I haven't written here in over a year. I'd forgotten my compulsion to write into an empty, mostly confidential space. But something about being back in this corner of my bedroom, blue walls and blue emotions, makes me want to talk into the only place I know will listen: the blank expanse of white on my computer screen.
The computer screen doesn't have its own perceptions of me and what I should be, so it can't be mad at me for not being something. I can't hurt it and it can't hurt me. I can't disappoint it with my weakness or anger it with my strength. I can just what I feel.
I no longer feel like I can say what I feel to anybody. Granted, what I feel is a rabbit hole of shitty emotions and I understand why nobody wants to hear them. But I have to get them out of me sometimes or they will just slowly rot at my insides until I can't take it anymore.
I'd somehow forgotten that I can't rely on people to help me feel better. They only let you down. They have all their own problems and can't see around them, just like I can't see around mine. But I also forgot I could just write. It feels good already just to write it down, get it out, and not do any damage that makes me feel worse and pushes people I care about away from me.
I don't know why I'm so unhappy right now. Objectively, I should be happier than I've ever been, but I'm the most miserable. Maybe it's because all my moments of happiness are followed up shortly by being scared of losing it all.
I'm constantly scared of losing it all: losing what remains of my relationship with my parents, losing the friendships I've managed to maintain this long, losing any pride in my meager academic accomplishments, losing any hopes of a career I respect myself for earning, and most of all, losing the person I love most in the world to my depression or to the allure of a fancier life without me.
I have never been so deeply sad because I've never found it so hard to hope. I'm just scared all the time. I can't sleep. I don't know how to get through it; I just keep hoping it will pass.
It would be better if I didn't feel so alone, but I am and I do. But at least I can write.
May 31, 2014
May 3, 2013
Adulthood
The end of semesters always want to make me cling violently to my youth.
I had an internship interview a couple of days ago, and the sight of my resume printed out and stuck in the front of an official-looking binder freaked me out. It looked so adult, so important. I typed out that resume kicked back in my dorm room desk chair surrounded by my ubiquitous clutter, including two not-yet-washed shot glasses, a family of stuffed chickens, and a half-eaten Christmas candy cane container of Reeses Pieces. These things shouldn't coincide in a world with my resume in the front of an official binder, and questions like "where do you want to be in five years?"
I went to the newly admitted student reception at the journalism school. Three huge television screens scrolled pictures of accomplished alumni on an endless loop of intimidation: New York Times reporters, MSNBC employees, the guy who invented Hulu. This was the back drop for the dean's inspiring speech about how the answer to people's endless questions about the gloomy future of journalism is us. The fresh-faced college undergraduates eating catered dining hall cookies and hot lemonade will decide the future of an entire industry because we are going to become the best of the best. Us. Me.
Me with my socks that never match, my clothes that never fit quite right, my hair that never lays down properly. Me with unevenly applied make-up and papers that are always crinkled up from being squished in my unorganized bookbag. Me that frequently eats waffle fries, pickles, and corn bread for dinner. Me that has gone to class an hour early on accident so much that my friends call messing up the time of something a "Samantha."
How am I supposed to "network"? I'm going to have to squish my over-sized right foot into an acceptable high heel (damn it, society/patriarchy/shoe companies), pay a million dollars to get a suit tailored to my stumpy legs, find a product to smooth my hair even on rainy days, and buy a brief case that doesn't have a cat on it. I'm going to have to learn how to small talk and how to swallow my feminist rage rants and Republican rage rants; I'm going to have to learn to talk about the weather and Current Events From Major Media Perspectives with patronizing old guys. I'm going to have to learn how to sip wine without gagging or commenting about how it tastes like stale Wonderbread or spilling it on my $300, tailored suit skirt. All so I can spend five minutes impressing some random person with my facade of put-togetherness, so they'll give me a chance to have to prove myself all over again.
I can't help but wonder if adulthood is worth it, as if it's optional. All these visits to University Career Services are giving me the hives. And they aren't really helpful. They tell me how to google job opportunities. If there's one thing is this world I feel perfectly competent at, it's googling. What they don't tell me is how not to throw up my unhealthy breakfast in the workplace because I'm so afraid of failing at being an adult. They don't teach how to time when you stand up as an important person enters the room to shake his or her hand so that you don't awkwardly stand too long while they walk toward you or too soon so it looks like an afterthought. They don't teach you how to stop interjecting "like" into your everyday speech or how to keep your mascara from bleeding onto the piles of concealer you put under your eyes to cover up the bags, making you look like you have black eyes instead. They don't teach you what kinds of questions are appropriate when the interviewer asks if you have any questions.
Basically, I'm not very good at selling myself and that's all adulthood is. All I want to do is pay my rent. Why do I have to invent a persona to do it?
I had an internship interview a couple of days ago, and the sight of my resume printed out and stuck in the front of an official-looking binder freaked me out. It looked so adult, so important. I typed out that resume kicked back in my dorm room desk chair surrounded by my ubiquitous clutter, including two not-yet-washed shot glasses, a family of stuffed chickens, and a half-eaten Christmas candy cane container of Reeses Pieces. These things shouldn't coincide in a world with my resume in the front of an official binder, and questions like "where do you want to be in five years?"
I went to the newly admitted student reception at the journalism school. Three huge television screens scrolled pictures of accomplished alumni on an endless loop of intimidation: New York Times reporters, MSNBC employees, the guy who invented Hulu. This was the back drop for the dean's inspiring speech about how the answer to people's endless questions about the gloomy future of journalism is us. The fresh-faced college undergraduates eating catered dining hall cookies and hot lemonade will decide the future of an entire industry because we are going to become the best of the best. Us. Me.
Me with my socks that never match, my clothes that never fit quite right, my hair that never lays down properly. Me with unevenly applied make-up and papers that are always crinkled up from being squished in my unorganized bookbag. Me that frequently eats waffle fries, pickles, and corn bread for dinner. Me that has gone to class an hour early on accident so much that my friends call messing up the time of something a "Samantha."
How am I supposed to "network"? I'm going to have to squish my over-sized right foot into an acceptable high heel (damn it, society/patriarchy/shoe companies), pay a million dollars to get a suit tailored to my stumpy legs, find a product to smooth my hair even on rainy days, and buy a brief case that doesn't have a cat on it. I'm going to have to learn how to small talk and how to swallow my feminist rage rants and Republican rage rants; I'm going to have to learn to talk about the weather and Current Events From Major Media Perspectives with patronizing old guys. I'm going to have to learn how to sip wine without gagging or commenting about how it tastes like stale Wonderbread or spilling it on my $300, tailored suit skirt. All so I can spend five minutes impressing some random person with my facade of put-togetherness, so they'll give me a chance to have to prove myself all over again.
I can't help but wonder if adulthood is worth it, as if it's optional. All these visits to University Career Services are giving me the hives. And they aren't really helpful. They tell me how to google job opportunities. If there's one thing is this world I feel perfectly competent at, it's googling. What they don't tell me is how not to throw up my unhealthy breakfast in the workplace because I'm so afraid of failing at being an adult. They don't teach how to time when you stand up as an important person enters the room to shake his or her hand so that you don't awkwardly stand too long while they walk toward you or too soon so it looks like an afterthought. They don't teach you how to stop interjecting "like" into your everyday speech or how to keep your mascara from bleeding onto the piles of concealer you put under your eyes to cover up the bags, making you look like you have black eyes instead. They don't teach you what kinds of questions are appropriate when the interviewer asks if you have any questions.
Basically, I'm not very good at selling myself and that's all adulthood is. All I want to do is pay my rent. Why do I have to invent a persona to do it?
Apr 1, 2013
Books
I love the period after you finish a book and nothing taints it in your mind. All that exists is a conversation between the text and your brain. There's no livid rants from goodreads pointing out everything that's wrong, no tumblr fan art telling you what all the scenes and characters look like, no jstor articles sucking all the beauty out by analyzing the author's unresolved daddy issues hovering between the lines. It's a brief moment, between when my eyes fall off the last page and covers of the book make a satisfying sound as they smack back together and when I tell my friend I read it or log on to the internet that everything is perfect in that book's little world.
I love the fleeting but endlessly breathtaking moments when a small, unspoken piece of your life is represented on the page, born of somebody else's brain a million miles or years away, but they've captured a part of you that you irrationally thought was only yours. I read the sentence, pause for a moment while it sinks in. I try to read the next lines but those few just capture my brain, which abandons my eyes as they scan mechanically down the page all alone. I can't keep reading until I greedily write the quote in my little yellow notebook, hoping as the words flow from the pen back up into my arm and into my head that a little piece of that greatness is in me, just for that fleeting moment. We're connected.
I love the way books look all lined up on a shelf. They are so patient, standing at attention, proudly bearing their titles. They remind me of houses all quiet in a subdivision at night. They're still and unobtrusive on the outside, neat and tidy in a row. But you can see a hint of activity through the windows, a tv flashing, kids running by, signs of life. But you can't really know what complex reality stirs on the inside unless you go up and knock on the door. You pass by a hundred houses easy in a day, never knowing what you're missing inside each one.
These things can never be taken away from me, no matter what I study, no matter what I do for a living. I love books, and I always will, and I always can. They aren't going anywhere. I can always read. I need to hang on to that, remember that. All the times I've spent up all night reading, all the times I've retreated in a book when I'm upset or sad or nervous, all the time I've spent puzzling out character motivations, envisioning settings, and existing in fictional worlds. Even all the time I spent arguing about hypothetical situations in hopes of shedding a bit of light on the tiniest bits of humanity. None of it is in vain because it's all mine.
I love the fleeting but endlessly breathtaking moments when a small, unspoken piece of your life is represented on the page, born of somebody else's brain a million miles or years away, but they've captured a part of you that you irrationally thought was only yours. I read the sentence, pause for a moment while it sinks in. I try to read the next lines but those few just capture my brain, which abandons my eyes as they scan mechanically down the page all alone. I can't keep reading until I greedily write the quote in my little yellow notebook, hoping as the words flow from the pen back up into my arm and into my head that a little piece of that greatness is in me, just for that fleeting moment. We're connected.
I love the way books look all lined up on a shelf. They are so patient, standing at attention, proudly bearing their titles. They remind me of houses all quiet in a subdivision at night. They're still and unobtrusive on the outside, neat and tidy in a row. But you can see a hint of activity through the windows, a tv flashing, kids running by, signs of life. But you can't really know what complex reality stirs on the inside unless you go up and knock on the door. You pass by a hundred houses easy in a day, never knowing what you're missing inside each one.
These things can never be taken away from me, no matter what I study, no matter what I do for a living. I love books, and I always will, and I always can. They aren't going anywhere. I can always read. I need to hang on to that, remember that. All the times I've spent up all night reading, all the times I've retreated in a book when I'm upset or sad or nervous, all the time I've spent puzzling out character motivations, envisioning settings, and existing in fictional worlds. Even all the time I spent arguing about hypothetical situations in hopes of shedding a bit of light on the tiniest bits of humanity. None of it is in vain because it's all mine.
Mar 19, 2013
I Want
Since I've abandoned the life plans that previously kept me tethered to the ground, I've been floating around in the sky like a balloon some little kid let go at a birthday party. Whatever direction the wind blows me, I go, narrowly avoiding trees and power lines along the way. Eventually, I'll hit the atmosphere and pop, and now I'm just living in perpetual dread of that day.
