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.

A Synaptical Misfire

I never write when I'm happy.

I just realized this tonight. Or maybe, I was finally able to admit to myself tonight that I never feel eloquent or empowered when life is running smooth. I really don't think I ever wanted to admit that when I'm upset about something, I feel the most articulate. (Articulate is not to be confused with creative, contemplative, or inspired.) What writer ever wants to admit that to be a success, he or she would have to lead a fairly miserable life full of unrequited love, waffling faith, and broken relationships?

I feel that I have always envied writers who could write when they're happy. They must exist, but at this moment, I cannot think of one. John Donne - fairly miserable/spiritually torn: Emily Dickinson - depressed/suicidal: Hemingway needs no explanation, and, well, Chuck Palahniuk, in all his brilliant prose, he doesn't write about a single healthy heterosexual relationship. Maybe, perhaps, there is something embedded in the synaptical relay of an author or poet that runs a supercharged electrical signal to the cerebral cortex and then WaBam! you've got yourself a Pulitzer. Or maybe, I'm the one who is disillusioned about the concept of writing.

It's not that I'm particularly unhappy at this moment - quite the contrary actually: I'm happier, generally speaking, than I have been in months, but my heart aches tonight. My soul is filled with prayers tonight for many people, some of whom might not want me specifically to be praying for them: the woman who yelled at me at work today, and who I turn, made cry because of my silence; the lovers who I can't completely disconnect myself from; the friend who I can't feel slightly abandoned by - and all the people who probably do want my prayers - my soul aches and my fingers type because of that damn synaptical relay.

Maybe it isn't the plight of the author/blogger/thinker to be miserable. Maybe we just feel things and are moved to action when we see a deficit. Maybe we let our fingers rest long enough when life is balanced to enjoy the moment and maybe we use writing as a means to get past the unspeakable.

RationalLies

To rationalize is to tell ourselves rational lies so that we believe them.

I sometimes have epiphanies in the shower. An odd place, I know, but they come whilst I scrub various appendages nonetheless. A long while ago, I was pondering the idea of being someone who I'd previously been with. He was/is a good man; I wouldn't been with him otherwise, but as much as I loved him and yearned to be with him again, something held me back time and time again. And then it came, amidst the rinse, lather, and repeat stage of my shower, a small, yet powerful voice that said simply, "No."

Instead of listening, I ignored and rationalized. He's a good man. He makes me happy. His mouth is incredible. He's the only one who wants me... My mind continued to race for a few days: luckily, I did not act on anything, especially mine own wants. After a few more rationalizations and a few showers where I committed to not think, I lapsed into the scent of my Zest - that's when it came. I thought about what my life, marriage, children - the whole enchilada - what it would all be like with him. Do not marry him. He WILL sexually abuse your children.

I couldn't believe my mind. I didn't want to believe the voice, but deep down, I knew it was true. Marrying this man would lead to a disaster of eternal proportions. I refused to listen for weeks again. I knew this man, this man that I loved, couldn't possibly be capable of such a thing. I wanted what I wanted and what I wanted was him, and to no longer be alone.

All the while the voice had been saying "No" and I'd been saying "Yes." Then I took the shower that saved me. I'd rationalized so much for so long that the voice said, "Okay. Do what you want to do."

One of the most hollow feelings in the world is what followed. I, a woman of God who is supposed to follow The Spirit at all costs and at all times and in all places, had just rationalized the safety of my own children away. I was so ashamed of myself, and to a certain extent, still am, that I would put my wants over the safety of children - my children.

I do not know if this man will ever be a sexual offender. I honestly doubt that he will. I think that my experience was a lesson for me and me alone. This experience showed me what it would be like to doubt the Spirit, my intuition, and simply live by the wants of my heart, without realization of what my current actions will have upon people in the future. Rationalization to this extent will never happen again in my life - ever.

I pose these thoughts and this deeply personal experience not to show the benefits of a highly scented soap and steamy water (although I think I can speak for most when I say that this is a good thing), but to question. How often do I rationalize? How many times have I? Don't worry, those two candy bars won't make your butt jiggle anymore. Spend the money on the shoes - you've had a horrible day. Ignore your head; it's what you really want.

I'm not married. I'm not even dating anyone. But I am happier now than I have ever been. I've been given an opportunity to view what eternity might be like if I gave into every one of my desires. I will then wait; wait until I find exactly what I'm looking for until I don't have to tell myself rational lies anymore.

Clean

*These lyrics belong to Incubus and Incubus will forever be a part of this experience.

To whom it may concern:

You know this concerns you. Today, everything was fine / Until roundabout, quarter to nine / I suddenly found myself in a bind / Was it something I said? / Something I read and manifested that's getting you down? I'd been thinking all day; thinking of how to let you know that I love you, but that I'm concerned about your life. That's the position of a best friend, right? To not always agree, to sometimes challenge, but always to love and never to judge, right? I thought that's what I did. I know that's what I did.

I watched your face watching mine. You told me the news. You'd thought I'd be happy; you should have known that I would have been logical. I tried to lessen the blunt of my concerns. I thought that I had. Your eyes never faltered and never became angry as I spoke. I thought you understood that all I wanted to do was show you love my friend. Don't you dare come to bed with that ambiguous look in your eye / I'd sooner sleep by an open fire and wake up fried.

Say what you will, say what you mean / You could never offend, your dirty words come out clean. I know that you don't agree with my spirituality. I knew that was a fact when you said that'd I stop at nothing to get what I wanted, which is a Ph.D., even if not stopping meant ignoring Heavenly Father's Plan for me. Instead of telling me you were worried about the choices I was making, you made me feel guilty as you snapped your quick retort down like a clamp on my dreams. I shouldn't have let you do that. I should have communicated with you, but I was hurt - hurt because you don't really know me at all if you would say that.

After I spoke to you, for what looks like, ultimately, the last time, you said you'd call tomorrow so we could watch a flick. Little did I know that you wouldn't call. Tomorrow, what price will I pay?/ Could I make it all up to you by serving coffee for two in bed?/ Would you then give me the time of day? No, I could never make you coffee to be in your good graces. You hate the fact that I work at Starbucks. Starbucks isn't for Mormons, but I work there anyway on Sunday mornings and race home to teach Sunday School anyway.

I need a map of your head
Translated into English so I can learn to not make you frown
You'd feel better if you'd vent
Put your frustrations into four letter words and let them out on mine
The most weathered ears in town

If this is it, if this has to be goodbye, then know that I wish you well. I want so much happiness for you, and that, in truth, is why I voiced my concerns. I never wanted you as anything more than a friend. I did want you to stay longer than you have though. All I ask is that you Say what you will, say what you mean / No, You could never offend, your dirty words come out clean.

Disclaimer

If you are someone I love, you might not always like what you read here.

That is the machine of writing, and now, writing is a part of my life.

I love you and thank you for being a part of my life nevertheless.