. After placing it there, I left the house for another walk, this time hunting for the perfect flower.

There weren’t many wildflowers left, especially in such a domesticated area. But, I found one. Maybe nothing more than a weed. Yet, it looked like a daisy to me. It would do just fine.

That night I put the carrot further down from my room, closer to the front entrance and I went to bed, sleeping through another night peacefully. Many days went on like this – another box unpacked, a new plant adorning a canny corner, the horse reappearing at night to come and go. By what means – I do not know. Furniture was arriving. I was off the air mattress and into a real bed by the second week. The tent for the termites came and went – more affordable than I’d predicted. I wrote the check at my window, foliage draped over the glass in a perfect frame.

Yesterday on the phone with my mother, I accidentally called this place home.

It’s late October now. “Finally settling?” I read on the phone screen once more. I woke up early these days, in a routine to water my back porch plants. They’d become more like friends to me. And there the white Shire was, grazing through the green yard. My body paralyzed at first – remembering all of the fear caused. Besides, I’d almost finish patching the holes in the halls. Inching towards the creature, I held out my hand in a white flag.

I stroked the muzzle once. Then again.

***

You finally rested your head on my shoulder, and I named you Casper.

Our moments were never filled with fear again. We understood one another. You ruled acres of land and I had the Victorian. There were still the occasional spooks. Mangled hair and disagreements. But, I no longer lived alone.

Even if I never had to begin with.

***

A year has gone by now. It’s Halloween. And I’ve got Trick or Treaters. Football-sized ghosts and miniature princesses making the long haul up my driveway. The only monster in the house is inflatable, peering out the window next to the vase. The kids love it. So do I.

I baked for them this year, a recipe from Ms. Arnett. She lives in one of the homes off Kennedy – widowed at twenty-nine. We met through our gardens. Nicknamed ‘The Greenhouse’ my plant collection had grown into a jungle. Dutch bulbs lit up the yard in frenzied patterns. I coined myself Queen Wilhelmina, but the kids don’t quite get that one. Ms. Arnett stopped by to chat about an idea she’d had for her tulips. We forgot to finish that conversation, two pots of tea later. We’re always forgetting, it seems.

Casper’s dressed as a reindeer this year. The kids feed her carrots I picked up from the market and she takes them tamely. Gratefully even.

When the night grows late I find myself candle-lit at the piano. A new thing I’m learning. With my shadow dancing off-key to my chorus, I remind myself that I’m learning.

I really am.

Being a Black Man and an Actor and Filmmaker, people sometimes tell me I should be happy when I see a Black person in a movie cause I am being “Represented.” Yet, I try to explain that I am not. My Family is from the South, particularly Louisiana and although I was born in Cleveland, Ohio, I have more of the personality and attitude of someone from Louisiana. Which means I do not see myself as less than a White person and nor do I listen to whatever music I am told is preferred by Blacks. I date women of all backgrounds and won’t mention my crazy ex who was Blonde and Jewish cause that is a whole ‘nother story. I’ve yet to see myself in any movie or film or TV show. A Black man in a Cinema has to be poor and struggling or a criminal or even if he is a good guy, he is locked in a box that people believe is Black. Recently a White friend of mine told me, I should not speak with an accent when doing business presentations. It is sad when you are constantly told what music to listen to, how to speak and that you need to act “BLACK.” People refuse to acknowledge that there are “Different Shades of Black” and just because you see someone Black in movies and TV, that does not mean We are being Represented.

