A Personal Yet Public Prayer

Heavenly Father,

Please help me to be ready for a man like this: amazing link taking you to an extraordinary post.

Mormons & Semantics

A few weeks ago, I was sitting in SUU's food court talking with a few of my favorite people. Of course, the reason they are some of my favorites is because they are geeks who think about language as much as I do. I don't remember the exact flow and meanderings of the conversation, but I said/thought, "Oh. Wow. The Church is actually worried about semantics."

A comforting thought to me personally, indeed. 

My mom has been attending church with me recently and as we were sitting through a mundane high councilor speak about flying or something, my mom leaned over and asked, "What do you think of this?"

She held in her had a ward directory and was pointing to the title of the column, which read "Head of House and Spouse."

My immediate response was, "Yeah. That's not the doctrine of the Church." My second reaction was indignation for three reasons. 

One. As I recalled at the time, "The Family: A Proclamation to the World" definitely sets forth criteria for equality in marriage - in my mind, this includes labels. 

Two. There are many single parent families in the Church where a mother or father may be a head of the house with no spouse. 

Three. My brother is listed by himself on that sheet. Who, oh who, would a ward member contact in our house if my brother is neither head of house or spouse? I can already feel the anxious confusion of literal-minded ward member needing to contact someone in our home.

(Here I shall digress for a moment, but hopefully, I will come full circle.) My habit, as much as I hate to admit it, is to let things I get worked up about go without much of a mention. If I'm really upset or annoyed, I try to calm down... and usually by the time I do, I decide not to say anything so that I can spare feelings. 

But with my mom by my side and my semester of feminist studies, I decided to say something. (Alas, I did have to say something to an old white guy, but a very kind one at that :D.) I used my sweetest voice possible and mustered as much Christlike love as I possibly could and spoke to a member of the bishopric. 

Though I know he didn't really see the problem, he took time to listen. Though the wording of ward lists may not change today, some day it will change as either people grow or members of a certain generation move on to the next adventure (morbid? Yes. But it's true.) I don't know if anything will change,  but I felt, for the first time in a while, like an effective member of the Church. Nothing has been accomplished in this particular denomination without asking questions or trying to move forward in understanding - and for that, I am grateful. 

Now. My last little semantic thought for the day/ridiculously early morning hour. I re-read "The Family" a few minutes ago and I AM struck by the extraordinarily thoughtful nature of the wording. I don't understand all of the contents and I am learning about others, but much thought was put into this document. 

Unlike scripture, women are actively referred to in this text. Every time man is mentioned, so is woman - and this makes my heart happy. The authors specifically state, "...fathers and mothers are obligated to help one another as equal partners."

There it is - equal. I know that not everything can be divided into clear cut groups, but men and women are meant to be equals in life because God's Plan identifies requirements for eternal life as such. 

Now. As much as I'd love to say I have no questions about the document, one thing remains and this is where I will leave you, dear reader. When setting forth the criteria for the roles men and women play, the authors state, "By divine design, fathers are to preside over their families in love and righteousness and are responsible to provide the necessities of life and protection for their families. Mothers are primarily responsible for the nurture of their children."

I understand that there are different responsibilities to be had in life and that personalities and genetic hard wiring play a vital role in that (and I am in no way advocating that mothers be "required" to stay home while fathers bring home the bacon - the authors later recommend prayerful consideration of such matters and decisions.) 

My question resides in the use of one word - preside. If we are supposed to be equals, what does "preside" mean?

Does it mean that a father needs to understand that the best way for a mother to nurture her children is not to be home all day? Does it mean that mothers are not equal in the presidency of the home? Or, is there something I'm missing?

Breast Cancer Capitolism

As most of you good citizens know, October is Breast Cancer Awareness month - yes the month of pink ribbons, pink bracelets, and sometimes, pink t-shirts. Now, as a disclaimer for what follows, I in no way mean to disrespect cancer victims, survivors, or research, nor do I mean to implicate my criticisms in conjunction with the loss or heartache someone experiences when they, or a loved one, deals with cancer. However, this month, I am upset, irritated, and tired of seeing pink whenever I walk into Target.

