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.

Somewhere Inbetween, Everything is A-OK

After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music.

-Aldous Huxley

Good music feels like home to me.

I've been thinking lately how attached I am to music. Even when I'm the most lonely, I can put on familiar songs and be taken to a different place. Music is often my solace, my place to vent rage, a familiar face instead of a bleak and colorless expanse.

I find it interesting how I attribute songs to people and times in my life. I can be miles away from those people and times in my mind, but as soon as "Smile" comes on random play, I think of R, and how she anchored me, showed me how to hope again, and how she taught me to say "Fuck it" to all the rest. "The Future Freaks Me Out" reminds me of Pittsburgh and how I miss that city and how I regret not spending more time with the people I should have been spending it with. Yo Yo Ma reminds me of bathtime. Songs that I refuse to listen to anymore because my heart can't even take listening to the introductory notes take me to places that need to stay in the past.

I feel like songs become mine and they take on meaning for my life. I've decided not to do my Student Teaching or get my Level II License next semester, which is a big step for me as I rarely diverge from the "responsible/laid out" path. It's not that I'm giving up, it's that I've decided that not every inch of my life has to have a plan and that I'm not bound to decisions I made five years ago. I'm instead going to apply to grad school because more education is what I want more than anything. I want the experience of being out of my element and being challenged more than I have ever been. I'm ready to go someplace where religion doesn't matter as much as it does here - where faith is a choice instead of a social pressure. I don't know if any of this makes sense, but it somehow makes sense in my head as I listen to Buster.

The following lyrics reflect not what I feel to be love, but to be life. The words don't make me sad; maybe the combination of the music changes how the words sound, but this song makes me feel more at home than few other places lately.


Well, you're just across the street
Looks a mile to my feet
I want to go to you
Funny how I'm nervous still
I've always been the easy kill
I guess I always will

Could it be that everything goes 'round by chance?
Or only one way that it was always meant to be
You kill me, you always know the perfect thing to say
I know what I should do, but I just can't walk away

I can picture your face well
From the bar in my hotel
I wish I'd go to you
I pick up put down the phone
Like your favorite Heatmeiser song goes
It's just like being alone

Oh God, please don't tell me this has been in vain
I need answers for what all the waiting I've done means
You kill me, you've got some nerve, but can't face your mistakes
I know what I should do, but I just can't turn away

So go on love
Leave while there's still hope for escape
Got to take what you can these days
There's so much ahead
So much regret
I know what you want to say
I know it but can't help feeling differently
I loved you, and I should have said it
But tell me just what has it ever meant

I can't help it baby, this is who I am
Sorry, but I can't just go turn off how I feel
You kill me, you build me up, but just to watch me break
I know what I should do, but I just can't walk away

A Bi-Polar Day

Today has been a weird day. A bi-polar day if you will.

And to start off today, I must start off with last night. A good friend delievered a healthy baby last night and I was able to meet this incredible person. She's exquisite, tiny, and beautiful and as I held her, a magnificent peace came to me. I watched her with her mother and father and sister and the quite in the room made a surreal memory that is imprinted forever. I want my own little people someday - not today - but someday. Seeing a brand new person and smelling that baby smell made me appreciate life much deeper than I have recently as I soaked in the bath last night - reading, reflecting, and listening to Buster (the Prodigal iPod returned last night!).

This bliss was ephemeral, as bliss often, not always, but often is. As I'm embarking into the wonderful world of student teaching next semester, I was hoping, and let's be honest, praying, that I would be assigned to a teacher that would be a catalyst for the proverbial spark. Today I learned that next semester will be a rigorous course in what not to do - I was disappointed by this knowledge and after I vented my frustrations in present and participle tenses of a certain four letter word, I felt mildly better.

Then I watched "Motherboy XXX." This episode of Arrested Development can be found in Season 2, on Disk 3. A highly recommended activity - after all, medical research supports laughing.

Then I got a retainer to complete my braces. And no, I don't like it when people call me "Brace Face," "Metal Mouth," or "Train Tracks." It wasn't funny in middle school when I had braces and just because I'm older doesn't make it funny now.

Then I went to Advanced Theory where we talked about feminism and Beloved - and yes, I am geeky enought to consider this an upswing in my day.