The grand plans are hopeless. They're too big for me to imagine, much less obtain. So maybe I should shift my focus. What do I want for my life on a small scale
I want to have a job that makes me feel like it actually matters whether I roll out of bed in the morning or not, as cliche as that sounds. It seems like the worst thing in the world to me that I could have a job that contributes nothing, a replaceable cog on an assembly line. I want to fill up the position I have with all of me; I want to leave some kind of mark. I want people to know me by my first name first and my job title second. I want to utilize my meager talents and apply them to a cause that in my heart I know is beneficial. Generally, this means writing and literature or education because that is what I think is most beautiful and perfect in this world. To disconnect myself from it feels like unplugging my own life support.
I don't much care about the money. I would like to have money, though. Money enough to buy subscriptions to The New Yorker and Rolling Stone. Enough to spoil a cat and take him or her to the vet too much and buy an unnecessarily luxurious scratching post and the name-brand kind of cat food and treats. Enough to have a lot of tv channels and NBA League Pass and NFL Sunday Ticket. I'm very selective with my luxuries--cats, sports, reading material--but I'm very attached to the ones I'm accustomed to. But they pale in comparison to the cost of being happy in my work.
But perhaps if my job must suck and I must be poor, I could make up for it with a good family. A good husband. A man who I believe when he compliments me. A man who appreciates low brow and high brow pleasures equally, without too much discretion. Who doesn't give me that itchy, uncomfortable, "must run" feeling in the pit of my stomach. Who makes me feel like a whole person, not just a body and not just an amusement or accomplishment and not just somebody to tell his friends about for some false validation. Who doesn't make anti-feminist jokes not out of fear of my disapproval but because he just doesn't. Who never make decisions based on my disapproval. And who weaves himself into my little family without much ruffling and doesn't make my dad get all stiff and awkward and doesn't mind my mom's occasionally racist comments. And who doesn't care that I'll never look very impressive on his arm, because my hair is frizzed out or my clothes look like a librarian's or that I'm not good at putting on make-up.
I want a few good friends who love me and know me and can talk for hours without doing much else. I want to always feel the urge to write beautiful sentences in my little yellow notebook. I want to always care as passionately about the world as I do now. I want to travel, even if I have to always stay in hostels. I want to stay up late occasionally and experience the solitary hours while the world sleeps and I want to mourn each season as it's about to pass and I want to always notice the feeling of walking out of a cold air conditioned building into the warm sunshine.
I don't want to be full of regrets, even though I'm probably already about one forth full. I want to look back on this rant in thirty years and smile instead of cry.
The grand plans are hopeless. They're too big for me to imagine, much less obtain. So maybe I should shift my focus. What do I want for my life on a small scale
I want to have a job that makes me feel like it actually matters whether I roll out of bed in the morning or not, as cliche as that sounds. It seems like the worst thing in the world to me that I could have a job that contributes nothing, a replaceable cog on an assembly line. I want to fill up the position I have with all of me; I want to leave some kind of mark. I want people to know me by my first name first and my job title second. I want to utilize my meager talents and apply them to a cause that in my heart I know is beneficial. Generally, this means writing and literature or education because that is what I think is most beautiful and perfect in this world. To disconnect myself from it feels like unplugging my own life support.
I don't much care about the money. I would like to have money, though. Money enough to buy subscriptions to The New Yorker and Rolling Stone. Enough to spoil a cat and take him or her to the vet too much and buy an unnecessarily luxurious scratching post and the name-brand kind of cat food and treats. Enough to have a lot of tv channels and NBA League Pass and NFL Sunday Ticket. I'm very selective with my luxuries--cats, sports, reading material--but I'm very attached to the ones I'm accustomed to. But they pale in comparison to the cost of being happy in my work.
But perhaps if my job must suck and I must be poor, I could make up for it with a good family. A good husband. A man who I believe when he compliments me. A man who appreciates low brow and high brow pleasures equally, without too much discretion. Who doesn't give me that itchy, uncomfortable, "must run" feeling in the pit of my stomach. Who makes me feel like a whole person, not just a body and not just an amusement or accomplishment and not just somebody to tell his friends about for some false validation. Who doesn't make anti-feminist jokes not out of fear of my disapproval but because he just doesn't. Who never make decisions based on my disapproval. And who weaves himself into my little family without much ruffling and doesn't make my dad get all stiff and awkward and doesn't mind my mom's occasionally racist comments. And who doesn't care that I'll never look very impressive on his arm, because my hair is frizzed out or my clothes look like a librarian's or that I'm not good at putting on make-up.
I want a few good friends who love me and know me and can talk for hours without doing much else. I want to always feel the urge to write beautiful sentences in my little yellow notebook. I want to always care as passionately about the world as I do now. I want to travel, even if I have to always stay in hostels. I want to stay up late occasionally and experience the solitary hours while the world sleeps and I want to mourn each season as it's about to pass and I want to always notice the feeling of walking out of a cold air conditioned building into the warm sunshine.
I don't want to be full of regrets, even though I'm probably already about one forth full. I want to look back on this rant in thirty years and smile instead of cry.
Feb 26, 2013
I Stand With Justice
I can't stand it anymore. I have to post this somewhere. I have to get all these thoughts off my chest.
This "Stand with Landen" thing at my university is growing widely out of control. Everybody needs to calm the hell down.
First of all, sometimes I want to obliterate the idea of retweeting and sharing and all the click-and-the-whole-world-knows functions on the internet. Yes, they're great when you're sharing an amusing grumpy cat meme, but when you think you're propagating a social movement when actually you're mindlessly pretending to stand up for a cause, it becomes a very bad thing.
Suddenly everyone is ashamed and disgusted by this rapid rape culture at UNC. This is obscene. UNC doesn't have more rape culture than anyone else. I do wholeheartedly agree with changing rape culture, but pinning the entire issue to this insane case is not the way to eliminate rape culture. It's just a way for a million facebook users and UNC students who don't even read the Daily Tar Heel to pretend they're fixing UNC. People like to get up in arms over stuff, especially when they have no idea what they're talking about.
That's the problem. NOBODY knows what they're talking about. The contents of the honor court hearing are sealed. Nobody, besides Landen herself and the people in the court, know what happened that day. Of course, we have Landen's version of events spewed all over the media. While her accusations should be taken seriously, they should not be treated as the gospel. She is one person, and she is hardly objective (understandably) in this matter.
I just want somebody to step back and look at this. Why are we assuming the UNC administrators are trying to ally themselves with rapists? Why can't we give them the same complete trust we're giving Landen? Why can't we assume everybody is doing their best? Or at least assume everyone is doing their worst? This isn't black and white, good versus evil, honor court vs little girls.
What if there actually wasn't enough information to convict the guy accused of rape? You can't convict people of rape lightly! Nobody knows why the honor court made that decision, so nobody should assume it was wrong.
The media keeps reporting that UNC is going to expell this student for saying she was raped. THAT IS NOT TRUE. She received a form letter stating that she was being accused of an honor code violation, the same letter everyone gets when accused, that says that expulsion is possible because expulsion is always possible when facing charges. She HAS not been formly convicted of those charges, and is not anywhere close to being expelled. UNC IS NOT EXPELLING RAPE VICTIMS TO PRETEND RAPE DOESN'T HAPPEN. Landen has made it very clear that her ex-boyfriend, who many friends and acquaintances surely know she dated while at UNC, still lives on campus. He can VERY EASILY be identified. So the fact that she has not formally identified him does not mean that he has not been harassed. He was never convicted of raping her. He has not lost the privilege to attend this university. There is some validity to those charges. I think it was unwise to level them anyway, but what is done is done.
I believe in the power of students to make positive and lasting change in their universities. But they need to make informed, rational decisions. Sticking the entire student body's nose into something they don't have the information to properly understand is not productive. UNC deserves a lot of the bad press it gets, but this is not one of the reasons.
I'm sorry if Landen was abused and raped. I'm sorry if the honor court has failed her. But this was not the proper way to handle the situation.
The real fix here is for the university to let the real court system handle sexual abuse cases. The university should continue to Haven and OneAct train its students to properly deal with this when the behavior is exhibited. If a student close to Landen and her ex-boyfriend had been able to identify the signs of an abusive relationship while these events unfolded, maybe it could have been prevented in the first place. If Landen had the resources to deal with her mental issues, maybe she would have been able to leave a toxic situation before it became criminal.
Maybe everyone needs to worry about the real cause of problems instead of becoming facebook activists. I don't know more about this situation than anyone else. I just want people to act according to their ignorance and not baseless assumptions.
I want to believe in my university and I want to believe there is justice in the world, and I want to believe there are better ways to achieve it.
This "Stand with Landen" thing at my university is growing widely out of control. Everybody needs to calm the hell down.
First of all, sometimes I want to obliterate the idea of retweeting and sharing and all the click-and-the-whole-world-knows functions on the internet. Yes, they're great when you're sharing an amusing grumpy cat meme, but when you think you're propagating a social movement when actually you're mindlessly pretending to stand up for a cause, it becomes a very bad thing.
Suddenly everyone is ashamed and disgusted by this rapid rape culture at UNC. This is obscene. UNC doesn't have more rape culture than anyone else. I do wholeheartedly agree with changing rape culture, but pinning the entire issue to this insane case is not the way to eliminate rape culture. It's just a way for a million facebook users and UNC students who don't even read the Daily Tar Heel to pretend they're fixing UNC. People like to get up in arms over stuff, especially when they have no idea what they're talking about.
That's the problem. NOBODY knows what they're talking about. The contents of the honor court hearing are sealed. Nobody, besides Landen herself and the people in the court, know what happened that day. Of course, we have Landen's version of events spewed all over the media. While her accusations should be taken seriously, they should not be treated as the gospel. She is one person, and she is hardly objective (understandably) in this matter.
I just want somebody to step back and look at this. Why are we assuming the UNC administrators are trying to ally themselves with rapists? Why can't we give them the same complete trust we're giving Landen? Why can't we assume everybody is doing their best? Or at least assume everyone is doing their worst? This isn't black and white, good versus evil, honor court vs little girls.
What if there actually wasn't enough information to convict the guy accused of rape? You can't convict people of rape lightly! Nobody knows why the honor court made that decision, so nobody should assume it was wrong.
The media keeps reporting that UNC is going to expell this student for saying she was raped. THAT IS NOT TRUE. She received a form letter stating that she was being accused of an honor code violation, the same letter everyone gets when accused, that says that expulsion is possible because expulsion is always possible when facing charges. She HAS not been formly convicted of those charges, and is not anywhere close to being expelled. UNC IS NOT EXPELLING RAPE VICTIMS TO PRETEND RAPE DOESN'T HAPPEN. Landen has made it very clear that her ex-boyfriend, who many friends and acquaintances surely know she dated while at UNC, still lives on campus. He can VERY EASILY be identified. So the fact that she has not formally identified him does not mean that he has not been harassed. He was never convicted of raping her. He has not lost the privilege to attend this university. There is some validity to those charges. I think it was unwise to level them anyway, but what is done is done.
I believe in the power of students to make positive and lasting change in their universities. But they need to make informed, rational decisions. Sticking the entire student body's nose into something they don't have the information to properly understand is not productive. UNC deserves a lot of the bad press it gets, but this is not one of the reasons.
