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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?"