Let me start from the beginning. My family has a long history of cancer. Two of my uncles have died from skin cancer and numerous other family members, including my mom and grandpa, have dealt with benign to malignant types of cancer. Cancer has been a big part of my life, and it is something that I worry about anytime one of us gets a terrible sunburn.

A few weeks ago, an officemate, whom I love and adore, brought a pink Breast Cancer awareness oven timer to work. My other officemate and I remarked on how neat it was, and remembered that it was time to kick off our own cancer awareness. (The oven timer was eventually going to be used in class for timing activities.) 

When I went to Target later that same day, I was struck by the vastness of Target's Breast Cancer awareness, even though it was only late September. There were pink brooms and cleaning supplies, pink pots and oven mitts, pink purses, totes, and manicure sets, pink egg beaters, even pink Brita water filters.

This is when my agitation surfaced. Now. I am all for cancer research and raising money, and if this is the only research can get funds, then so be it. But the fine makers of the Brita water filter are most likely not concerned with how many women OR men are helped with their oh-so-altruistic efforts, they are most likely concerned with how many people are paying $24.99 for  a Brita water filter... and the profits reaped therein. Are we really to the point in this country that we believe a company marketing a pink broom really cares about research, or do we understand that a company has decided to tap into a very lucrative market?

I am infuriated to think that just because something pink appears on shelves in October we should buy it because we are "socially aware." (I am equally irritated at the marginalization of all things "going green" because it's good business.)

I will conceit, though, that some of these companies must have a good motive because I know there are many, many good people in the world, but when was the last time a ginormous corporation cared about one person, let alone a minority of people suffering from a disease. Doesn't the recent $700 billion dollar bailout speak volumes about the actual concerns of fat cats?

And let me get back to this broom business, because like hell I'm done ranting. A quick search on Target.com for "breast cancer" yielded 115 results. After the fifth page of results, I ran across what I would define as five - 5 - "male gendered" products, including pink gardening shears, a pink tool set, and a Madden Football game with pink packaging compared to the 15 other results per page dealing with womanly products. How does a "Fox Run Breast Cancer Awareness Baking Set" for $14.99 help people become aware of the fact that breast cancer is an unyielding beast?! Why are most of the products geared towards stereotypical, archaic women's roles? Men have mothers, sisters, girlfriends, and women in their lives. Can they not be aware? Why do we even have to have pink as the color? Because only girls like pink? Men can get breast cancer. Should they have to identify with a pink ribbon? On that note, why don't we have a Testicular Cancer awareness month? Cancer is not indicative to the female species. Bah!

What I'm really getting at here is that consumers should not feel morally obligated to buy pink products in October OR feel P.C. because they have done so. If people want to contribute to cancer awareness, why not do so directly on web-sites and bypass companies whose main goal is more money in already bulging pockets?

Are we more worried with having a pink broom so that when neighbors come over they see we are "aware," or are we worried about the disease? (I ask myself this question because I really, really wanted the pink pots.) I think that most of us consumers really want to help with cancer research and this may be the only way we know how; these are just recent thoughts on motives for doing so. If you are the person who purchases pink products because you are a good person and know you ARE helping someone, please continue to do so because the world really needs people like you, especially right now.

Any thoughts on this are more than welcome. I would love some feedback... because, really, I could be wrong.

Who's Long Tim?

Well, I've been gone for a while; it's true, check the dates. The past month or so, I haven't been able to articulate my thoughts on my experiences well enough to merit a post, but I'm feelin' some clarity tonight. First, the Top Ten Things I Did Whilst in Europe:

10. Met Alan Moore

9. Rode the Tube around London

8. Saw Avenue Q - quite literally the funniest musical EVER!

7. Stumbled upon my first Da Vinci painting

6. Got my very own hotel room in Paris three blocks from Notre Dame

5. Tried every new food I possibly could

4. Found out about standardized health care

3. Learned that taking days for myself and sightseeing without anyone else is a great thing to do

2. Went to Evensong at Westminster Abbey

1. I freaking went to Europe, and that is awesome!

Second. I live in Flagstaff now. Crazy, right? Oh, nay nay. Crazy, my friend, is having keys to my office and having a weekly schedule that includes teaching English 1050 Monday through Thursday at 10:20 in Room 216. Crazy is paying $600 dollars a semester for my Master's degree.

