The ToughPigs Beacon is a series of articles by neurodivergent writers on the relationship between The Muppets, Muppet fandom, and neurodiversity. Find all entries in the series here.
Here at ToughPigs, we celebrate being weirdos, but that doesn’t always translate to how we must live our day-to-day lives. Lately I’ve been struggling to figure out how to be a Muppet fan while feeling like I belong—or even feeling safe—in the real world.
“It starts when we’re kids…”
I was always weird and Muppety. The baby making faces in the mirror grew into a creative (“overdramatic” and “oversensitive”) little kid. This “gifted student” was “a pleasure to have in class” (until I started questioning authority figures) and eventually a social butterfly (adept at masking [a common term for performing expected neurotypical traits]).
Now, decades later, I know I’m autistic. Now I know my intense knowledge and love of all things Henson is my Special Interest™.
This is also the first time I’ve been unemployed and job-hunting since this discovery. Now I know exactly what I’m facing.
I masked at my old job as much as I was able to—I’d had decades of practice, and most of the time I was great at it. I invested in a few pieces of plaid clothing for Plaid Tuesdays even though I normally would never wear plaid. I joined in small talk that made me want to claw my brains out through my eye sockets. I kept pictures of my friends in my cubicle to remind me what being understood feels like.
Imagine you’re Kermit in The Muppet Take Manhattan, waking up with amnesia. Your voice is kinda funny. You get sent out into the world with uncomfortable clothes and no instructions.
You meet some people who feel somewhat familiar (and therefore safe). You cobble together a new identity and career with advertising jargon, vocal affectations, and a suit.
This is what masking at work feels like.
When I eventually snag a new job, I’m terrified of getting into the exact same situation in another workplace full of neurotypicals. I’m allowed to be quirky, but not too quirky, or else I’m unprofessional. I can be colorful, but not too colorful, or else I’m childish. I can be loud, but not too loud, or else I’m obnoxious. I can be honest, but not too honest, or else I’m difficult. I can be justice-minded, but not too justice-minded, or else I’m insubordinate. I can be sensitive, but—wait, no I can’t; that’s never been allowed in Professionalism.
I can even be a Muppet fan, but not too big a Muppet fan.
“You’re a clown and a fool…”
Unfortunately, the only way to figure out how much Myself it’s safe to be in any new environment with any new group of people is to accidentally go too far and feel the sting of sideways glances, awkward laughs, confused questions, mocking whispers, misinterpretations, behavioral conversations, and offended defensiveness. Personally, I may celebrate my Fraggliness, but just how Fraggly can I be when office people are such Doozers and Gorgs and Silly Creatures?
Realizing I was autistic was like getting my amnesia karate-chopped away—just as disorienting, but slowly over the course of several years. I left my job because I could feel the autistic burnout looming over my shoulder. Every day in my last two weeks was an internal chorus of “Just make it through today.”
“Is that dedication?”
I spent this summer barely scraping by. To paraphrase my unemployment benefits rejection letter, apparently my mistake was leaving before having a mental breakdown.
My saving grace, of course, is that I have found such an amazing sense of community in both the Muppet fandom and neurodivergent spaces. I bring my bag of various fidgets when I come to group hangouts. I collect and share memes like a penguin with pebbles. Among my friends, I’m the Muppet nerd. Among Muppet nerds, I’m another friend.
When I watch The Muppet Show, I marvel at what an accepting (if chaotic and barely functional) work environment it is. It doesn’t matter if you’re the comedian who’s constantly getting heckled, the performance artist who no one understands, or the gopher who got the job because his uncle owns the theater—you’re home. Instead of trying to become Phillip Phil, Kermit shines as himself. He’s the Muppet most like Jim himself, the inspiring leader, occasionally exasperated as he wrangles chaos, but he’s home, too. He’s just another artist, trying to make something that might make somebody smile.