I'm sorry if Landen was abused and raped. I'm sorry if the honor court has failed her. But this was not the proper way to handle the situation.
The real fix here is for the university to let the real court system handle sexual abuse cases. The university should continue to Haven and OneAct train its students to properly deal with this when the behavior is exhibited. If a student close to Landen and her ex-boyfriend had been able to identify the signs of an abusive relationship while these events unfolded, maybe it could have been prevented in the first place. If Landen had the resources to deal with her mental issues, maybe she would have been able to leave a toxic situation before it became criminal.
Maybe everyone needs to worry about the real cause of problems instead of becoming facebook activists. I don't know more about this situation than anyone else. I just want people to act according to their ignorance and not baseless assumptions.
I want to believe in my university and I want to believe there is justice in the world, and I want to believe there are better ways to achieve it.
Feb 11, 2013
50 Years
Today is the fiftieth anniversary of Sylvia Plath's suicide.
I've been calling Sylvia my favorite writer for years now. People who aren't English majors return the name with blank stares, and English majors look a little concerned, especially if I footnote it with "Viginia Woolf."
But I can't help it; I just love the crazy ladies. There's something so completely honest and brave about their writing. Their deeply introspective melacholy just rings so true. Though fifty years seperate me and Sylvia, Sylvia and thousands of people like me, her words still have the power to pierce me through the heart, to tie up exactly how I feel, to put into words those misty foggy feelings that are so hard to capture.
I don't find it so alarming that I can relate to Sylvia. I'm not clinically depressed, but I do have a tendency toward melancholy, and sometimes that makes me feel utterly alone. Nobody cares enough to listen to my spiraling thoughts of sadness, and I don't really expect them to because such things are inherently illogical, so I just end up being lonely. Somebody else can't really understand the throught process because it's not rooted in any of kind of transmutable logic.
Though I understand that intellectually, I can't help but want to tell somebody about it. But the words don't seem as important out of my mouth as they do in my head, and people don't care, so I just end up feeling worse after.
I think a similar compulsion spurred Sylvia to write so much: a huge mass of journals, tons of poems, scraps of novels, and one beautiful gem of a complete novel. There are all shades of the same kind of sad introspection, attempts to feel the emptiness. A place to talk where nobody had to listen.
But we are listening to her now. She's given me so much, including peace of mind. It seems wrong that somebody who stuck her head in an oven can provide peace of mind, but she does. There are Sylvia quotes written all over my life, both physically and mentally. A little companionship, even with a dead author from fifty years ago, can go a long way. I wouldn't be leading the life I lead if I didn't believe in the power of written word, and Sylvia personifies that power for me in a very real way.
I'm so glad I picked up The Bell Jar because it was on sale at Barnes and Noble however many years ago. I hope one day I can write something, even if it's just a page, that echos with the transcendent, cerebral, relatable, and beautiful words Sylvia gave to us.
I've been calling Sylvia my favorite writer for years now. People who aren't English majors return the name with blank stares, and English majors look a little concerned, especially if I footnote it with "Viginia Woolf."
But I can't help it; I just love the crazy ladies. There's something so completely honest and brave about their writing. Their deeply introspective melacholy just rings so true. Though fifty years seperate me and Sylvia, Sylvia and thousands of people like me, her words still have the power to pierce me through the heart, to tie up exactly how I feel, to put into words those misty foggy feelings that are so hard to capture.
I don't find it so alarming that I can relate to Sylvia. I'm not clinically depressed, but I do have a tendency toward melancholy, and sometimes that makes me feel utterly alone. Nobody cares enough to listen to my spiraling thoughts of sadness, and I don't really expect them to because such things are inherently illogical, so I just end up being lonely. Somebody else can't really understand the throught process because it's not rooted in any of kind of transmutable logic.
Though I understand that intellectually, I can't help but want to tell somebody about it. But the words don't seem as important out of my mouth as they do in my head, and people don't care, so I just end up feeling worse after.
I think a similar compulsion spurred Sylvia to write so much: a huge mass of journals, tons of poems, scraps of novels, and one beautiful gem of a complete novel. There are all shades of the same kind of sad introspection, attempts to feel the emptiness. A place to talk where nobody had to listen.
But we are listening to her now. She's given me so much, including peace of mind. It seems wrong that somebody who stuck her head in an oven can provide peace of mind, but she does. There are Sylvia quotes written all over my life, both physically and mentally. A little companionship, even with a dead author from fifty years ago, can go a long way. I wouldn't be leading the life I lead if I didn't believe in the power of written word, and Sylvia personifies that power for me in a very real way.
I'm so glad I picked up The Bell Jar because it was on sale at Barnes and Noble however many years ago. I hope one day I can write something, even if it's just a page, that echos with the transcendent, cerebral, relatable, and beautiful words Sylvia gave to us.
Dec 20, 2012
The Casual Vacancy
I was afraid I'd be disappointed with J.K. Rowling's new book, The Casual Vacancy. After all, the vacancy Harry Potter left in my reading soul was anything but casual. I was afraid my beloved Jo would be a one-hit wonder, capable of only masterfully painting one great world, unable to inhabit the real one with the same thoughtful care and attention.
And I was disappointed, but not by Jo Rowling. If anybody else had written The Casual Vacancy, I'm not sure the critics would be quite so lukewarm about it. I was excited when I finally finished reading it, after delaying for months due to school. After I stayed up til three in the morning, enthralled by the ending (much in the fashion I've read many of my favorite books, including Harry Potter), I happily cued up the episode of Mugglecast where they talked about the book.
None of them even finished it. I was dismayed. But I understood, since it wasn't as immediatelyspellbinding captivating as Harry Potter. I decided to give them a few more minutes to redeem themselves. Then one of the hosts said "I just don't think this story is one that needs to be told."
THE STORY DIDN'T NEED TO BE TOLD? I couldn't disagree more. First of all, these people clearly don't know how to read a book that isn't dressed up in wizarding robes or vampire fangs. Second, they don't realize that when they're reading about magic, they're reading about disguised real life. If you want to criticize Rowling for The Casual Vacancy, you could criticize her for writing a book with virtually the same themes! If you don't think The Casual Vacancy is a story that needs to be told, then you don't think Harry Potter is either.
Both books are divided into an (almost overly simplistic) world of class warfare. The Mollisons and the Malfoys, the Wheedons and the Weasleys (look, Jo even set up that alliteration for me). They're about the struggles of adolescence (we all know that Ron was thinking the same things Andrew Price thinks about Gaia while he's looking at Hermione, we just don't read that part of the story). They're about doing what is right even if it's not the most convenient or appealing option for yourself. Only this time, there's no magic to save anyone. The Casual Vacancy really is Harry Potter all grown up.
And the fans don't like it. We're grown up too, and everyone was hoping that Jo's new book would be a swift return back into the fantasy of childhood. Instead, she delivered a sobering dose of reality. The characters and problems in The Casual Vacancy are so real it's painful to read in parts. Not painful like "how sad is it that Harry's an orphan?" but "how sad is it that I'm implicit in this world of gross injustice?" The second is the more important, real, and adult question.
Literature is supposed to make you squeam, tear your heart out, pierce your soul, call you to action. If The Casual Vacancy did none of this for you, then you're not reading it right. You're looking for an escape, not a good novel. Jo wanted to grow up her image, and she definitely succeeded. She did so not through the vulgar language and sex scenes in her new novel, but through stripping the magic away and unveiling the harsh reality of the real world. Grow up, Harry Potter fans. Hogwarts may always be there to welcome you home, but in the meantime, figure out what really matters.
And I was disappointed, but not by Jo Rowling. If anybody else had written The Casual Vacancy, I'm not sure the critics would be quite so lukewarm about it. I was excited when I finally finished reading it, after delaying for months due to school. After I stayed up til three in the morning, enthralled by the ending (much in the fashion I've read many of my favorite books, including Harry Potter), I happily cued up the episode of Mugglecast where they talked about the book.
None of them even finished it. I was dismayed. But I understood, since it wasn't as immediately
THE STORY DIDN'T NEED TO BE TOLD? I couldn't disagree more. First of all, these people clearly don't know how to read a book that isn't dressed up in wizarding robes or vampire fangs. Second, they don't realize that when they're reading about magic, they're reading about disguised real life. If you want to criticize Rowling for The Casual Vacancy, you could criticize her for writing a book with virtually the same themes! If you don't think The Casual Vacancy is a story that needs to be told, then you don't think Harry Potter is either.
Both books are divided into an (almost overly simplistic) world of class warfare. The Mollisons and the Malfoys, the Wheedons and the Weasleys (look, Jo even set up that alliteration for me). They're about the struggles of adolescence (we all know that Ron was thinking the same things Andrew Price thinks about Gaia while he's looking at Hermione, we just don't read that part of the story). They're about doing what is right even if it's not the most convenient or appealing option for yourself. Only this time, there's no magic to save anyone. The Casual Vacancy really is Harry Potter all grown up.
And the fans don't like it. We're grown up too, and everyone was hoping that Jo's new book would be a swift return back into the fantasy of childhood. Instead, she delivered a sobering dose of reality. The characters and problems in The Casual Vacancy are so real it's painful to read in parts. Not painful like "how sad is it that Harry's an orphan?" but "how sad is it that I'm implicit in this world of gross injustice?" The second is the more important, real, and adult question.
Literature is supposed to make you squeam, tear your heart out, pierce your soul, call you to action. If The Casual Vacancy did none of this for you, then you're not reading it right. You're looking for an escape, not a good novel. Jo wanted to grow up her image, and she definitely succeeded. She did so not through the vulgar language and sex scenes in her new novel, but through stripping the magic away and unveiling the harsh reality of the real world. Grow up, Harry Potter fans. Hogwarts may always be there to welcome you home, but in the meantime, figure out what really matters.
Nov 12, 2012
Advise
I'm tired of trying to predict what the world wants of me, what it will be like two years from now when I'm forced to join it. How am I supposed to know? Everybody has an opinion on how best to prepare for it.
There are doom and gloom advisers. It's easy to want to trust them, with their diplomas declaring "I passed" neatly command hooked to the walls of their offices, supposed testaments to their successes. All the textbooks that now gather dust on their office shelves because they no longer read them. Maybe the diplomas really say "I failed." Nobody starts out with ambitions to be an adviser anyway. That means they failed first at something else. Maybe they failed at pursuing the goal you're asking them about; maybe they have a reason to tell you an English major will make you miserable because an English major made them miserable. But you're not them and they can't know you from a collection of scores scribbled in pencil on an academic worksheet, a conglomeration of classes that adds up to practically nothing but a lot of money and time. Or maybe they failed because the conditions really are terrible, they've been through things you're too young and idealistic to know about, and you should listen to them because they're right.
There's the other students. The hakuna matatars, the it-will-all-work-out-so-let's-take-a-shot-ers. They convince you for a moment that maybe you can't really plan for the unknowable future, and things will just fall into place if you keep trucking along. Maybe you are a little too high strung. You'll have a diploma. It'll be okay. Spend a semester in Buenos Aires or the Carribean. Live life. But what if these college hippies are just lifetime loafers waiting to become the homeless people on Franklin Street, begging for change and cigarettes. When their looks and vodka runs out, what will they have?