The point is, I love being here. I'm totally out of my comfort zone, but I have found my people who do not take the place of my other people, but help me to deal with living in a new state. I'm in the right spot in my life - geographically, chronologically, emotionally, intellectually, and academically - but that's not saying I won't continue to try to improve.

The one thing, dear analytical reader, that is missing from my list is spirituality. This past year has been a difficult for my membership in the church, but I haven't ever doubted that my membership is right and a good thing; I've just had questions, and frankly, I've gotten lazy.

I've come to the realization, once again, that life is totally about balance and I've let certain aspects of my life get out balance, most of which has been my connection with God and spirituality. I was trying to distance myself from the things I don't like about going to church or interacting with members of the church, and I began to turn my back on God.

But, my relationship with God, Jesus Christ, and the Spirit, and my membership in the church has nothing to do with nuisances of church culture or other members. I've learned, through many sources, that I must be Sarah La Rue and that my religious affiliations are through The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, that my intellectual pursuits help me understand the world and humanity better and more compassionately, that I am an English teacher who loves comic books, Batman, and graphic novels, that I am, always have been, and always been an intellectual and a feminist, and that how I must live is through a balanced existence of all that I am.

When Supervising a Class

I cannot attribute my break in blogging to anything but laziness. It seems that the less I have to do in life, the more I feel the need to be apathetic. 

I don't have any pearls of wisdom or comic book rage-engendering experiences to relate, but here are a few things.

• I get to meet Alan Moore on July 12th when I'm in London. Hurray!
• I really like soccer, coke slurpees, and driving past sage brush in the evening with my car windows down singing just as loud as I can.
• Father's Day was good. I love my daddy. And my mommy..... and my brother.
• Last week, a conversation went like this. 
  

I was eating mandarin oranges out of a small can. 

Enter boss-lady (and not Julie Simon). "Wow. You're going to lose so much weight when you stop working here."

Me: "Excuse me?" (And the kind of excuse me that left me with my mouth agape full of an orange slice and not the ghetto kind.)

Boss-lady, "You eat all the time."

One. No, actually, I don't eat all the time. I snack periodically through the day on pretzels, oranges, apples, and water. Two. Do I have that much weight to lose to constitute a "so" being used as an adjective to my weight? No. I don't. I'm fluffy. See "Kung Fu Panda" and you'll understand why I feel this way. Three. I still don't know why she said that. WTF?

• I really liked "Kung Fu Panda." I identified with a lot of the characters, but mostly Po.
• Crafty people are neat and I wish I could be one.
• I hate my job.
• I'm so excited to go to Europe, cut off all of my hair, and move to Flagstaff. I'm trying to find reasons to be excited about life today, but there's a lot of reasons to be excited about life in a few weeks. (I don't think that it will take me long to be excited about everyday :D)
• I love these women. I don't always agree with them, but they make me feel better about life and my church membership.  
• I want to marry a superhero, mostly Batman.
• Pushy, authority-seeking people bother me. Why don't they just pee on a fire hydrant? It'd be more effective.
• I'm addicted to Lost and I'm not ashamed.
• Read Watchmen. You'll understand The Incredibles on a whole new level. It's mind-blowing. Really.
• You're a neat person. Thanks for reading my blog.

An Update... Kind Of

So, I wouldn't say this is the finished product, but this is the piece I presented at Sigma Tau Delta's National Convention in Louisville last week. I was privileged to be on a panel of amazing women who wrote incredible papers about their experience in life sans Y chromosome. The panel was a Creative Non-Fiction panel; I submitted this paper as CNF mostly because I don't think I was ready to admit that everything about it was true. But, it is true.

