A few years ago I received a comment on my personal blog appraising my writing as too “depressing.” People were starting to talk, according to the commenter–an acquaintance brave enough to, ahem, virtually step forward. The message, enveloped in faux concern, delivered an insidious warning: you’re not saying the right stuff. P.S. Keep it up, and you can’t sit with us. I remember wavering between amusement at the projective nature of the opinion and rage at the idea that I could spend an afternoon writing a thousand heartfelt words only to have the verbal equivalent of a bag of flaming dog poop left right underneath them. That was the day I learned that Salt-n-Pepa were right about opinions and assholes–and that the internet has a distinctive way of summoning both. Myself included.

The situation defused rather than becoming a major conflagration…outwardly, at least. Inside, I seethed for awhile. The comment left a scar partially due to its hurtfulness, but more because of a sense of violation, much like the time my branch of the post office in Manhattan refused to hand over the DVDs my sister sent of The Office because she had addressed them using my nickname. My freedom felt curtailed; what had been rightfully mine–words, a box set of DVDs–was being (mis)handled by others. I didn’t like it.

And it wasn’t the first or last time I would be accused of being, much like Lin Manuel Miranda’s version of Angelica Schuyler, intense…

Read the rest over at Mockingbird!