Representation is portrayal, and we are all actors writing and rehearsing scripts. We commit to characters or even just characteristics. We are imposters until we’re able to depict these things effortlessly. With the right amount of practice, passion and intention- representation is an art, it’s powerful. It’s a message we give or a picture we paint. It’s a responsibility that is not to be taken lightly. It requires dedication and integrity in the moments where circumstances are unfavorable.
Four years ago, I found myself in a nasty custody battle. I had been physically abused for five years and had finally decided that starting over with nothing was better than staying in a toxic situation. My son was four at the time, and he was terrified. I had accepted my fate, that one day his dad would just kill me. But seeing my son physically shaken and living in fear in his own home is what drove me to leave. He deserved better. I decided I’m not going to be the mom that raises my son in an unhealthy environment just to be able to say we don’t have a broken home. I’m not going to normalize these abusive behaviors and continue the cycle. I am a better mom than that. I will do better.
At our first hearing I wanted to be as fair as possible. I was advised to be fair because the system doesn’t care if you are abused, as long as the child is not abused physically. My mistake was not fighting. My son was terrified when he had to leave with the person that he was supposed to call his father. He was harassed and terrorized and even neglected some days. I went back to court and asked to amend our order. Even with him telling the judge he didn’t want to exercise his parental rights; the judge forced us to continue on with our shared custody. Every other weekend. He made it clear that he did not want to be a parent because I “chose to be a single mom.” As much as I wanted to lose my character, I had to bite my tongue and conform to the systems standard that “every parent has to be involved because they have rights.” See, the system loves to force these standards on us, but they fail to go below the surface. They also don’t enforce them. That’s why one parent can make excuses and owe thousands in child support while the other has to figure it out without missing a beat. That’s why the system thinks an online parenting class is going to give a parent the mental and emotional capacity to raise healthy children. Failing to take advantage of his every other weekend became a consistent blessing, and issue. Sometimes weeks would go by, and our lives would be peaceful. Others, we were harassed by drunken phone calls, aggression and stalking. If I’d let the order be, he had an opening to remain inconsistent and show up whenever he was bored with his life. Claiming he was sorry and that he wanted to “try” to be a good parent. I made the mistake of suggesting things he could do to bond with my son and in his twisted corrupt mind he used that to try and control me. He knew it’d hurt me to have to make excuses for him, because all I wanted was for my son to have two parents. He’d purposely mistreat or ignore my son for attention. He’d tell me, “Well you’re the one who wants me to have a bond with him. Try harder.” Even thinking about it makes me skin crawl. The world is infested with people like this, but I refused to allow my son to carry on that trait.
At our third hearing, I finally lost it. I was representing myself, and my son. I needed to advocate for him and his well-being. He did not deserve to be treated as a game, he is much too important and his health too valuable. Doing my best to hold back tears and keep my vocabulary decent, I told the judge, “You want me to continue to give him chances at being a parent when we have been in and out of this court room for the last year. My son is four, it does not take four years to be an active parent. I don’t get to make excuses, I have primary custody and I do not ever make excuses, nor can I rely on him to assist in anything regarding my son. He is not consistent because he doesn’t care to be. He can deny the abuse all he wants, I’m not here to get justice for myself. I’m here because I have my son’s best interest at heart and it’s clear you do not. All this evidence in front of you is to show you that I have tried. I’m damaging my son in the process and I’m damaging his trust in me because I am who keeps him safe. What kind of a mother would I be to continue to let this go on? He doesn’t care to be a parent, he’s here only to make my life miserable because he’s upset, he no longer has a punching bag. I promise you I will be back here in a few months because this is not a game to me. I will keep coming back because my son is not safe with him, and he is not comfortable. I will not normalize for him to always live in survival mode, paranoid about what is going to happen to him. I will withhold him because I have valid concerns and it’s my right to defend them here in court.”
In every moment, I represented myself and my son. Although I knew that in the judges’ eyes, I represented just another case in family court. I represented “bitter” baby mommas. In that court room, I was a victim that “clearly suffered from delusions and was projecting them onto my son.” I was dramatic, I needed help, I was stupid for being in a relationship like that to begin with. I was another teen parent who didn’t know what the hell to do. And I was not going to let any of those discourage me. I needed to fight because children deserve happy and healthy lives. Thankfully, my argument was taken into consideration, I was granted sole physical custody.
I realize now that my reason for fighting so hard was because I know what it’s like to be a child in a similar situation. I was only a year old when I was removed from my parents and placed in the system. Even years after the adoption was finalized, did anyone care to look into the life of this little girl who had been ripped away from the life she knew? Who didn’t understand why she couldn’t see her mommy and daddy every day? Sure, they investigated to make sure the new home would be safe. It looked good on paper, roof over my head, clean clothes, three meals. There is so much more that goes into raising a child. Especially a child that has been through something traumatic. You would think that mandatory parenting classes and therapy would have been a part of the adoption process. But the system only cared for their numbers. Place a child in a home and you can sleep better at night. Never mind the trauma or the child’s mental/emotional needs. It’s almost as if the system is made up of people who have never successfully raised a child. I hope I’ve explained well without going too much into detail. I hope you can understand who and what I was representing. I hope there are others out there who advocate for children, who have integrity and don’t treat children’s lives as a game.