I Wasn’t A Feminist Until I Found Four-Inch Red Stilettos

A Wilder Side

When I was little girl, I had a pair of shoes that my parents and I affectionately referred to as my “wild shoes.” They were a type of Keds that were multi-colored, flowery, and bold. I felt invincible in my wild shoes. No puddle was too wide or muddy, nor was any rollie-pollie bug or spider safe from the crushing power of my small feet or my wild shoes. When my tiny toes started to press against the edge of my beloved shoes, I was reluctant to get another pair. Soon, I began walking like an arthritic, three-legged dog and new shoes were a must. I traded in my wild shoes for a pair of shiny, white, bland, popular Keds.

I Had Feet in Those Shoes

Whenever I think of reading as a child, I always picture a quaint scene in Barnes & Noble on a snowy day. A young, buff and surprisingly afro-ed version of my father walks up to the long haired, stick version of my mother. He says in his authoritative cop-tone, “Hey honey. When did you start reading children’s books?” A playful smile curls into his lips and somewhere beneath his busy mustache, his dimples indent slightly. As the snow continues to fall and create perfect, picturesque fog circles on the windows, my mother says, “You’ve got your head on your shoulders and your feet in your shoes…” She turns to him and quickly retorts, “Oh, I just wanted pick out your Christmas present early this year.” My mother, always sure to make a point, sets down the book she was reading to me and goes on to say why she’s perusing the kids’ books: she wants to make sure that I, her three-year old blonde and bashful pride and joy, have positive female role models to read about – she’ll have none of that manipulative-bitch-like behavior that is seen in sordid characters like that damn Tinkerbelle. My father shakes his head and walks back to the magazine section of Barnes and Noble where those people hang out and waits expectantly until he’s needed. The facts: Barnes & Noble couldn’t have been found in a hundred mile radius of where I lived in 1988; I grew up in Southern California and it snowed only once when I was six; my dad still may never have set foot in a bookstore in his adult life; and, my mother, well, the part about my mother is true. I grew up with positive, non-manipulative, non-bitchy, but vocal nonetheless, female role models.

Whose Shoes?

Basketball shoes remind me of sixth grade. I’ve been six feet tall since then. When shopping for basketball shoes, I had to buy boys’ shoes because the small-town shoe store we went to didn’t have any girls’ shoes big enough for me. Word got around in rural school about the six foot, boy-shoe wearin’ girl, and so began the three basic assumptions about me: one, I was the fat kid that weighed like a thousand pounds – how do those chairs hold her up again?; two, I was tall ergo I was good at basketball and volleyball and basically any other sport that required me to be athletic and my usefulness ended there; and three was that I did not like boys – at all. The facts: I weighed close to 140 pounds and was basically all muscle; I was a force to be reckoned with when playing basketball, but the mop the janitors used to clean with would have volleyed a ball better; and, I was so much in need of boys’ attention that I stunted my own dating growth well into my sophomore year of college. In my adolescence, I was not the girly-girl, the pretty girl, or the girl who got asked out; I was the move-in-from-Southern-California-where-surely-there-must-be-

something-wrong-with-the-water-girl that was completely mislabeled. I just wasn’t “normal.” Oh, I also wasn’t blonde anymore.

Ready, Fire, Aim

When I think about Tyson Brown, I see a grassy middle school football field on a rare sunny day in April. Eighth graders are abundant and ready to leave the dregs of society behind for something much cooler: high school. There are about ten of us and the boy that I loathe is in attendance. Intellectual exchanges are obviously important in middle school, so we begin to discuss the meaning in a name. For instance, Jordon – who is my beautiful, tiny, flirtatious best friend – her name means, “Hot,” because, well, all the boys think she’s sooo sexy. We go around the circle, expertly classifying each others’ names and the boy whom I’m not fond of, the one I mentioned before, he gets his profound observation ready for the kill. There is no mistaking the look in his eyes for anything but pleasure as he pronounces, “Sarah is a Fat-Ass name.” The usual awkward chuckles ensue, and cumbersome looks are cast in my general direction. I don’t even have to look up from my three-stripe Adidas soccer shoes before I whip out the secret, end-all-be-all trump card: “Yeah? Well, Tyson is a Limp Dick name.” Laughs are beyond being stifled because I have just handed out the biggest slam of any middle school career. Chubby/Tall girls are redeemed forever, and stupid boys will think twice before they cross a girl that can think. The facts: my mom told me to say that.