Then I went to work, where life wasn't so bad, but it is my nightly custom to expect that no one will drop by or disturb me after I return home from said employment. Not the case tonight. There were no less than three sets of visitors this evening - a statistical anamoly to be sure. One of the visits promted me to write the poem below.

Then I decided I knew what would utilmately make me feel better. But alas, there is no money for a coke slurpee right now, the usual kick to my endorphins. I located the following on youtube.com. I hope that it makes you feel better if you're having a bad day. And if you're having a good day, enjoy the bliss, for sometimes it truly is ephemeral.

This is Halloween

I knew that you’d be here tonight.
There is no rhyme or reason to knowing this -
I just knew.
Knew that there would be a
Knock Knock.
You’d come sit casually on the couch.
Both of us would ignore the weight of the past.

Funny how I knew we’d talk about Halloween.
About costumes
About frivolous details
About caramel apples and cheap movies
I knew you’d still want to wear the same costume as last year.

Note To Self:
I have to remember to tell you there shouldn’t be repeat costumes.

I knew that after you left
I’d wonder if you still think of us.
I still do,
even though I don’t want to.
I knew I wouldn’t want to think
about last year and the unconvincing costumes we wore,
the caramel from the apples that wet stale around Thanksgiving,
the day the costumes finally wore out at Christmas.

I knew that I wouldn’t want any of it,
none of the memories,
none of us.
None of the details or the holidays or the costumes.

Knock Knock.
It's almost Halloween.

Brace Face

One time I turned 22. Four days later I got braces.


I am one spectacle adjustment and "Ha-yuck" away from utter nerd-dom.

A Click on the Notch in Time

I turned 22 this weekend. It's such a weird number to me - 22. There are no bells or whistles that can be attached to this number in my mind - but then, after one turns 21 there doesn't seem to be any exciting age coming up for about, oh, the next 19 years. But I digress; the real reason behind the post is to highlight the events of my birthday - a colorful vacation from a recently pale existence.

This birthday was the first one that I've never been home for - a sad fact in the timeline of my story. We celebrated my blessed day of arrival a week earlier, which, much to my chagrin, left me no opportunity to actually unwrap a present on my day this year. That's okay though - my mom told me on Saturday that she got me a Barnes & Noble Membership, so really, it's the gift that keeps on giving. Also, I received "Pink," my favorite perfume, Season 2 of Arrested Development, a wicked-sweet color illustrated edition of Animal Farm, and a new book signed by the author - plus some dinero care of my Papa, which is always a good choice in my opinion.

Insert "adventuretime" now. On Saturday, my real birthday, some friends and I headed to Vegas, not to see strippers, gamble, club, drink, or any of the like, but to play at an Aquarium and on top of the Stratosphere. We crammed into Cammi the Camry and after Brian Regan was done, we were there man! Just so you know, In & Out was real good. We then, after some geographical dilemma-time, we were off to Shark Reef to play with the fishes - or just watch them. There were many good times to be had at the Reef. Although the entrance fee is somewhat cost-prohibitive, I would highly recommend Shark Reef. The Jellyfish were my favorite sight and I enjoyed touching the Stingrays - where only "One-Touch" touching was allowed (NO TOUCHING! would have been better) - but my absolute favorite was when we were in the area where the fish could swim over and one could see their undersides. A small boy, perhaps five or six, blatantly and ever so adeptly pointed out that he did, in fact, see a "girl" shark. There were also many good times to be had in the Shark Reef Gift Shop as well...maybe too many good times. Others would have to be the judge of that, but here is the proof of the aforementioned good times.

Then we were off to the Bellagio to watch the Fountains and because a member of the group wanted to go to Tiffany's. I must pause at this juncture and be forced to digress - I agree with Chelsea Lane. I never want anything from Tiffany's - and this is why. A.) I felt out of place. No matter how hard I fight it, I will always be a country girl at my roots. B.) It's ostentatious. C.) As we were waiting for said member to get done shopping, I over heard a conversation that went like this - "Oh, that one's nice." Insert nicely dressed - with obvious implications to money - woman. "Yeah, and it's only 19." Insert nicely dressed with - obvious short leash - man. 19. That's 19 thousand dollars. That's my graduate school sitting on her dainty hand. I cannot support an organization that would allow such obscenities to be commonplace (and no, I don't need a listing of organizations that I do support - I'm making a point here). D.) It's ostentatious. E.) There are too many security guards for anyone - even St. Paul - to feel comfortable. Point taken? Mmmm-k. Digression will cease now!