Representation to me means the whole entire world and takes on a whole new level when you weren’t born the so-called typical way and your body doesn’t fit the mold. I have a form of Cerebral Palsy known as Spastic Diplegia which translates to both of my legs being affected resulting in difficulties moving around. I use all different types of things for mobility aid ranging from leg braces, a walker and occasionally a wheelchair for longer distances. A little bit of a back story. I’m a triplet as a result of in vitro we came into this world at thirty weeks so when you come to think about it my family and I are truly blessed as things could have been a whole lot worse. Under no circumstances does that mean I’m not deserving of being seen. I have so much to offer this world but don’t have as nearly as many audiences to show as I should. All throughout my years of elementary, middle and high school I had something called an individualized education plan which had my specific needs documented such as extra time on tests and so on including the therapies I received physical and occupational. I have fine motor difficulties however they are not as prevalent as my gross motor ones. There will never be a time when I don’t need physical therapy. I attend an intensive place bi weekly and at the end of every session I feel so proud of myself. It can be absolutely grueling at times but it’s so worth it. Another thing I had in school was a one on one aide to help in making sure I navigated from place to place safely. Fast forward to after high school graduation and I no longer have either of those things. I in a sense fell off the face of the earth. There is literally nothing for me now as all my life I have been told I fall in the middle somewhere or am too high functioning, but then again keep in mind things can be too advanced for me as well. A number of programs I have reached out to don’t even bother responding I shouldn’t have to experience what I do on a daily basis boredom beyond measure because I have very few things to occupy my time which is off the scale frustrating because not to toot my own horn but I am very smart I just need a different approach than most. For example when I was in eleventh grade I was inducted into the world language honor society and took it a step further and filled out an application to become an officer ultimately becoming the secretary. I have a love of learning but regular college run classes have never been suitable for me as I get extremely overwhelmed with the pace. I have had six surgeries to date and the uncertainty my life presents can be paralyzing some days but I will never ever give up and do not let anything stop me. I have gone rock and boulder climbing reaching the top both times thanks to my amazing friends who to say I’m lucky to have would be an understatement. This applies to my family as well. A support system goes such a long way but now it’s time we reach the highest grounds and soar. I also did adaptive skiing, zip lining, a flying trapeze and will be looking into adaptive surfing for next summer. I get a lot of enjoyment riding my adaptive bike too. Another thing I am working towards is ice skating. In preparation for this I have been practicing in therapy by ambulating with scooters under my feet. Life has thrown me a bunch of curveballs so I want to remind everyone of this, you truly never know the depth of what someone may be going through so in a word where you can be anything just be kind. Here’s a bonus: being kind doesn’t cost a thing plus it’s a two way street you will begin to reap the rewards too trust me on that. I don’t know what job path I would like to go down just yet but I do know one thing for sure: I want to spend all of my life using my voice to help others. This was fueled more so than I could have ever imagined back in 2019 when I became a volunteer suicide mental health hotline operator. It’s fully online through texting. It lit a fire in my soul that I never saw before and I don’t plan to ever stop feeding that passion of mine. When you’re in tune with your own voice you have the power to move mountains, and that is my exact mission in life to do just that, envisioning the best possible future for all. After the conversation you have with the person they have an option to anonymously write something if they want to, like feedback of how we did. They are all very nice but one in particular made the happiest tears flow out of me and I will never forget it as long as I live. It changed my view of literally everything. They called me an angel saying I saved a life today and that I should be proud of what I do. I have every reason to be. That statement leaves me utterly speechless miracles happen in our everyday lives if we look hard enough. To tie back to the theme of this letter representation I always say to myself if someone was in my shoes or anyone with challenges it would be a different story as they would see where I’m coming from. I will always use my voice for all especially those who can’t voice their thoughts to ensure that those with physical challenges on all degrees can have just as much visibility as everyone else I think it’s absolutely wonderful that when it comes to cognitive disabilities like autism and Down syndrome that the world recognizes it as that’s how it should be however we should be represented just like that I hope for this to go viral and be seen by as many possible those in the higher education field would be an ideal start.