I Can’t Feel My Toes…

There was a time in my life when I would wear nothing but flip-flops. They, at the most, caused a half-inch change in stature. I wore flip-flops in the winter, and even when my toes would turn blue, I wore the flops. I wore drab colors and I didn’t know how to dress my awkward body. Girl’s clothes didn’t fit because I was too tall and I had started to mature, which meant I was getting stretch marks and cellulite in awkward places, like my arms and breasts. Wearing boy’s pants gave me an inner-tube that Goodyear would have been proud to support and a figure reminiscent of the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man. I didn’t want to stand out so I walked with my hair in my eyes and my head down. The facts: I was popular by association; I incurred a devastating knee-injury that put me out of sports for the rest of my life during my freshman year and consequently gained 50 pounds due to inactivity; halfway through my first date ever, I was lied to, ditched, and left at a friend’s house to be the third-wheel wondering what I had done wrong; and, I was pity-dated to my Junior Prom and I couldn’t even find a dress to fit that I liked because I was too big.

Hitting the Road

There is a clear picture of black Vans shoes stomping down onto the black pavement in the visual narrative that exists in my mind. The shoes have a white stripe on either side of the foot. One shoe has a bright red shoelace, the other, a white lace. The text that accompanies the image reads, “The shoe sounded down onto the pavement catching her averted attention. He knew she hadn’t noticed him until then, walking down the sidewalk, but he knew he had to have her attention, even if for a moment; he needed her to know that he existed. She was startled and looked up, surprised that someone would interrupt her thoughts as the grim scene from the night before controlled her contemplative state. His grin was from ear to ear and in that moment, she knew he was something.” The facts: seeing those Vans with a red lace changed my life. I hadn’t noticed the shy boy that sat in the back of two of my classes until that day. It wasn’t long until we were together, and I grew to love him more than any other. I’d never felt close to someone, never felt like someone truly saw me despite my faults. A significant other hadn’t really loved me until then. But with all love comes the trial – and we were put in front of a grand jury. I was forced to realize that with the revealing of all the truth comes the unveiling of all the lies. I committed to a love that almost destroyed me; I almost lost myself in the act of trying to recover what was never really there. Because of that relationship I learned more about myself, humanity, love, and God than any other singular experience had ever taught me.

The Great Enlightenment

When I reflect on how I came to the realization that I’ve always been a Feminist, I picture a rainy afternoon during my senior year of college. I walk into a store where I insist on finding a good deal and therefore can justify picking out an outfit that will make me feel better about myself, life, and, basically, civilization in general. I peruse the racks looking for ways to spend money that I don’t have when I suddenly find myself staring at my very own altar to the gods – a shelf full of shiny, shiny pointy-toed stilettos. Now, ladies with skis for feet can understand – Size 11 does NOT exist to the fine shoemakers of the world. A pair of shoes that gargantuan is not only offensive to the fashion world and to women, but is probably abhorrent to humanity as a whole. Therefore, to find a pair of Size 11’s to strap on that one loves is cause for choruses of Hallelujah to ring through the halls. Hallelujah’s are blaring through the halls, perfectly timed glittering flakes have been released for a dramatic and celestial effect, and a spotlight from above shines down like a beacon of righteousness onto a pair of Size 11 shiny, pointy-toed red stilettos – my pair of Size 11 pointy-toed red stilettos. The facts: this passage is completely, 100%, swear on the Bible, The Virgin, and, even though he’s still alive, my father’s grave, accurate.