We saw and did many things fun and exciting things at the Bellagio too. There were the gardens, the chocolate fountain, and the water fountain, where ironically enough we watched a show to "Singin' in the Rain" which is the musical that we saw on my 19th birthday. Ooo, Ooo! I also forgot to say that I valeted my car for the first time in my life. And although the car did not come back within the acceptable five minute wait period, I would recommend valeting one's car on his or her birthday - it's just neat. I also gambled for the first time in my life. I put in a dollar, lost once, then won, and cashed out at $1.50. I am now on a 100% winning streak - I never have to gamble again.

Now, this is the part of the evening that I'd been waiting for. I've always wanted to go on the rides at the Stratosphere and we were going! Although ominous clouds brewed the entire night, my friends and I went on every single ride available, took embarrassing pictures, and basically laughed until we almost peed and/or vomited. I would also recommend this to anyone! - the riding not the peeing and/or vomiting.

Although there were sporadic eye-brow raising events, I will now insert the pictures and conclusions can be drawn and the chips can fall, or be cast, where they may.









The night ended at the Cheesecake Factory. It was good. We were tired and we went home.

When I got home, my roommates had thrown me a surprise party because one of them could not go with us. It was great! It's the first surprise party I've ever really been surprised about. Oh, and on a sidenote - if you ever take someone away for a surprise party, make sure she is wearing a bra; it's much less awkward for everyone involved.

Now that this has taken me entirely too long, caused me to skip class, and is entirely different than what I normally blog about, I'm going to work. Peace out yo!

Al got a Nobel...Really?

As I was searching msn.com today for the latest in "Undressed!", my eyes almost exited my cranium at an impressive rate of speed as I saw today's headlines. Was it Britney's most recent fashion/child/life faux pas that caught my deserving attention? Or perhaps J.Lo's booty finally broke the camel's back in pant apparel? Did Paris once again flash her cooter to the teaming paparazzi? I answer resolutely - Nay!

Not even the wonderful and joyous world of celebrity blunders could cause me to nearly asphyxiate on my Halloween sucker - "Al Gore receives Nobel Peace Prize for his work in global warming." I could scarcely believe what I saw or bring myself to click the link - but alas, I'm curious by nature. My eyes furiously and surreptitiously read line after line. The article "carefully" outlined the former Vice-President's work and efforts in the names of all things greenhouse, global, and environmental. (This is the part where I state that I vehemently agree that precautions need to be taken to ensure the safety and well-being of the environment and that I agree that people, myself included, are not doing our part to protect the Earth.) But does Al really get a Nobel Peace Prize? Really? The man made a f***ing movie - and not even a good one at that. I believe that at the halfway mark of the film I was in the midst of pinching my eyelids with my thumb and fore-finger to see how many times I could snap said eyelid back onto my eyeball. In utterance of The Bluth Family, "Come on!"

I cringe at the fact that for all time Albert Gore will have the title of Oscar Winning placed in front of his name, but to have Nobel laureate as well? To know that his name will be placed among names as Elie Wiesel, Nelson Mandela, and Doctor's Without Borders makes me cringe all the more. Now, do I realize that the group sponsoring Al Gore also received the prize? Yes. But will they get the press and receive just recognition? No. What about the producers of "An Inconvenient Truth"? What about the director? What about the scientists and experts that Al got the information from in the first place?

I'm sorry - actually, no I'm not - but I find this concept as laughable as I would if President Bush was to receive the prize for his efforts to exponentially further knowledge and awareness of how to correctly pronounce words in the English language, or if Bill Clinton received the prize for his work on a book called "Fidelity 101: Reasons to Not Cheat on Your Wife and Why Marriage is Sacred."