There's the friends and family, brimming with over-confidence in you. You are brilliant and driven and gorgeous and nothing can stop you. They believe in your pixelated skype smile more than you do. Every rejection letter is their loss, every bad test grade comes from a bad professor, you weren't tugging on any of the doors that slam shut. They mistake giving up dreams for being lazy or insecure. They live forty years behind you, not really understanding the ticking in your brain or the circumstances of your desperation.
So who is right? Who should you believe? Amid all of it, you must figure out where your voice is, what your heart wants, what the world wants. How do you put food on the table without sacrificing everything you love? This might be the key question to the universe. It is not about where we came from or if there's a god. It's how do I still get to read Dickens without becoming one of his starving characters?
I love too many things and not enough things. I'm decent at a few things but not good enough at any of them. I can't accept that I'm useless to the world, but I can't find a good use for myself. Is the peak of my productivity checking out DVDs to undergrads? Surely not.
I resist believing in fate or god or anything that would make these decisions for me. I relish in free will and the power of humanity to shape itself. But right now, I just want somebody to tell me what to do. But I've only got me.
There are doom and gloom advisers. It's easy to want to trust them, with their diplomas declaring "I passed" neatly command hooked to the walls of their offices, supposed testaments to their successes. All the textbooks that now gather dust on their office shelves because they no longer read them. Maybe the diplomas really say "I failed." Nobody starts out with ambitions to be an adviser anyway. That means they failed first at something else. Maybe they failed at pursuing the goal you're asking them about; maybe they have a reason to tell you an English major will make you miserable because an English major made them miserable. But you're not them and they can't know you from a collection of scores scribbled in pencil on an academic worksheet, a conglomeration of classes that adds up to practically nothing but a lot of money and time. Or maybe they failed because the conditions really are terrible, they've been through things you're too young and idealistic to know about, and you should listen to them because they're right.
There's the other students. The hakuna matatars, the it-will-all-work-out-so-let's-take-a-shot-ers. They convince you for a moment that maybe you can't really plan for the unknowable future, and things will just fall into place if you keep trucking along. Maybe you are a little too high strung. You'll have a diploma. It'll be okay. Spend a semester in Buenos Aires or the Carribean. Live life. But what if these college hippies are just lifetime loafers waiting to become the homeless people on Franklin Street, begging for change and cigarettes. When their looks and vodka runs out, what will they have?
There's the friends and family, brimming with over-confidence in you. You are brilliant and driven and gorgeous and nothing can stop you. They believe in your pixelated skype smile more than you do. Every rejection letter is their loss, every bad test grade comes from a bad professor, you weren't tugging on any of the doors that slam shut. They mistake giving up dreams for being lazy or insecure. They live forty years behind you, not really understanding the ticking in your brain or the circumstances of your desperation.
So who is right? Who should you believe? Amid all of it, you must figure out where your voice is, what your heart wants, what the world wants. How do you put food on the table without sacrificing everything you love? This might be the key question to the universe. It is not about where we came from or if there's a god. It's how do I still get to read Dickens without becoming one of his starving characters?
I love too many things and not enough things. I'm decent at a few things but not good enough at any of them. I can't accept that I'm useless to the world, but I can't find a good use for myself. Is the peak of my productivity checking out DVDs to undergrads? Surely not.
I resist believing in fate or god or anything that would make these decisions for me. I relish in free will and the power of humanity to shape itself. But right now, I just want somebody to tell me what to do. But I've only got me.
Sep 25, 2012
Creative Writing
They write such pretty words.
Pretty words about death. Death and sex (especially if you call it "fucking" instead. Extra points for a caviler attitude) automatically makes something profound, infallible to criticism. Higher than a complaint, too artsy to be bothered with earthly problems like confused readers and unnecessary comma splicing.
How sad to have reached perfection at 18, looking down from the height of the literary heap at your minions with their sad, double spaced stories about their innocent little lives. Profundity isn't meant to be subtle; it's supposed to be in your face. Because life paints its allegories on billboards; it's meanings shout out at you from rooftops with bull horns. There's no meticulous searching, no effort. Just imitate.
Chuck Palahniuk is plenty rich, but his success rate is less than half. But less than half is more than zero, so just keep writing your disgusting narrative, and we'll keep patting you on the back because a string of pretty words saying dirty things is good writing. You don't even need to understand it yourself; fumble through the explanation. You only wrote it because it felt good; it feels the same as slitting your wrists in the bathroom in middle school, not to "control the pain" like the pamphlets say, but because blood and scars make you more overtly gothic. Just crying is not symbolically resonant enough. You need vivid imagery, a cliche not to the world but to the internet's plethora of would-be writers with internet access and time to kill.
Write fan fiction about yourself because you are your biggest fan. We'll keep patting you on the back because you've accomplished making us feel awkward enough not to criticize you. You've peer pressured us into not being the bitch you want us to be, you dare us to be.
Maybe I could be you if I really wanted. I could be a writer if I really wanted. But I'm too queasy at the sight of blood; I don't have the authority of knowledge to write about fucking metaphors (a verb here, not an adjective). So I'll bow out. Here's the pen. Write your story.
I know it isn't really yours.
Pretty words about death. Death and sex (especially if you call it "fucking" instead. Extra points for a caviler attitude) automatically makes something profound, infallible to criticism. Higher than a complaint, too artsy to be bothered with earthly problems like confused readers and unnecessary comma splicing.
How sad to have reached perfection at 18, looking down from the height of the literary heap at your minions with their sad, double spaced stories about their innocent little lives. Profundity isn't meant to be subtle; it's supposed to be in your face. Because life paints its allegories on billboards; it's meanings shout out at you from rooftops with bull horns. There's no meticulous searching, no effort. Just imitate.
Chuck Palahniuk is plenty rich, but his success rate is less than half. But less than half is more than zero, so just keep writing your disgusting narrative, and we'll keep patting you on the back because a string of pretty words saying dirty things is good writing. You don't even need to understand it yourself; fumble through the explanation. You only wrote it because it felt good; it feels the same as slitting your wrists in the bathroom in middle school, not to "control the pain" like the pamphlets say, but because blood and scars make you more overtly gothic. Just crying is not symbolically resonant enough. You need vivid imagery, a cliche not to the world but to the internet's plethora of would-be writers with internet access and time to kill.
Write fan fiction about yourself because you are your biggest fan. We'll keep patting you on the back because you've accomplished making us feel awkward enough not to criticize you. You've peer pressured us into not being the bitch you want us to be, you dare us to be.
Maybe I could be you if I really wanted. I could be a writer if I really wanted. But I'm too queasy at the sight of blood; I don't have the authority of knowledge to write about fucking metaphors (a verb here, not an adjective). So I'll bow out. Here's the pen. Write your story.
I know it isn't really yours.
Sep 10, 2012
Mirror Rant
This article is wonderful.
I am so fascinated about the many shifts feminism takes. There are so many varieties, and each kind tends to look down upon the others. Some are essentialist; embracing what they believe are the fundamental differences between a man and a woman. Embracing sexuality; pulling a Yankee Doodle on things that are supposed to be signs of our submission: high heels rising above the misogyny, lip sticked confidence, push up bras of defiance.
Others eschew these things. Separate is not equal. They are traps, making women entangled in a mess of man's desires; the things marketed to us are for their enjoyment and we've been trained to think we enjoy them to. Heels so we can't run; lip stick to hide natural imperfections; push-up straight jackets molding us into what they want us to be.
How should we get our rights? Are we trying to crack the glass ceiling or just Windexing it so it's so transparent you don't know it's there until you bump into it?
I'm an educated, middle class female. Like the article says, I'm supposed to know better. I am not supposed to be trapped in my own reflection, feeling inadequate by some standards with origins as hazy and messy as my eyeliner at the end of the day, eyeliner I don't even know why I'm buying and applying. I give my money to Almay while simultaneously hating the way they advertise to me; I hate it because it works.
I'm not supposed to care about silly things like how my hair puffs in the humidity, subconsciously always smoothing it down in vain, while my other hand clutches a Jane Austen novel. Jane is writing so long ago not to be banal, to rise above the limited expectations. And even though I don't need a rich suitor, in the back of mind, it's always there: time is ticking, you are running out, not to find a match is to be a failure. Lizzie Bennett had her wit and her Darcy, and what do I have?
I have my feminist idols and their quotes to make me justify my insecurity. My insecurity invalidates my ideology. Is my ideology too ideal? Virginia Woolf drowned herself; Sylvia Plath asphyxiated herself. Why am I looking to women who clearly don't know the answers? Liz Lemon is not particularly happy with her life. Jane Austen died alone.
It's hard to tow the line between what is real and what is only scholarly. I live so much in the books that I forget they don't always apply to real life. They're just ideal ideologies, no one can hope to achieve. I must know that because the phrase so captures my imagination, feels so accurate to describe the push and pull always in my mind. The strengths of my brain fighting the failures of my body, each trying to reconcile the other. It will never happen.
But I must believe that it will so I can keep looking forward. Smashing the mirror means seven years bad luck, but a lifetime of looking to it for validation is no better.
I am so fascinated about the many shifts feminism takes. There are so many varieties, and each kind tends to look down upon the others. Some are essentialist; embracing what they believe are the fundamental differences between a man and a woman. Embracing sexuality; pulling a Yankee Doodle on things that are supposed to be signs of our submission: high heels rising above the misogyny, lip sticked confidence, push up bras of defiance.
Others eschew these things. Separate is not equal. They are traps, making women entangled in a mess of man's desires; the things marketed to us are for their enjoyment and we've been trained to think we enjoy them to. Heels so we can't run; lip stick to hide natural imperfections; push-up straight jackets molding us into what they want us to be.
How should we get our rights? Are we trying to crack the glass ceiling or just Windexing it so it's so transparent you don't know it's there until you bump into it?
I'm an educated, middle class female. Like the article says, I'm supposed to know better. I am not supposed to be trapped in my own reflection, feeling inadequate by some standards with origins as hazy and messy as my eyeliner at the end of the day, eyeliner I don't even know why I'm buying and applying. I give my money to Almay while simultaneously hating the way they advertise to me; I hate it because it works.
I'm not supposed to care about silly things like how my hair puffs in the humidity, subconsciously always smoothing it down in vain, while my other hand clutches a Jane Austen novel. Jane is writing so long ago not to be banal, to rise above the limited expectations. And even though I don't need a rich suitor, in the back of mind, it's always there: time is ticking, you are running out, not to find a match is to be a failure. Lizzie Bennett had her wit and her Darcy, and what do I have?
I have my feminist idols and their quotes to make me justify my insecurity. My insecurity invalidates my ideology. Is my ideology too ideal? Virginia Woolf drowned herself; Sylvia Plath asphyxiated herself. Why am I looking to women who clearly don't know the answers? Liz Lemon is not particularly happy with her life. Jane Austen died alone.
It's hard to tow the line between what is real and what is only scholarly. I live so much in the books that I forget they don't always apply to real life. They're just ideal ideologies, no one can hope to achieve. I must know that because the phrase so captures my imagination, feels so accurate to describe the push and pull always in my mind. The strengths of my brain fighting the failures of my body, each trying to reconcile the other. It will never happen.