Sunny Day Sweeping the Clouds Away

When I picture my life as of now, I’m usually sitting in front of a computer. This is only because it’s my last semester of classes and I’m somewhat of a procrastinator. On late nights, my novelty Elmo slippers keep my feet warm because I’m too poor to turn up the heater past 70. Paper after paper weighs on my mind and I can’t wait to be done with my undergraduate degree because I can’t bear the thought of having to teach one more day of high school. The facts: I’m not giving up on teaching – quite the contrary, I’m applying to grad school so that I can teach what I want to teach where I want to teach it; tomorrow night I’m auditioning to be in the Vagina Monologues for a second time and I desperately want to be the “Angry Vagina”; I’m a six foot tall woman that on occasion becomes 6’4”, and I plan on spending the rest of my life finding ways to make choruses of Hallelujah materialize as if from nowhere.

A Mild Disappointment

I auditioned for the Vagina Monologues last night. I wanted the part of "My Angry Vagina." That monologue is the one I identified with the most because I love the resolution near the end.

I did not get that part. But, I think it's important to be involved in something bigger than yourself, because really, no part is insignificant when representing women.

This is a little idealistic, but I love the monologues. Everyone should see the show, with or sans vagina.

She or He?

I don't know what it is lately, but I find myself looking at the structure of the romantic languages and finding that they are completely set up for a patriarchy. This is not what annoys me though because I've always sub-consciously been aware of this fact. What annoys me is that I try to explain my frustrations to other people, women included, and they look at me like I'm unbearably dim-witted. I think what actually hurts my feelings more than these people thinking I'm an idiot is that they really, genuinely don't give a rat's ass.

It annoys me when my mom and I go to the cinema and the high school boy taking tickets says, "Hey guys. How are you tonight?" Okay, he's being polite - but we are NOT guys, we are girls, women, ladies, etc. I'm not saying that I corrected the kid, although my mom did, I'm saying that if I were the one taking tickets and I had said, "Oh haaaaay ladies!" to him and his buddies, there would have been irritated looks cast in my general direction.

I brought this up at work, not to make a point but because someone coincidentally asked me. I was talking to five other males and they thought I was crazy. Their responses varied between, "Well, 'guys' is just a way to say people, " and, "Well, if you're going to be irritated about being 'guys' you'd have to be irritated about being called a 'woman' or 'human' because it has 'man' in it." Suffice it to say, I either did not articulate myself clearly enough or my concerns fell on deaf ears, but my point was not internalized -at all.

The paramount annoyance occurred today in my Educational Block when a guy who looks like he should be in "Deliverance," not education, got upset because he was reading an article about the effects of personality disorders in the classroom. The subject of the article who was supposed to represent all students was continually referred to as "he." The male in my class actually asked, "Hey. Is there some gender discrimination going on here?" - EXACTLY! I can't remember the last time I heard anyone stop and pose this question when the subject representing all is a "he" and there are positive attributes applied to that "he." Singular pronouns are now "he or she" for a reason - to start being more equal in language, and not just when one gender is being misrepresented.

I would love to say that men just don't understand. But that's completely false. I know plenty of men who would agree with me, not because they're feminists, but because they understand how linguistics structures are created and often, the male is privileged in speech and writing. I just wish there were more of those men here so that when I speak up, I'm not labeled as some crazy, misguided feminist.

I'm not saying I'm going to change an entire linguistic system, or correct someone, male or female, when they call my mom and me "guys," but I'm just asking that people realize what they are saying and why they are saying it. I'm a girl, not a guy dammit.

I Wasn’t A Feminist Until I Found Four-Inch Red Stilettos

The following is a piece I've been thinking about for a long time. Last night, it all came out. I plan on submitting it to an English Convention so any and all constructive criticisms, and also praises, are welcome. (It's still in a fairly rough draft form, but I need to get it out there.)