Kermit the Frog & Company won the day against Doc Hopper not because Doc gave up after Kermit’s inspiring speech, but because Kermit’s wildest new friend got Insta-Grown by some other new geeky friends. He slowly gathered together a collection of fellow misfits who stood behind him and had his back.
“Then somebody out there loves you…”
But I’m writing this as an “anonymous ToughPigs contributor” because I’m too scared to be publicly autistic. I’m not even comfortable telling my immediate family until I get a formal diagnosis—a process that can take years and thousands of dollars in the U.S.—so that I can point to it and say “See? You can’t argue with that. You can’t deny that.”
I’m approximately 200% more loudly, publicly a Muppet nerd than I was the last time I was job-hunting. To be a big nerd about anything is a very autistic experience, which I’m sure we’ll talk about more in this series. But to be a big nerd about something that mainstream culture already considers Weird, Childish, and Loud? That’s a huge risk, and I have no way of knowing what hiring manager with no sense of joy and whimsy is negatively judging me.
Adding autism to my public persona—dialing up the Weird, Childish, and Loud factor to 11—could be career self-sabotage. As long as it’s so widely misunderstood and stigmatized, comments sections everywhere will remain rife with accusations of people “faking it for attention.”
And that’s just the average citizen, not the extreme ones. Trust me, I don’t say I’m autistic because I desperately want to feel special—I didn’t need another reason for certain portions of the population to want me unalived just for existing. Nevermind am I employable—am I allowable? Any light of my own that I might add to this beacon we’re building at ToughPigs also paints a target on my back.
When the brain weasels of Imposter Syndrome and Internalized Ableism are being particularly feisty, they take these thoughts to the furthest possible what-ifs. “What if I’m too autistic for a normal job?” becomes “What if I’m too autistic for my dream job?” It’s no secret that many of us who write about the various Henson properties would someday love to write for them. If you’ve never wondered if you’re too weird to work with the people known for being weird, congratulations.
So I keep my head down. I listen to my “Muppet Songs for Hard Times” playlist. I try to fill my days with things that help me remember and love who I am: hanging out with my fellow weirdos, binging beloved TV shows, reading in the sunshine, playing games, and putting together jigsaw puzzles (F**k Auti$m $peaks, I’m not letting them co-opt my love of jigsaw puzzles).
And, of course, I watch the Muppets. I analyze every detail of a show, movie, or special to understand what makes these strange clocks tick, examine each cog so that I might understand how to build such a marvel. Returning to my special interest not only reminds me of who I am at my core but of the kind of future I’m fighting for—a world that’s a little kinder, more imaginative, more Jim-like.
“That’s part of what rainbows do…”
As summer turned to autumn, I started a temp job. In the interview, the person who would become my new boss came on screen with bright pink hair and a Zoom background of themself in full cosplay at a convention. I was instantly so much more comfortable. When I told them about my work with ToughPigs, they said, “You are the coolest!” I wish I could work for them forever, but it’s a temp gig, and I have to keep applying for permanent jobs.
Maybe someday I’ll find a workplace that feels as comfortable as the Muppet fandom. Maybe someday at a job interview I’ll be sitting across from someone with a Beaker-print necktie or a replica of Kermit’s mug. Maybe someday I’ll feel safe doing my bigger, more obvious stimming behavior in the office. Maybe someday no one will feel the need to comment on my eating the same things every day. Maybe someday I can have Do Not Perceive Me hours where I can just have my noise-canceling headphones on listening to the same three Pandora stations and refuse all in-person conversations. Maybe someday I’ll only come into the office in person when it’s actually needed and they’ll happily let me do the rest from home.
Maybe someday I’ll be on a team of frogs and pigs and bears and whatevers and actually get paid for it.
“Someday you’ll find it…”
Until then, I carry my candle up to the top of this cobbled-together lighthouse, this beacon we’re building, and I wait. My flame is small and precious, but it’s here. I remind myself that it’s okay if the only lost soul it lights the way for is me.
“Keep believing, keep pretending…”
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by Anonymous Guest Author