I know that I seem like I'm on a high-horse here - it's the plight of an English Major - but I find the fact that Al Gore lives in a 10,000 square foot mansion, which had to be built of wood and has to be somehow powered, and has a posse of vehicles, which are certainly not environment-friendly, suspect. I'm pausing to search for the right words here - oh yes, here they are - Al and Tipper (do parents think before they name?) were found to have power bills in excess of $1,200 a month - a month! Despite the fact that this amount is more than I make in a month, I believe my power bill was $38 this month and there are three somewhat moderate to moderate maintenance women living in my house - Come on!!!

I don't know why this irritates me so, but it does. Al Gore - Nobel Prize Winner. Bravo Norway.

A Death in the Family

"Music was my refuge. I could crawl into the space between the notes and curl my back to loneliness." - Maya Angelou

Buster died this morning.

Buster is my iPod. My 80 Gig iPod that only had 4 Gigs left.

Perhaps it is because I anthropomorphize so many things in my life, but I feel like I've lost a friend. No, I don't have strange and salacious feelings for inanimate objects; I just think I'm lonely in general and not having Buster to keep me company on my walks to class or to listen to in the car reminds me that I am, in fact, lonely and alone.

This semester hasn't been anti-climactic or anything. There was nothing climactic about about returning to Cedar, about taking more undergraduate classes, about feeling like I'm stuck. People that I love have moved away and are doing different things - and I'm here. "X" moved. "Y" left. Our Dear Girl is off having adventures. My family isn't here. The few that are left I rarely get to see, or we go through the motions of a facade, for the sake of a pretense of a relationship.

I'm disappointed about so many things too. I had a crappy weekend preceded by a frustrating and sleepless week. I'm disappointed that I haven't connected with another person, or even God, in a long time. I'm disappointed in myself that I can't find balance and that for all my ranting about not needing a man that I still very much want one - and I'm disappointed that opportunity let me down too. I feel like I'm drowning in my classes. Every time I walk into the English building, no less than two people immediately ask me for something or where something is.

If I said that I was mourning for Buster, I'd be lying - Buster is the simulacrum of my loneliness and at the same time, a shield from it.

I'm tired. I want a good cry, but I'm blogging at work and they already think I'm weird. I want someone to crawl in bed with me and hug me til I fall asleep, because sometimes waking up by one's self is a lonely feeling, but I'll go home and sleep by myself tonight - Buster-less.

Today, perhaps, is just a bad day spawned by a bad week.

This weekend will be better. I'll turn 22. And even though I don't like even numbers, I know that it'll still be a good day. I know that I'll keep on until I too can cast off the chains I feel by being here, but still, today is a bad day.

Loaded

Polygamist. Feminist. Homosexual. Book of Mormon. Koran. Democrat. Mexican.

We have these words in our language. We "seem" to have an agenda when we speak them; they've become loaded. What am I saying when I use these words? Am I using the phrase homosexual to describe every highly-effeminate, fashion-savvy, same-gender attracted man that I meet? No.That would be a stereotype. Do I use the word feminist when I want to describe every bra-burning, man-hating woman that I meet? The word Mexican to describe every person south of the border who wants to come into the U.S. to be a parasite on the economy? No. Those would be vicious stereotypes. Most of my homosexual friends who are men do not have more estrogen than I do. Many of the feminists I know are in healthy relationships with men and love a chance to drop some money at Victoria's Secret. And, I know plenty of people from Mexico that are honest and hard-working individuals. Stereotypes ≠ Everyone.

Why do we allow one word to represent the masses? Why is the Book of Mormon associated with every polygamist that has existed? Why is the Koran with every terrorist? The answer is in the form of a concept that I learned in grade school - one person, one day, one ideology can ruin it for everyone: that's why dodgeball got taken away.

Changing a belief system is a hefty undertaking - see Dissonance Theory. Today for instance, I had less than an argument, but more than a disagreement with someone about two words - the Koran (see the following post for case in point). She wants me to take them out: I want to keep them in. We both have belief systems and in this situation we are both right because there is no wrong answer. I pose these questions not prove that I am right and she is wrong, but to question - what do we see/hear when a loaded word is presented? Do we see every side or do we see our side? Am I naive or is she too set in her ways?

Words have meaning only because we give them meaning. If we did not store the meaning, letters would become gibberish. What meaning are you giving to language?

Amor. Muerte. Libertad. Violación. Asesinato.

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.
* * *
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.