I Wasn’t A Feminist Until I Found Four-Inch Red Stilettos

I always picture a quaint scene in Barnes and Noble on a snowy day. A young, buff and surprisingly afro-ed version of my father walks up to the long haired, stick version of my mother. He says in his authoritative cop-tone, “Hey honey. When did you start reading children’s books?” A playful smile curls into his lips and somewhere beneath his busy mustache, his dimples indent slightly. As the snow continues to fall and create perfect, picturesque fog circles on the windows of this book haven, my mother then, not unlike now, is quick to retort without looking up, “Oh, I just wanted pick out your Christmas present early this year dear.” She gives him a frisky look and then they both realize they are in public place with their three-year old daughter and now is neither the time nor the place to start. My mother, always sure to make a point, then goes on to expound why she perusing the bargain priced kids’ books: she wants to make sure that I, her three-year old blonde and bashful pride and joy, have positive female role models to read about – she’ll have none of that manipulative-bitch-like behavior that is seen in sordid characters like that damn Tinkerbelle. My father, knowing full well that he married into this, rolls his eyes, shakes his head in an amorous way, and walks back to the magazine section of Barnes and Noble where those people hang out and waits expectantly until he has to inevitably cart a little girl and Christmas bags to the parking lot. The facts: Barnes and Noble couldn’t have been found in a hundred mile radius of where I lived in 1988; I grew up in Southern California and it snowed only once when I was six; my dad still may never have set foot in a bookstore in his adult life; and, my mother, well, the part about my mother is true. I grew up with positive, non-manipulative, non-bitchy, but vocal none-the-less, female role models.
* * *
I’ve been six feet tall since I was in sixth grade. School was tough until boys caught up and boys did not catch up until junior year of high school. Kids can be cruel, and kids were cruel. Because I was vertically “unique,” and because I had no problem speaking my mind or being the smart kid, there were three basic assumptions: one, I was the fat kid that weighed like a thousand pounds – how do those chairs hold her up again?; two, I was tall ergo I was good at basketball and volleyball and basically any other sport that required me to be athletic and my usefulness ended there; and three, (three is my favorite) I did not like boys and in fact, I did not need boys because I was masculine enough for the entire 7th Grade Basketball Team….although in retrospect, this could be true because there were some seriously late bloomers at South Sevier Middle School in Monroe, Utah. The facts: I weighed close to 140 pounds and was basically all muscle; I was freaking awesome at basketball, but the mop the janitors cleaned up with could have volleyed a ball better; and, I was so much in need of attention of boys that I stunted my own dating growth well into my sophomore year of college. In my adolescence, I was not the girly-girl, the pretty girl, or the girl who got asked out; I was the move-in-from-Southern-California-where-surely-there-must-be-something-wrong-with-the-water-girl that was completely mislabeled because I was me – I didn’t play any games because I never saw a need to. I just wasn’t “normal.” Oh, I also wasn’t blonde anymore.
* * *
I always picture a grassy middle school football field on a rare sunny day in April. Eighth graders are abundant and ready to leave the dregs of society behind for something much cooler: high school. There are about ten of us and the boy that I loath is in attendance. Intellectual exchanges are important in middle school, so we begin to discuss what names mean. For instance, Jordon – who is my beautiful, tiny, flirtatious best friend – her name means “hot,” ‘cause damn. We go around the circle, expertly classifying each others’ names and the boy whom I loath, the one I mentioned before, he gets his profound observation ready for the kill: “Sarah is a Fat-Ass name.” Before the awkward chuckles can finish, I whip out the secret, end-all-be-all trump card: “Yeah? Well, Tyson is a Limp Dick name.” Laughs are beyond being stifled because I have just handed out the biggest slam of any middle school career. Chubby/Tall girls are redeemed forever and stupid boys will think twice before they cross a girl that can think. The facts: my mom told me to say that.
* * *
There was a time in my life where I would wear nothing but flip-flops. Flip-flops, at the most, caused a half-inch change in stature. I wore flip-flops in the winter, and even when my toes would turn blue, I wore the flops. I wore drab colors and I didn’t know how to dress my awkward body. Girl’s clothes didn’t fit because I was too tall and I had started to mature, which meant I was getting stretch marks and cellulite in awkward places, like my arms and hips, because I was getter “curvier.” Boy’s pants gave me an inner-tube that Goodyear would have been proud to support and a figure reminiscent of the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man. I didn’t want to stand out so I walked with my beautiful brown hair in my eyes and my head down. The facts: I was popular by association; I incurred a devastating knee-injury that put me out of sports for the rest of my life during my freshman year and consequently gained 50 pounds due to inactivity; I was pity-dated to my Junior Prom and I couldn’t even find a dress to fit that I liked because I was too big; and, halfway through my first date ever, I was lied to, ditched, and left at a friend’s house to be the third-wheel wondering what I had done wrong.