But I must believe that it will so I can keep looking forward. Smashing the mirror means seven years bad luck, but a lifetime of looking to it for validation is no better.
Aug 30, 2012
So I Write
I'm supposed to be writing. I'm always supposed to be reading or writing something. Any moment spent not doing either of things, even if they are activities designed to keep me alive such as eating or sleeping, make me feel procrastinator's guilt. It is ludicrous that I'm writing this right now, though the extremely low volume of posts lately makes me feel a different kind of guilt.
I feel like I've been spending both abnormally large and extremely small amounts of time on myself lately. I am striving for improvement based upon a self-help plan of my own design, and I can feel it working. I can feel progress in way I don't think I ever have. Usually, I can mark my progress by my constant introspective musings; I can see where I've been, write down where I'm going. But I haven't been lately. I haven't been writing about myself.
Does that have a simple explanation? Moving back to school and then school itself is time consuming. I don't have time to sit around and ponder my own existence. On the modern hierarchy of a college student's needs, food, friends, working, homework all come before long hours of self-reflection. Perhaps it's growing busy, growing more mature, growing away from the self-centered world of an adolescent?
But also I am making such active strides toward change. Shouldn't this provide more to write about than any previous times in my life? Shouldn't it be a catalyst for creativity? Am I taking out whatever part of me inspired me in the first place? Are those parts worth losing in order to be more socially acceptable? Is that what I'm doing here? Making myself into a socially acceptable human being, something I never felt I was before.
In my memoir class, we constantly talk about the guilt the writers feel in using the lives of their families and friends, sometimes leaving them ravaged like a mountain after the coal miners have passed through. But they never consider what they're doing to themselves. Isn't probing your own mind just as risky? Do I harm myself by living inside me all of the time? Can I live somewhere else? No, not happily.
What is growing up? What is maturity? Who am I?
I am always a list of hypothetical, rhetorical questions I will never answer. So I write.
I feel like I've been spending both abnormally large and extremely small amounts of time on myself lately. I am striving for improvement based upon a self-help plan of my own design, and I can feel it working. I can feel progress in way I don't think I ever have. Usually, I can mark my progress by my constant introspective musings; I can see where I've been, write down where I'm going. But I haven't been lately. I haven't been writing about myself.
Does that have a simple explanation? Moving back to school and then school itself is time consuming. I don't have time to sit around and ponder my own existence. On the modern hierarchy of a college student's needs, food, friends, working, homework all come before long hours of self-reflection. Perhaps it's growing busy, growing more mature, growing away from the self-centered world of an adolescent?
But also I am making such active strides toward change. Shouldn't this provide more to write about than any previous times in my life? Shouldn't it be a catalyst for creativity? Am I taking out whatever part of me inspired me in the first place? Are those parts worth losing in order to be more socially acceptable? Is that what I'm doing here? Making myself into a socially acceptable human being, something I never felt I was before.
In my memoir class, we constantly talk about the guilt the writers feel in using the lives of their families and friends, sometimes leaving them ravaged like a mountain after the coal miners have passed through. But they never consider what they're doing to themselves. Isn't probing your own mind just as risky? Do I harm myself by living inside me all of the time? Can I live somewhere else? No, not happily.
What is growing up? What is maturity? Who am I?
I am always a list of hypothetical, rhetorical questions I will never answer. So I write.
Jul 8, 2012
Getting Over Myself
While my computer was off being fixed, I badly wanted to write. But something about the unfamiliarity of my mom's laptop's keyboard felt wrong. I just couldn't do it. It was like exposing secrets to an untrustworthy acquaintance instead of a close friend. I know this computer is impartial, all computers are. But I couldn't write anywhere else.
I tried paper. But paper felt too serious. The only time I've written on paper is in a black, silver-studded journal that I kept beside my bed to help with my insomnia. Having prohibited myself from looking at a computer screen, yet still imprisoned by the thoughts rolling in my head, I turned to the journal to empty my mind so I could sleep. But that felt wrong too. The paper felt like middle school anxieties, remote and immature. I wanted my computer.
And now I have it and now I can write. The driving force behind the desire was a fight with my father, the exact details of which don't really matter. The whole problem is that I can never fully explain my frustrations to him, or anybody else it seems. They belong solely to me and this computer screen.
I used to be okay with that, mostly. There's this whole part of me my family doesn't know, or care to know. They probably wouldn't like that part of me very much. But often, I think it's the best part, the most precious part. I'm no longer sure if I think so because it really is or because it's been only mine so long that it just hasn't had the opportunity to be colored by the opinions of others. Whenever I dare to expose a bit of me outside of what he is so familiar with, my dad reacts terribly. (I just realized this sounds very much like I'm talking about my sexuality, which I am not. That's a very telling analogy though.) Usually such discussions end with him telling me "to get over myself," which is his answer to anything that he doesn't understand.
What he doesn't understand are the things I'm most passionate about. He doesn't understand that reading isn't just a hobby, something I do when I can't sleep. He doesn't understand how a book or even a single sentence can be so beautiful you want to cry. He doesn't even really understand what I'm studying or what I want to be. He doesn't know I write anything besides term papers, and he doesn't even know what they involve. I am actually pretty curious as to what he thinks I study, and sort of sad that he would never make it through one of my school essays. He'd find it boring, extraneous, unnecessary--the ways he finds any book that isn't about golf.
Sometimes he surprises me when he delves into some sort of philosophical concept, but he regards me skeptically still when I voice my opinion. He seems sort of surprised I even have one.
I love him more than anything, and I wish so much that he knew the part of me that lives on this blog, in my bookshelf, in my mind. The one that's stored away in files on my computer. But it makes me sadder that he doesn't want to know that person. But that's not who he is.
Something in my parents' composition resists passion for anything more important than their golf games. Artistic sensibilities, strong political motivations, just passion. If I have those, I "need to get over myself."
I fear that one day I'll end up loving a man that loves the part of me that they don't know. They won't understand our relationship, they won't like him, they'll think he "needs to get over himself." But I can't spend my life with someone who doesn't understand my passions, but I don't think it'd be any easier to spend my life with some one who pushes me away from my parents.
I'm destined for conflict and this is only the beginning. But I cannot choose between my relationship with them and my relationship with myself. I don't need to get over myself because I care about this world, about art, about politics. I remain the silent and obedient girl they want me to be in their presence, but I know what I believe whole-heartedly, and I need so much some one to share it with.
It can't just be mine any longer.
I tried paper. But paper felt too serious. The only time I've written on paper is in a black, silver-studded journal that I kept beside my bed to help with my insomnia. Having prohibited myself from looking at a computer screen, yet still imprisoned by the thoughts rolling in my head, I turned to the journal to empty my mind so I could sleep. But that felt wrong too. The paper felt like middle school anxieties, remote and immature. I wanted my computer.
And now I have it and now I can write. The driving force behind the desire was a fight with my father, the exact details of which don't really matter. The whole problem is that I can never fully explain my frustrations to him, or anybody else it seems. They belong solely to me and this computer screen.
I used to be okay with that, mostly. There's this whole part of me my family doesn't know, or care to know. They probably wouldn't like that part of me very much. But often, I think it's the best part, the most precious part. I'm no longer sure if I think so because it really is or because it's been only mine so long that it just hasn't had the opportunity to be colored by the opinions of others. Whenever I dare to expose a bit of me outside of what he is so familiar with, my dad reacts terribly. (I just realized this sounds very much like I'm talking about my sexuality, which I am not. That's a very telling analogy though.) Usually such discussions end with him telling me "to get over myself," which is his answer to anything that he doesn't understand.
What he doesn't understand are the things I'm most passionate about. He doesn't understand that reading isn't just a hobby, something I do when I can't sleep. He doesn't understand how a book or even a single sentence can be so beautiful you want to cry. He doesn't even really understand what I'm studying or what I want to be. He doesn't know I write anything besides term papers, and he doesn't even know what they involve. I am actually pretty curious as to what he thinks I study, and sort of sad that he would never make it through one of my school essays. He'd find it boring, extraneous, unnecessary--the ways he finds any book that isn't about golf.
Sometimes he surprises me when he delves into some sort of philosophical concept, but he regards me skeptically still when I voice my opinion. He seems sort of surprised I even have one.
I love him more than anything, and I wish so much that he knew the part of me that lives on this blog, in my bookshelf, in my mind. The one that's stored away in files on my computer. But it makes me sadder that he doesn't want to know that person. But that's not who he is.
Something in my parents' composition resists passion for anything more important than their golf games. Artistic sensibilities, strong political motivations, just passion. If I have those, I "need to get over myself."
I fear that one day I'll end up loving a man that loves the part of me that they don't know. They won't understand our relationship, they won't like him, they'll think he "needs to get over himself." But I can't spend my life with someone who doesn't understand my passions, but I don't think it'd be any easier to spend my life with some one who pushes me away from my parents.
I'm destined for conflict and this is only the beginning. But I cannot choose between my relationship with them and my relationship with myself. I don't need to get over myself because I care about this world, about art, about politics. I remain the silent and obedient girl they want me to be in their presence, but I know what I believe whole-heartedly, and I need so much some one to share it with.
It can't just be mine any longer.
Jun 19, 2012
Home Videos
This evening, my dad yelled up the steps, "Saaamantha, I wanna show you something!" When I turned the corner, I found my toddler self filling up the big HD television screen. Since I was expecting our latest Netflix movie, Happy Feet Two, I was a little taken back by the sudden walk down memory lane.
With no explanation, Dad played the video. This particular moment has become infamous; I was about a year old, and Mom and I are engaged in our first fight. I'd been carrying around a pen, and she took it from me. I was not happy about this. Defiance etched into my tiny features (evident even through the baby fat), I went after the pen time and time again. "Peeen!" I repeated, in a mixture of baby talk and a dreaded Carolina drawl. Finally, I managed to get a hold on just the cap, leaving mom with the naked pen. I looked at the cap like the world stopped for a moment, forgetting my anger, and urged Mom to fix it. She did, and I resumed my quest.
The showdown lasted for quite some time, according to my parents. It is ever so fitting that my first argument featured a pen.
I found myself marveling over how that little creature, a vocabulary about twenty words long and about three hairs on her head, somehow grew into the me typing this right now. I don't believe in anything divine, but watching that video really made me feel like some sort of miracle.
Even though me and the toddler appear to have very little in common, you can see the grown me brewing under the surface.
The only birthday presents my one year old brain was drawn to were books. I tried opening one on my lap, but my undeveloped fine motor skills were no match for the intricate clasps. Maybe different drives propel me to eagerly open my books now, but then again, maybe not.
It was clear my Grandma Meg was my favorite person. Any time she appeared on the screen, I was right there with her. My favorite video was of my first trip to the beach. Ironically, the timestamp on the camcorder shows it occurred nineteen years ago today. Mom and Dad were unpacking the car outside of the hotel, and Grandma had already scooped me up and was halfway down the beach. Dad quickly found the camcorder, and you can hear Mom complaining about being robbed of her daughter's first encounter with the ocean.
But in the living room, Mom's real time complaints sound half-hearted. We all pause a little at seeing Grandma's alive and healthy form on the screen, clutching me and waving to the camera with the ocean roaring behind us. I don't remember her hair being that dark, but I remember that beautiful, genuine laugh. Watching her hold me, I feel the softness of her skin and the warmth of her hug. I don't know if I'm grateful for the video, or just sad.
