I’m too fucking autistic for this, I thought to myself, as I read over the strict set of rules, guidelines, and pre-cautionary measures for my school’s Secret Santa game. In Secret Santa games of old, there was a greater feeling of structurelessness- a kind of free-spirited whimsy- where you made your best guess at to what your Secret Santee would like. There was a dangerous, fascistic element to this- especially for the unwitting autist, who may think that a handsome print copy of “Industrial Society and Its Future” would make for an insightful and appropriate gift.
Perhaps it would spark interesting conversation and a new friendship?
Perhaps the woman reading “The Handmaid’s Tale,” who confessed to our group as we waited for the “Monthly Meditative Moment” morning meeting to begin, that it makes her weep “good, cleansing tears,” would enjoy a copy of “The Pussy“- at least to actively engage in a healthy counter-narrative?