* * *
Now, I live in a society where I am now past my expiration date because I am not married. I’m twenty-two. I have been graduated from high school, high school, for five years and am one of the last to be married and have at least one child. Because of this society, I once dated a man who, after five weeks of casual dating, said he didn’t know whether or not he should marry me so he was going to go pray about it because he just had no clue and he didn’t want to go wasting anybody’s time – I thought, “Well, dude, thanks for the heads up on that one.” He then told me I was everything he never thought he could have. He still left me, and then expected the nineteen year old version of myself to think there was nothing I had done wrong. I then dated a man who told me I was beautiful and brilliant – that was something new in my dating life – until this guy then figured out he couldn’t control me. He immediately proceeded to become emotionally abusive. Then there was the guy who was immensely relieved when I said, in jest, “Yeah…if I ever talk too much, just lemme know…wink, wink.” The facts: I’ve had a tough dating life, just like everyone else; the society in which I live, not the religion I align myself with, is the proverbial thorn in my side; I’ve learned from my mistakes and the mistakes of others; and I have finally been happier than ever because I became complete on my own and realized that settling for a bad relationship is worse than being single – I like being single.
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Now that I’ve succeeded in making my life sound much more despondent than it actually is or ever has been, here are some more facts: I made it through high school gracefully, intelligently, and with a highly developed sense of humor and wit (or so I’ve been told); I lost 40 pounds; I have been always been able to articulate and communicate well; I was surrounded with family and friends that loved me, saw me, and appreciated me for who I really was and am; I graduated in the top 8% of my class and had four scholarship opportunities as an English Sterling Scholar; and, I never sold out and became something that I wasn’t. The only problem was that as entered college and began living away from anything that I knew, I still was not comfortable in my own skin.
* * *
I always picture a rainy afternoon during my senior year of college. I had just spent a night swimming and making up my own dives for jumping into a pool, connecting on a new emotional level with someone whom I loved very much, and finding that being a twenty-one year kid made me feel more happiness and genuine joy than few other pursuits. I walk into a store where I am bound to find a good deal and therefore can justify picking out an outfit that will make me what I think is smokin’ hot, and I suddenly find myself staring at my very own altar to the gods – a shelf full of shiny, shiny pointy-toed stilettos. Now, ladies with skis for feet can understand – Size 11 does NOT exist to the fine shoemakers of the world. A pair of shoes that gargantuan is not only offensive to the fashion world and to women as a species, but is probably abhorrent to humanity in general. Therefore, to find a pair of Size 11’s to strap on that one loves is cause for choruses of Hallelujah to ring through the halls. Hallelujah’s are currently ringing through the halls, perfectly timed glittering flakes have been released for a dramatic and celestial effect, and a spotlight from above shines down like a beacon of righteousness on a pair of Size 11 shiny, pointy-toed red stilettos – my pair of Size 11 pointy-toed red stilettos. The facts: this passage is completely, 100%, swear on the Bible, the Koran, and, even though she isn’t dead, my mother’s grave, accurate.
* * *
It is amazing how putting on and strutting around in a pair to shoes can increase one’s self-esteem. It is even more amazing to me to reflect on the person that I was and compare that girl to the woman I’ve become. Life, in all its glory and its stink, has helped me mature, laugh, cry, appreciate, and understand. The facts: I am so comfortable in heels that I can skip down the street, I’m a feminist because I believe men and women are equal and I believe that women are beautiful creatures; I was in the “Vagina Monologues” and my life changed – my dearest ambition for the next year is to be the Angry Vagina; I make it a point to dance naked in my room on a daily basis; I’m a six foot tall woman that on occasion becomes 6’4”; I seek to understand before I’m understood; I’m honest and ambitious and liberated; and, I plan on spending the rest of my life finding ways to make choruses of Hallelujah materialize as if from nowhere.