Everything is so new and exciting to that baby. I pick up and examine with great intensity every weed in the backyard, the sand on the beach, a speck of dirt on the floor. The ocean provides endless thrills, seeing it all for the very first time. I miss the world being wondrous. I miss the pure joy of an uninhibited existence. I miss my grandma.
With no explanation, Dad played the video. This particular moment has become infamous; I was about a year old, and Mom and I are engaged in our first fight. I'd been carrying around a pen, and she took it from me. I was not happy about this. Defiance etched into my tiny features (evident even through the baby fat), I went after the pen time and time again. "Peeen!" I repeated, in a mixture of baby talk and a dreaded Carolina drawl. Finally, I managed to get a hold on just the cap, leaving mom with the naked pen. I looked at the cap like the world stopped for a moment, forgetting my anger, and urged Mom to fix it. She did, and I resumed my quest.
The showdown lasted for quite some time, according to my parents. It is ever so fitting that my first argument featured a pen.
I found myself marveling over how that little creature, a vocabulary about twenty words long and about three hairs on her head, somehow grew into the me typing this right now. I don't believe in anything divine, but watching that video really made me feel like some sort of miracle.
Even though me and the toddler appear to have very little in common, you can see the grown me brewing under the surface.
The only birthday presents my one year old brain was drawn to were books. I tried opening one on my lap, but my undeveloped fine motor skills were no match for the intricate clasps. Maybe different drives propel me to eagerly open my books now, but then again, maybe not.
It was clear my Grandma Meg was my favorite person. Any time she appeared on the screen, I was right there with her. My favorite video was of my first trip to the beach. Ironically, the timestamp on the camcorder shows it occurred nineteen years ago today. Mom and Dad were unpacking the car outside of the hotel, and Grandma had already scooped me up and was halfway down the beach. Dad quickly found the camcorder, and you can hear Mom complaining about being robbed of her daughter's first encounter with the ocean.
But in the living room, Mom's real time complaints sound half-hearted. We all pause a little at seeing Grandma's alive and healthy form on the screen, clutching me and waving to the camera with the ocean roaring behind us. I don't remember her hair being that dark, but I remember that beautiful, genuine laugh. Watching her hold me, I feel the softness of her skin and the warmth of her hug. I don't know if I'm grateful for the video, or just sad.
Everything is so new and exciting to that baby. I pick up and examine with great intensity every weed in the backyard, the sand on the beach, a speck of dirt on the floor. The ocean provides endless thrills, seeing it all for the very first time. I miss the world being wondrous. I miss the pure joy of an uninhibited existence. I miss my grandma.
May 2, 2012
Choke
(First of all, this new blogger format is weird and seems unnecessary. Why is the internet perpetually fixing things that aren't broken?)
Anyway, sometimes I feel like I overly intellectualize a lot of things, usually tv shows. But perhaps that's silly because if fiction isn't for analyzing, then what's it for?
This week's episode of Glee resounded with me, and that sentence still seems silly. But it's true.
I've always defended the seemingly insufferable character that is Rachel Berry. In fact, throughout all the crazy storylines and autotuning and whatnot, Rachel's story is the one that keeps me watching. People find her so annoying.
She is annoying. But she's annoying because she's passionate. She's ambitious and confident. These are qualities that are still frowned upon, however subtly, in women. When men work deliberately toward their dreams, they're being proactive. When Rachel does it, she's being manipulative. Her confidence is interpreted as arrogance. Of course she isn't perfect and takes it too far sometimes, but fans seem to use that as an excuse to hate her for her ambition. She knows what she wants, and it intimidates people.
One of the few things Glee's gotten right is Rachel's character development. Generally, they're terrible at developing characters. Personalities and motivations fly all over the place with no rhyme or reason. But Rachel's steadily improved throughout three seasons. She's matured and softened, but also hasn't lost sight of who she is--"a star."
I've always liked Rachel. I've always been ambitious, but sometimes I'm afraid to tell people so because I think they'll consider me delusional. But I'm not delusional. What's so delusional about aiming high and having the confidence to go after what you want?
Then on this week's episode, all of Rachel's hard work culminated one audition, and she choked.
As she cried and begged for another shot (which was amazing acting on Lea Michele's part, by the way), my heart broke for her. Because I feel like I'm on that stage, choking, right now.
Today, I officially got my first C in a class. Later in the week, my second one is inevitable. People always say Cs aren't the end of the world. I agree, they aren't the end of the world. But they're the end of a part of my world, and I'm not going to pretend that isn't a big deal and I'm not upset at it and myself. And I'm not going to pretend that these terrible grades have very real consequences for my life, academically and personally.
Rachel Berry's whole life centers around her singing. My whole life is centered around school. When it all comes crashing down, there's really nothing to do but grin and bear it. I recognize how false people's attempts at making her feel better after her choking sounded; it was one of Glee's few realistic moments. There isn't any comfort. There's nothing you can do. You want so badly to go redo those few moments that messed everything up, but you just can't.
But Rachel's fictional and fixing her problems is easy as typing a few paragraphs onto a screenplay. My life isn't as easy to figure out. What am I going to do now that I've sabotaged myself?
I impulsively signed up for creative writing, dropping a fancy education class. If I'm going to fail, I should at least write about it. I need to do something where I feel in control of my own fate and where I feel like what I'm doing matters. I need to love it. If I get a C doing something I love, then it would be worth it. C's for things I don't care about, that are just check marks on a future planning worksheet..that's not worth it.
I'm scared of going to my academic advising appointment in the fall and telling them I've failed, waiting for them to say "I should look at other options." I'm scared of facing my family members who are so sure in my genius. I'm scared of facing the teachers at home who had so much faith in me.
I'm tired of feeling isolated in my despair; it's hard to let go of much of what you've planned on your whole life, but I have to. Everybody thinks that's dramatic, but it's true. C's don't go to grad school. At least I have Rachel Berry to sing a depressing ballad over and over through my computer's speakers.
"Is it over yet? Can I open my eyes? Is this as hard as it gets? Is this what it feels like to really cry?"
Anyway, sometimes I feel like I overly intellectualize a lot of things, usually tv shows. But perhaps that's silly because if fiction isn't for analyzing, then what's it for?
This week's episode of Glee resounded with me, and that sentence still seems silly. But it's true.
I've always defended the seemingly insufferable character that is Rachel Berry. In fact, throughout all the crazy storylines and autotuning and whatnot, Rachel's story is the one that keeps me watching. People find her so annoying.
She is annoying. But she's annoying because she's passionate. She's ambitious and confident. These are qualities that are still frowned upon, however subtly, in women. When men work deliberately toward their dreams, they're being proactive. When Rachel does it, she's being manipulative. Her confidence is interpreted as arrogance. Of course she isn't perfect and takes it too far sometimes, but fans seem to use that as an excuse to hate her for her ambition. She knows what she wants, and it intimidates people.
One of the few things Glee's gotten right is Rachel's character development. Generally, they're terrible at developing characters. Personalities and motivations fly all over the place with no rhyme or reason. But Rachel's steadily improved throughout three seasons. She's matured and softened, but also hasn't lost sight of who she is--"a star."
I've always liked Rachel. I've always been ambitious, but sometimes I'm afraid to tell people so because I think they'll consider me delusional. But I'm not delusional. What's so delusional about aiming high and having the confidence to go after what you want?
Then on this week's episode, all of Rachel's hard work culminated one audition, and she choked.
As she cried and begged for another shot (which was amazing acting on Lea Michele's part, by the way), my heart broke for her. Because I feel like I'm on that stage, choking, right now.
Today, I officially got my first C in a class. Later in the week, my second one is inevitable. People always say Cs aren't the end of the world. I agree, they aren't the end of the world. But they're the end of a part of my world, and I'm not going to pretend that isn't a big deal and I'm not upset at it and myself. And I'm not going to pretend that these terrible grades have very real consequences for my life, academically and personally.
Rachel Berry's whole life centers around her singing. My whole life is centered around school. When it all comes crashing down, there's really nothing to do but grin and bear it. I recognize how false people's attempts at making her feel better after her choking sounded; it was one of Glee's few realistic moments. There isn't any comfort. There's nothing you can do. You want so badly to go redo those few moments that messed everything up, but you just can't.
But Rachel's fictional and fixing her problems is easy as typing a few paragraphs onto a screenplay. My life isn't as easy to figure out. What am I going to do now that I've sabotaged myself?
I impulsively signed up for creative writing, dropping a fancy education class. If I'm going to fail, I should at least write about it. I need to do something where I feel in control of my own fate and where I feel like what I'm doing matters. I need to love it. If I get a C doing something I love, then it would be worth it. C's for things I don't care about, that are just check marks on a future planning worksheet..that's not worth it.
I'm scared of going to my academic advising appointment in the fall and telling them I've failed, waiting for them to say "I should look at other options." I'm scared of facing my family members who are so sure in my genius. I'm scared of facing the teachers at home who had so much faith in me.
I'm tired of feeling isolated in my despair; it's hard to let go of much of what you've planned on your whole life, but I have to. Everybody thinks that's dramatic, but it's true. C's don't go to grad school. At least I have Rachel Berry to sing a depressing ballad over and over through my computer's speakers.
"Is it over yet? Can I open my eyes? Is this as hard as it gets? Is this what it feels like to really cry?"
Apr 7, 2012
A New Nostalgia
I feel so retro this weekend.
Though my life has changed radically in the last year, this weekend has felt like it belongs to years past. Remembering is different now, though. There is less nostalgia. While I still remember it fondly, there's a distinct feeling of being glad it's over, living happily in the present and looking toward the future, without longing at all for the past. I'm grateful for its being and even more grateful for its passing.
I left my shiny new laptop's charger at home, leaving me to edit my short stories on my old faithful desktop computer, the computer that carried me through late middle school and high school. It contains my teenage years in folders of pictures and writing, a digital scrapbook of me. The computer's painfully slow speed gives me time to contemplate each file I open before proceeding to the next, thinking of where my head was at when that photo was taken or that piece written. Sometimes, I don't recognize the person I see at all. This does not scare me like it might have before.
My computer's files prompted me to scan through the inscriptions in my high school yearbooks. The people who wrote in them hardly exist to me anymore. The laughter behind the inside jokes has faded in a way the pink gel pen never will. I remember how I felt slightly queasy about a particular inscription, with it's overly sentimental message and promises, and feel even more queasy about how untrue its become. That's all I wanted when it was written, but now I wish it didn't have to be that way. I expected to feel this way five or six or ten years after graduating high school, not in a year. But now I can safely say with supreme confidence that high school is not the best years of your life.
Sitting on the couch, eating my favorite frozen pizza and watching sporting events with my parents reminds me of the evenings after school I spent in that very position. At one point, I pulled out my homework assignment from UNC and it felt so alien, like an artifact from the past carried home in a time machine. I looked at my bookbag with suspicion before stuffing the assignment back in.
Sitting here at this desk in my my messy room, waiting on Dad to finish grilling hamburgers on the deck, typing away on my desktop computer, it feels like I should get up tomorrow morning and drive to the community college, park the car, and step into the T-building lobby. I feel that same way each time I swing my car Bessie out into the road in the direction of town, just as I did each morning for several years. Though I have a shiny, new car, I still feel at home in Bessie's driver's seat; it's safe, I'm in control, it's comfortable. But I'm not overly sad about it like I suspected I would be. I want to drive the new car, with it's new car smell and updated interior. It is change, and I like it.
