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I imagine being called 不器用 can hurt, but its elements make it feel kinder to me than its English equivalents. “Clumsy” is thought to derive from a Middle English word meaning “numb” or “stupid,” and “awkward” originally meant “backward,” but the kanji in 不器用 hint at the idea of “not using [one's] tools.” 不 (bu) is a negative prefix. 器 (ki) means “tool,” “utensil,” “container” or “ability,” and 用 (yō) means “to use.”
To me, 不器用 holds out hope that the person might one day learn to use their tools and talents effectively. Maybe the first step is to understand that they have them.
*****
I was born two weeks early, on Christmas Eve. It was a Tuesday that year. As a child, when I recited “Tuesday's child is full of grace,” my mother snorted and said, “Well, whoever wrote that hadn't met you.”
I never understood how others seemed able to tame the physical world. I got tangled in my sleeves when putting on my coat. I got lost in schools I'd been attending for years. Any gift I wrapped ended up in a flabby envelope of paper, and I usually lost either the scissors or the tape in the process. I couldn't reliably tell left from right until I had a wedding ring, and I still occasionally say things like, “I went there next week.”
It wasn't until my 40s that I learned about dyspraxia. Adults who diagnose themselves as neurodivergent are sometimes accused of wanting to feel special. But for me, it was just the opposite. I'd known I experienced the world differently from most people, but I couldn't explain how; I wasn't even within the normal parameters of strangeness. Now I had a word for it, and a place on the spectrum of life.
*****
Another reason adults want diagnoses is so they can ask for accommodations. When someone says “It's over there” and points, I no longer have to wander off in that general direction, hoping that this time, somehow, I can fake it. It's freeing to be able to say, “Sorry, I'm dyspraxic; can you tell me where it is in detail?”
More liberating than that, though, are the adjustments I can now make for myself. When I rearranged my dressing table to accommodate the fact that if I could knock something over, I would – laying things flat where possible and leaving space around tall bottles – putting on makeup no longer felt like an egg and spoon race. And I discovered something I'd never thought possible: I enjoyed it.
*****
I started beekeeping about three years ago. That's another thing I would never have predicted. I thought I had no business around bees or fire.
I buy frames already made up, and use hive straps with ratchets instead of the S-shaped buckles that everyone but me seems to know how to thread. But I've also been surprised by how many tasks I can handle with a bit of practice. I had more tools in my box than I thought.
Still, there are times when my awkwardness catches up with me. Recently I was harvesting honey and carried a full super and a clearer board to the entrance of the apiary. Only then did I notice that there was still a cluster of bees on the clearer board, some of which were taking off and buzzing around. Two fellow beekeepers angrily informed me that I had done this on the one day a social gathering was planned at the apiary, and that the guests now risked being stung. I apologised, but the air remained sharp with unspoken accusations of stupidity, of backwardness.
*****
I once spent six months working as a temporary receptionist for a veterinary clinic. On my last day, one of the vets said to me, “I've never forgotten how kind you were when I turned up for my job interview a week early.”
I'd nearly forgotten about this myself; it had happened not long after I started. The candidate's nervousness had made my own heart beat faster as I'd vainly phoned member after member of the interview panel. Finally one picked up and exclaimed, “That's not till next week!”
I knew turning up on the wrong day was a mistake I could have made, and I knew how I would feel if I had. So I broke the news as gently as I could: “I'm so sorry, it looks like there was a misunderstanding… don't worry, just come back next week and they'll be ready for you ….”
They had come back, and they'd got the job, but I hadn't made the connection. Remembering names and faces is another simple task I struggle with.
*****
After coming home from the apiary, washing the smoke out of my hair and having a cry, I watched a rerun of Columbo. This has become a Sunday ritual. Columbo's awkwardness has always resonated with me, so much so that I used to cringe on his behalf when murderers snapped at him. Of course, I realised later that he wasn't cringing. It was by being awkward, becoming a clumsy and inconvenient presence in comfortable lives, that he uncovered the truth and got justice.
The truth is, awkwardness itself can be a tool. It was a lifetime of awkwardness that made me able to stand up for trans people despite ridicule and abuse.
*****
Fukuyama Masaharu's song 無敵のキミ (Mutekino Kimi / Invincible You) has been a favourite of mine ever since I first heard it (which took a while, since he's never put it on an album).
At first I liked it for the spiky tune. Only later did I learn its lyrics are addressed to someone who feels they're fumbling their way through life and wonders if they should give up:
若さで真面目 いまじゃ 仇ね!?
でも大丈夫 ...
不器用なキミの願い
わかって わかっているから
華奢な指先で タフな微笑みで
無敵のキミ
Your youthful earnestness backfired, didn't it?
But it's OK …
I understand your awkward wish,
Your frail fingers and tough smile -
Invincible you.