Dear Chloe Hayden,

You don’t really know me and you’ve only responded to some of the things I’ve tagged you in, but I’ve been a fan of yours for about three years now. Even though we’ve never officially met, we have some things in common; we’re both autistic writers, actresses, and advocates. We’ve both challenged how autism is represented; you’ve done so through your book and your appearance on Heartbreak High, and I’ve done so through my articles and plays. I may not be as well-known as you, but I admire you and hope to do what you’ve already done. I aim to have a published and well-reviewed work about autism, and I would love to play an autistic character who truly challenges how autism is portrayed in the media.

I’ve recently ordered your book and can’t really comment on it yet, so I’ll talk about your character Quinni from the Heartbreak High reboot. The moment you made the announcement about your casting, I was hyped. I was never really into teen dramas at any point in my life, but I was willing to give the show a chance because you were in it. I’m glad that I did because not only did I get to witness an amazing show with excellent writing, but I got to see the best depiction of autism I had ever seen in my life. I’m sure plenty of viewers have already told you this, but you have no idea what Quinni means to me.

I was diagnosed as autistic somewhere around the age of three, but my parents didn’t tell me until I was seventeen. At that point, I was already an outcast with very few friends. Since I grew up with a secret negative view of autism, I didn’t take the delayed news of my diagnosis very well. That is, I didn’t take it very well on the inside. I looked surprised and confused on the outside when my parents told me the truth, but my insides were slicing themselves up from the center and working their way up to the barrier between my skin and muscle. Sorry for getting a little graphic, but that’s exactly how I felt, and it took me years to finally accept this part of myself.

The main reason why I took the news so hard was because of the lack of proper representation of autism I had growing up. The bit of representation that I did see on TV was just recycled Rain Man and not really anything I could really relate to. Although I did grow up with some autistic-coded characters who were similar to me like Lilo from Lilo and Stitch and Ariel from The Little Mermaid, there were no autistic characters that made me say, “Look! She’s just like me!” If I had seen an autistic character like myself on TV before my parents delivered the big news to me, then maybe I wouldn’t have slipped into an even bigger depression.

If the Heartbreak High reboot had come out when I was a teen, it would’ve helped me through a lot. I could’ve shown some scenes from the show to my friends in order to properly explain what I went through on a daily basis. Only one of my high school friends knew the truth before I finally came out of the autism closest in college, and maybe the Quinni scenes would’ve made me more confident to come out sooner. Every scene that she appears in just oozes autistic accuracy, but there’s one scene in particular that I need to praise. No, it’s not the “Ok Sia” scene that everyone talks about, although that scene is straight fire. I want to talk about Episode Six where Quinni gets to meet her favorite author. The entire episode was relatable from Quinni getting ready for the day to her suddenly having to fit Sasha into her plans that she had set weeks or even months ago to the pure joy on her face when her favorite author encouraged her to write a book. The scene that I want to point out is when Sasha pulls out the victim card and tries to blame Quinni for taking her to the book signing, even though she invited herself to the event that her girlfriend had planned to go to even before they started dating. Poor Quinni just assumed that Sasha actually wanted to go, only to be gaslit as she’s joyfully declaring that she wants to write a book. Her own partner couldn’t even be happy for her and only cares about a party. Then Sasha acts like it’s so hard being a neurotypical person with an autistic partner, but Quinni points out that she’s the only one of the two who actually has to live with autism and runs home in tears.

This scene hit me harder than any other scene in the show because I’ve been there so many times. I’ve lost count of how many times someone I cared about offered to do whatever I wanted to do, only to gaslight me and act as if I’d forced them to do it. I can do whatever my loved ones want me to do without admitting that what they’re putting me through is pure sensory hell, but I’m the villain if they offer to do what I feel like doing. It’s like whatever makes me feel comfortable or happy is wrong. It’s a situation that just about every autistic individual has been through, and yet I hardly see it depicted on TV. I can imagine how hard it must’ve been to film that scene, so I applaud you for bringing it to life. It’s a common autistic experience that more neurotypicals should be familiar with.

I know that you already know this by now, but you’ve changed autism representation for the better. I really hope that I could follow in your footsteps and bring a new autistic icon to life. Keep doing what you’re doing, love.

Your fan,
Catherine Burford