But the time I feel most like my past self is when I'm reading at night before bed, forgetting the time and the rest of the world until I turn over the novel's last page. Books, though always new ones, are the one constant thread throughout my twenty years, and they faithfully evoke the same comforting feeling time and time again. Whether I'm reading them in my bedroom at home by my halogen octopus lamp, or reading them perched high in my lofted dorm bed, I feel peacefully present. I know as long as I can access that feeling, I'll never be lost.
Though I must rejoin the actual present tomorrow night, I'm happy I've had this weekend of reminders to show me where I've come from, to remind me of where I have to go.
Though my life has changed radically in the last year, this weekend has felt like it belongs to years past. Remembering is different now, though. There is less nostalgia. While I still remember it fondly, there's a distinct feeling of being glad it's over, living happily in the present and looking toward the future, without longing at all for the past. I'm grateful for its being and even more grateful for its passing.
I left my shiny new laptop's charger at home, leaving me to edit my short stories on my old faithful desktop computer, the computer that carried me through late middle school and high school. It contains my teenage years in folders of pictures and writing, a digital scrapbook of me. The computer's painfully slow speed gives me time to contemplate each file I open before proceeding to the next, thinking of where my head was at when that photo was taken or that piece written. Sometimes, I don't recognize the person I see at all. This does not scare me like it might have before.
My computer's files prompted me to scan through the inscriptions in my high school yearbooks. The people who wrote in them hardly exist to me anymore. The laughter behind the inside jokes has faded in a way the pink gel pen never will. I remember how I felt slightly queasy about a particular inscription, with it's overly sentimental message and promises, and feel even more queasy about how untrue its become. That's all I wanted when it was written, but now I wish it didn't have to be that way. I expected to feel this way five or six or ten years after graduating high school, not in a year. But now I can safely say with supreme confidence that high school is not the best years of your life.
Sitting on the couch, eating my favorite frozen pizza and watching sporting events with my parents reminds me of the evenings after school I spent in that very position. At one point, I pulled out my homework assignment from UNC and it felt so alien, like an artifact from the past carried home in a time machine. I looked at my bookbag with suspicion before stuffing the assignment back in.
Sitting here at this desk in my my messy room, waiting on Dad to finish grilling hamburgers on the deck, typing away on my desktop computer, it feels like I should get up tomorrow morning and drive to the community college, park the car, and step into the T-building lobby. I feel that same way each time I swing my car Bessie out into the road in the direction of town, just as I did each morning for several years. Though I have a shiny, new car, I still feel at home in Bessie's driver's seat; it's safe, I'm in control, it's comfortable. But I'm not overly sad about it like I suspected I would be. I want to drive the new car, with it's new car smell and updated interior. It is change, and I like it.
But the time I feel most like my past self is when I'm reading at night before bed, forgetting the time and the rest of the world until I turn over the novel's last page. Books, though always new ones, are the one constant thread throughout my twenty years, and they faithfully evoke the same comforting feeling time and time again. Whether I'm reading them in my bedroom at home by my halogen octopus lamp, or reading them perched high in my lofted dorm bed, I feel peacefully present. I know as long as I can access that feeling, I'll never be lost.
Though I must rejoin the actual present tomorrow night, I'm happy I've had this weekend of reminders to show me where I've come from, to remind me of where I have to go.
Mar 24, 2012
We Were Born to Overcome
This has been the worst week of my first year of college.
But it's okay. It's going to be okay.
I know this because the worst week of my first year of college could be so much worse. I got to experience Holi Moli. I'm not sure how religiously accurate it was, but it was fun. Thousands of UNC students, dressed in old white clothing on a huge white tarp, gather in Polk Place and throw vibrantly colored pigment at each other until everyone is just a blob of color. The pictures reveal the multicolored cloud of dust hovering about the cheering crowd. An uninformed viewer might think were extremely dedicated hippies, even tye dying our smoke.
The Holi festival, a Hindu celebration, is supposed to celebrate the coming of Spring. Rebirth. While I was tossing paint manically at my friends, this message seemed distant, just an excuse to defy the long-ingrained instinct not to make stains.
However, as I stood in the already-stained-purple shower, watching the water run off my skin in little rainbow rivers and leaving me squeaky clean and new, I understood. Spring blooms everywhere, pink and purple and green coloring the campus, even the dusty yellow pollen coating everything brightens up the place. Even after the spring showers have washed away all the evidence of spring's coming, the hope is left. The birds chirping in the rain, the sweet smell of May mornings, the sparkling morning dew.
I'll admit a few tears might've mixed into the mess of soap, water, and paint as I stood in the shower evaluating my life. But it's okay because next spring, as I stand in the middle of the colorful crowd at Holi Moli, this week won't matter anymore. The grades will have faded into the background; the sting of inconvenience of being temporary homeless and temporary extraneous will have dulled into a vague, old ache; the midterms will be long-forgotten. It just won't matter. I'll wash myself anew in the shower, and it'll be another new beginning.
"And we carry on
When our lives come undone
We carry on
Cause there's promise in the morning sun
We carry on
As the dark surrenders to the dawn
We were born to overcome
We carry on."
But it's okay. It's going to be okay.
I know this because the worst week of my first year of college could be so much worse. I got to experience Holi Moli. I'm not sure how religiously accurate it was, but it was fun. Thousands of UNC students, dressed in old white clothing on a huge white tarp, gather in Polk Place and throw vibrantly colored pigment at each other until everyone is just a blob of color. The pictures reveal the multicolored cloud of dust hovering about the cheering crowd. An uninformed viewer might think were extremely dedicated hippies, even tye dying our smoke.
The Holi festival, a Hindu celebration, is supposed to celebrate the coming of Spring. Rebirth. While I was tossing paint manically at my friends, this message seemed distant, just an excuse to defy the long-ingrained instinct not to make stains.
However, as I stood in the already-stained-purple shower, watching the water run off my skin in little rainbow rivers and leaving me squeaky clean and new, I understood. Spring blooms everywhere, pink and purple and green coloring the campus, even the dusty yellow pollen coating everything brightens up the place. Even after the spring showers have washed away all the evidence of spring's coming, the hope is left. The birds chirping in the rain, the sweet smell of May mornings, the sparkling morning dew.
I'll admit a few tears might've mixed into the mess of soap, water, and paint as I stood in the shower evaluating my life. But it's okay because next spring, as I stand in the middle of the colorful crowd at Holi Moli, this week won't matter anymore. The grades will have faded into the background; the sting of inconvenience of being temporary homeless and temporary extraneous will have dulled into a vague, old ache; the midterms will be long-forgotten. It just won't matter. I'll wash myself anew in the shower, and it'll be another new beginning.
"And we carry on
When our lives come undone
We carry on
Cause there's promise in the morning sun
We carry on
As the dark surrenders to the dawn
We were born to overcome
We carry on."
Mar 22, 2012
Doubt
"Oh, how I ricochet between certainties and doubts."
"I'm trying to be assertive; I'm making plans. Gonna rise to the occasion, yeah, meet all their demands, but all I do is just lay in bed and hide under the covers.
It's too hard to focus through all this doubt, keep making these to-do lists and nothing gets crossed out."
Oh, Sylvia and Conor always know what to say. I'm having trouble articulating my doubts to anyone; everything seems to think I'm being silly. They overestimate me. They don't try to think of my situation objectively. I can't meet all their demands. I just keep hitting snooze.
I get so frustrated when people think I'm overreacting when I doubt my future. Give it time, give it time. I don't have time! The future is now; the future is always right now. I don't want to screw myself over later by not knowing what I'm doing right now. I have to feel prepared; I have to be working towards a goal. I have to assess my own abilities honestly and truly. But I can't! There doesn't seem to be an objective enough person on earth.
The cloud of a false reputation surrounds me. I'm not as smart, responsible, capable, determined, or ambitious as anyone thinks I am. I suppose I should take it as a compliment that people perceive me as so much better than I am, but it is going to catch up with me. I'm always living in dread of those moments when the veneer cracks a little. Eventually, it's going to fall all apart and I'll be left without options. I wonder if I'm actually any of the things people attribute to me, or I've just been hearing them so long, I started to believe them myself.
As I have learned from my meager studies, a fracture between identity and essence is not good for mental health. I don't want to be Mrs. Dalloway, perched on the edge of instability all the time--inches away from being Septimus falling from the window at any given moment.
So I'm searching, searching for what I want. What I'm actually capable of. But I can't figure it out without any honest assessment. That leaves me obsessed with my falling grades, the image of the Cs tainting my papers and tests, mocking me with their averageness, their reek of failure. But they're objective and unyielding. They're the only reliable measure of my abilities. And they're telling me I'm not good enough.
I try to listen to what the grades are telling me. At a certain point, my mantra of just "work harder" fails me because I hit a stalemate of work and ability. Sometimes, my best is just not good enough. My dad always says it's okay if I'm doing my best. Is it? Their conception of my best is not what reality may be. What am I supposed to do if my best isn't really good enough?
The desire to do something, to earn a Doctorate's degree, is not enough to obtain it. Why am I the only one who thinks so? No, you cannot do anything you put your mind to. Everyone has limitations.
I just don't know where mine are, and testing them is slowly chipping away at me. Is it cowardly to back down into safety, or is it the smart thing to do?
I don't know; I don't know. I just hide under the covers. Academic advising is going to have a good time with me.
"I'm trying to be assertive; I'm making plans. Gonna rise to the occasion, yeah, meet all their demands, but all I do is just lay in bed and hide under the covers.
It's too hard to focus through all this doubt, keep making these to-do lists and nothing gets crossed out."
Oh, Sylvia and Conor always know what to say. I'm having trouble articulating my doubts to anyone; everything seems to think I'm being silly. They overestimate me. They don't try to think of my situation objectively. I can't meet all their demands. I just keep hitting snooze.
I get so frustrated when people think I'm overreacting when I doubt my future. Give it time, give it time. I don't have time! The future is now; the future is always right now. I don't want to screw myself over later by not knowing what I'm doing right now. I have to feel prepared; I have to be working towards a goal. I have to assess my own abilities honestly and truly. But I can't! There doesn't seem to be an objective enough person on earth.
The cloud of a false reputation surrounds me. I'm not as smart, responsible, capable, determined, or ambitious as anyone thinks I am. I suppose I should take it as a compliment that people perceive me as so much better than I am, but it is going to catch up with me. I'm always living in dread of those moments when the veneer cracks a little. Eventually, it's going to fall all apart and I'll be left without options. I wonder if I'm actually any of the things people attribute to me, or I've just been hearing them so long, I started to believe them myself.
As I have learned from my meager studies, a fracture between identity and essence is not good for mental health. I don't want to be Mrs. Dalloway, perched on the edge of instability all the time--inches away from being Septimus falling from the window at any given moment.
So I'm searching, searching for what I want. What I'm actually capable of. But I can't figure it out without any honest assessment. That leaves me obsessed with my falling grades, the image of the Cs tainting my papers and tests, mocking me with their averageness, their reek of failure. But they're objective and unyielding. They're the only reliable measure of my abilities. And they're telling me I'm not good enough.
I try to listen to what the grades are telling me. At a certain point, my mantra of just "work harder" fails me because I hit a stalemate of work and ability. Sometimes, my best is just not good enough. My dad always says it's okay if I'm doing my best. Is it? Their conception of my best is not what reality may be. What am I supposed to do if my best isn't really good enough?
The desire to do something, to earn a Doctorate's degree, is not enough to obtain it. Why am I the only one who thinks so? No, you cannot do anything you put your mind to. Everyone has limitations.
I just don't know where mine are, and testing them is slowly chipping away at me. Is it cowardly to back down into safety, or is it the smart thing to do?
I don't know; I don't know. I just hide under the covers. Academic advising is going to have a good time with me.
Feb 23, 2012
Lunch
I always feel guilty as I move through the Chick-fil-a line. I wonder if the workers at the eco-friendly and healthy restaurant beside the fast food establishment are sad as people stream by them, making the wrong choice, diving for processed chicken nuggets and trans-fat filled waffle fries, while a few students with dread locks and packs of organic cigarettes select from their varied colors of healthy, locally grown mush.
My guilt deepens as I think about the politics of Chick-fil-a; I think about how they donate to causes I consider abhorrent. They hate homosexuality; they ask potential employees if they're Christian in their interviews; they're closed on Sundays. But the dining hall line is long, and I only have time to breeze through the Chick-fil-a line, give my money to causes that repress, eat the food that slowly clogs my arteries, so I can get to classes on time that are supposed to teach me critical thinking so I don't make bad choices.
It's hard to find a seat. I think about how many more people could sit here if people sat together instead of alone, each facing a computer screen instead of a human face. But nobody talks without a friend to mutually introduce them, or a shared interest discovered through happenstance. You don't meet people while you eat your chicken; you can only eat with people you know. So I am forced to squash myself into an uncomfortable corner while a person and his computer sit at a table for four. Hypocritically, I turn my ipod up louder to drown out the crowd.
My guilt deepens as I think about the politics of Chick-fil-a; I think about how they donate to causes I consider abhorrent. They hate homosexuality; they ask potential employees if they're Christian in their interviews; they're closed on Sundays. But the dining hall line is long, and I only have time to breeze through the Chick-fil-a line, give my money to causes that repress, eat the food that slowly clogs my arteries, so I can get to classes on time that are supposed to teach me critical thinking so I don't make bad choices.
It's hard to find a seat. I think about how many more people could sit here if people sat together instead of alone, each facing a computer screen instead of a human face. But nobody talks without a friend to mutually introduce them, or a shared interest discovered through happenstance. You don't meet people while you eat your chicken; you can only eat with people you know. So I am forced to squash myself into an uncomfortable corner while a person and his computer sit at a table for four. Hypocritically, I turn my ipod up louder to drown out the crowd.
Feb 10, 2012
Together We Are Carolina
I felt so many emotions Wednesday night: anxiety, nausea, anticipation, pride, shock, anger, frustration, helplessness.
Many say it's dramatic that such emotions are channeled into a basketball game--a completely arbitrary competition on which nothing intrinsically valuable depends.
But a lot does depend on it. Many of the sad faces in the crowd at the end of the game were wearing shirts emblazoned with the basketball team's motto: "Together We Are Carolina." We hate Duke together; we win together; we lose together. Right now, a huge group of students just passed the library window, making quite the racket protesting tuition hikes. Together, we make a difference.
The UNC Duke rivalry is often set in stereotypical terms, but I think the underlying value systems of the universities are really at odds, giving the competition a personal, emotional edge. UNC, lovingly dubbed "public ivy," is about accessible, affordable, quality education. You can come from nothing and come to UNC: cost is never a deterrent. It's about inclusion, not exclusivity. People are easy-going. Carolina blue embodies a campus that values social change, progressive ideas (except when it comes to Gender Neutral Housing *grumble grumble*), and diversity.
Duke is an expensive, private school. It's for the privileged, people who like calling themselves the elite. As a result, they're whitewashed. The privileged portions of society don't have any interest in changing the status quo. Duke's in a different paradigm completely.
Then take these two clashing ideologies about education and privilege, stick them within eight miles of on another, then make them compete for some of the best and brightest minds and athletes and professors in the world, and you get one hell of a rivalry, all culminating in those basketball games.
So winning is not about comparing Austin Rivers and Tyler Zeller. Winning is not about free throw percentages or three point plays. It's about loving your school and believing in it so much that you want it to be the best at absolutely everything. It's about passion.
That five minutes of stunned silence permeating Chapel Hill at the end of the game? Even though it was one of the worst feelings in the world, I wouldn't trade it. I love being part of this place. All of that emotion makes me okay with shouting at the end of the fight song, every time we sing it:
GO TO HELL DUKE!
Many say it's dramatic that such emotions are channeled into a basketball game--a completely arbitrary competition on which nothing intrinsically valuable depends.
But a lot does depend on it. Many of the sad faces in the crowd at the end of the game were wearing shirts emblazoned with the basketball team's motto: "Together We Are Carolina." We hate Duke together; we win together; we lose together. Right now, a huge group of students just passed the library window, making quite the racket protesting tuition hikes. Together, we make a difference.
The UNC Duke rivalry is often set in stereotypical terms, but I think the underlying value systems of the universities are really at odds, giving the competition a personal, emotional edge. UNC, lovingly dubbed "public ivy," is about accessible, affordable, quality education. You can come from nothing and come to UNC: cost is never a deterrent. It's about inclusion, not exclusivity. People are easy-going. Carolina blue embodies a campus that values social change, progressive ideas (except when it comes to Gender Neutral Housing *grumble grumble*), and diversity.
Duke is an expensive, private school. It's for the privileged, people who like calling themselves the elite. As a result, they're whitewashed. The privileged portions of society don't have any interest in changing the status quo. Duke's in a different paradigm completely.
Then take these two clashing ideologies about education and privilege, stick them within eight miles of on another, then make them compete for some of the best and brightest minds and athletes and professors in the world, and you get one hell of a rivalry, all culminating in those basketball games.
So winning is not about comparing Austin Rivers and Tyler Zeller. Winning is not about free throw percentages or three point plays. It's about loving your school and believing in it so much that you want it to be the best at absolutely everything. It's about passion.
That five minutes of stunned silence permeating Chapel Hill at the end of the game? Even though it was one of the worst feelings in the world, I wouldn't trade it. I love being part of this place. All of that emotion makes me okay with shouting at the end of the fight song, every time we sing it:
GO TO HELL DUKE!
Feb 3, 2012
The Problem with Everything...
This article makes me so mad.
After watching a documentary containing the startling statistic that only 17% of television protagonists are women, I was happy to watch this week's Parks and Rec. That, coupled with 30 Rock, is a solid hour of female leading ladies (actually, the unfortunately unfunny show Whitney is at least about a woman, so good going NBC). I think Parks and Rec does more for the feminist cause than 30 Rock, even though Tina's always my favorite, because 30 Rock's constantly harping on Liz Lemon's affinity for food, bad fashion sense, and all the other things that are stereotypical of "working women" who give up their personal lives and femininity to be more masculine, more "feminist," is not what I think feminism should be about.
Leslie Knope is a put-together, passionate career woman. She loves her job, and she is well-respected and competent. That's why this article is so infuriating. The author clearly thinks that being a feminist means you can't be a person. Independent women are allowed to get help from their friends (and boyfriends!) occasionally. You're allowed to fall in love and you're allowed to make sacrifices for the person you love if you want to.
Isn't the most empowering option for Leslie to stay with her man AND run her own campaign? She is far from a damsel in distress. She is allowed to have character flaws, too. The example of her behavior in the bowling alley just exhibited one of Leslie's weaknesses--she fixates on details and wants people to like her. That just shows how Ben is good for her, what women should look for in a partner: someone who evens them out, who makes them better. What's anti-feminist about a healthy, balanced relationship? Pretending that Leslie has to be a perfect role model without any flaws is silly and destructive. Media images of women being perfect is what is wrong with our society; making the ideal working woman is just as bad as the ideal photo-shopped model. The unattainability of it is the problem. Leslie's supportive friends and good attitude help her deal with her flaws in positive and constructive ways. THAT is a good role model.
In case the writer of this article didn't notice, Leslie is currently maintaining her job in the Parks Department with her usual competence, running her City Council campaign, AND successfully dating Ben. Where is she getting the notion that the show is making Leslie choose between work and love? I thought the writers handled that plot beautifully.
Also, if you want something truly anti-feminist, check out the opening line of this wretched article:
"If you’re looking to get into the pants of a feminist, wonkish liberal, make sure to work Parks and Recreation into your sweet nothings."
To get into the pants of a feminist. Really? Really?
Clearly, this writer doesn't know what feminism is, or why Parks and Recreation is and continues to be an important presence on primetime tv. Yes, bitches get stuff done, but they shouldn't have to be bitches to do so. Enter Leslie Knope.
After watching a documentary containing the startling statistic that only 17% of television protagonists are women, I was happy to watch this week's Parks and Rec. That, coupled with 30 Rock, is a solid hour of female leading ladies (actually, the unfortunately unfunny show Whitney is at least about a woman, so good going NBC). I think Parks and Rec does more for the feminist cause than 30 Rock, even though Tina's always my favorite, because 30 Rock's constantly harping on Liz Lemon's affinity for food, bad fashion sense, and all the other things that are stereotypical of "working women" who give up their personal lives and femininity to be more masculine, more "feminist," is not what I think feminism should be about.
Leslie Knope is a put-together, passionate career woman. She loves her job, and she is well-respected and competent. That's why this article is so infuriating. The author clearly thinks that being a feminist means you can't be a person. Independent women are allowed to get help from their friends (and boyfriends!) occasionally. You're allowed to fall in love and you're allowed to make sacrifices for the person you love if you want to.
Isn't the most empowering option for Leslie to stay with her man AND run her own campaign? She is far from a damsel in distress. She is allowed to have character flaws, too. The example of her behavior in the bowling alley just exhibited one of Leslie's weaknesses--she fixates on details and wants people to like her. That just shows how Ben is good for her, what women should look for in a partner: someone who evens them out, who makes them better. What's anti-feminist about a healthy, balanced relationship? Pretending that Leslie has to be a perfect role model without any flaws is silly and destructive. Media images of women being perfect is what is wrong with our society; making the ideal working woman is just as bad as the ideal photo-shopped model. The unattainability of it is the problem. Leslie's supportive friends and good attitude help her deal with her flaws in positive and constructive ways. THAT is a good role model.
In case the writer of this article didn't notice, Leslie is currently maintaining her job in the Parks Department with her usual competence, running her City Council campaign, AND successfully dating Ben. Where is she getting the notion that the show is making Leslie choose between work and love? I thought the writers handled that plot beautifully.
Also, if you want something truly anti-feminist, check out the opening line of this wretched article:
"If you’re looking to get into the pants of a feminist, wonkish liberal, make sure to work Parks and Recreation into your sweet nothings."
To get into the pants of a feminist. Really? Really?
Clearly, this writer doesn't know what feminism is, or why Parks and Recreation is and continues to be an important presence on primetime tv. Yes, bitches get stuff done, but they shouldn't have to be bitches to do so. Enter Leslie Knope.
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