Vindicated

Slip inside the eye of your mind
Don't you know you might find
A better place to play

You said that you've never been
But all the things that you've seen
They slowly fade away

So I'll start a revolution from my bed
cause you said the brains I had went to my head
Step outside, summertime's in bloom
Stand up beside the fireplace
Take that look from off your face
You ain't ever gonna burn my heart out

Please don't put your life in the hands
Of a rock and roll band
You'll throw it all away

I'm gonna start a revolution from my bed
cause you said the brains I had went to my head
Step outside, cause summertime's in bloom
Stand up beside the fireplace
Take that look from off your face
cause you ain't ever gonna burn my heart out

And so, Sally can wait
She knows its too late as she's walking on by
My soul slides away
But don't look back in anger
I heard you say

At least not today.

Thank you - for vindicating me. Or validating me. To myself and to everyone.

For clearing me of guilt and suspect and flaw and responsibility, for letting me be honest. You might think me angry since you rendered me so isolated after I asked you to let me slip away. But, I watch as hope dangles from a string like slow-spinning redemption and I pray for you because you'll never burn my heart out. There is hope and love, even though they are not always visible from the way we choose to see. Step outside, cause summertime's in bloom; stand up beside the fireplace and take that look from off your face. Slight hope may dangle from a string, but hope is there.

I'll love you always, my friend.

Thank you. I now know that I don't have to look back in anger, at least not today.

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.

Pffff.... It's a Comic Book

Over the past few months, my little brother and I have gotten a lot closer. It could be that we're going to be camp counselors together this weekend and the excitement is acting as a catalyst, or it could be that we've finally realized that the other is more interesting that previously thought, not to say that we haven't loved each other. But this weekend, we really bonded - over books.

As he was helping me move, Jimmy asked if I had any books he would like. I was somewhat shocked that he would ask because although he is beyond highly intelligent, Jimmy has never sought after recreational reading because he has a tough time reading quickly and teachers are constantly pressuring him to get it done faster. After not thinking long at all, I gave him a copy of Watership Down, Fraud, and Blankets. I was most excited to give him Blankets because it's my absolute favorite graphic novel, and he became very excited to read it as I told him about the premise.

To make a long story short, a kid who has been working for almost a year on a 700 page book and only gotten 200 pages in got done with a 580 page graphic novel in less than 24 hours, and he was ecstatic about it. Jimmy decided to use Blankets for his 11th grade Honors English class book report. He worked on an intensive plot summary and even called me to get some feedback about the ending and to ask if I had any other graphic novels he could read. Luckily, C. Joe was on hand and was able to explain the allegory of the cave and some other insightful tips for Jimmy's book report.

When I talked to Jimmy today, after school, he related this story:
So, I handed in my book report to my teacher. She was, like, surprised I gave it to her since I usually don't hand it in 'til close to the last hour on the day of the due date. I made the mistake of showing her the book. She took one look and said, "This is a comic book."

I got really mad and tried to explain to her that comic books are "graphic short stories" and that this really was a novel.

The only reason she didn't argue with me was because we only had to read 100 pages and I read 580.

When he told me this, I was livid! (Yes! I'm using exclamations! And I never use exclamations! or bold and italics together!) First of all, why is an 11th grade HONORS class only expected to read 100 pages for a final book report?! People wonder why students are, oh, what's the word?... oh yes, illiterate when they graduate from high school. Well, it could be that they don't read and that they are handing in plot summaries which are readily available on sites like Sparknotes.

Secondly, why would a teacher's first inclination be to dismiss a student's work instead of understand it? If a student who is usually late with his or her assignments is excited to hand in an early draft of a book report, wouldn't that be cause for investigation and enthusiasm?

And lastly, I told myself to calm down. This teacher, who was once my teacher, may not know and therefore cannot make an educated decision about the teaching of graphic novels. But even though I'm more calm, I am still upset because this instance isn't unique to Jimmy's class or his high school experience - it was a part of mine too.

Jimmy then went on to tell me that he and his friends, who are not fond of reading, were totally engaged in the graphic novel during their next class - where, by the way, they were supposed to be watching a movie/babysitter instead of having a lesson (and! if they don't know how to unlock the visual, then what the hell kind of good is it going to do to show a movie whose only purpose is to fill-in-the-blanks? Bah!). The two other boys and Jimmy read 150 pages in an hour! Amazing! They loved it and one of the boys was especially affected by the subtle hints of child molestation that occurred in a scene.

If kids who don't like reading are engaged in book where their brain is functioning in a visual and a literary way, then why aren't these books being read more often? Why aren't we teaching students skills that will give them tools for life, not just passing tests? How many of these students will have to learn to evaluate propaganda, billboards, commercials, T.V., film, and the like? Ummmm.... pretty much all of them.

Graphic novels are not a cop-out or an alternative. They are valid forms of literature that help readers perceive the visual.

I wish people could open up more to than what they've been taught or what they know and stop trying to be so damn safe. I wish that teachers would try to understand and connect with students and popular culture instead of shunning and handing out labels like "easy" or "not intelligent." I wish teachers could see how visual our world is becoming.

And, instead of wishing things were better, I am meeting with one of the teachers who I had as a student at my old high school on Wednesday because Jimmy informed me there wasn't a single graphic novel to be found in the high school library. Something is going to get done at South Sevier High School and it has to start somewhere.

Top Ten Things to Remember When Attending Punk Concerts in Very Small Venues

So, it's been a while since I've blogged it up. As such, and because I'm sick of writing about my life, I thought I'd provide some more helpful tips and hints for all of you veteran or aspiring concert goers.

Top Ten Things to Remember When Attending Punk Concerts in Very Small Venues

(*this entry does not aspire to be similar to David Letterman; it, in fact, aspires to be an extra helping of High Fidelity listings)

1. Hearing. There is less space for large sound to exist in small venues. Ear plugs - although one may be labeled a pansy before the concert begins and less than "fashion friendly" - are smart as all get out... unless you enjoy excessive ringing in the ear's for more than 24 hours.

2. Being Stoned. If you like to smoke a little reefer, you're an idiot, but don't let that get you down. Smoke it on up. However, getting so tweaked that you wave your hands about your head and repeatedly smack other people in the face because of your utter incoherence is never a good idea because a) people don't care that you're a girl - they'll hit you anyways; b) someone's definitely going to end up taking advantage of you; and c) you might end up like this.

3. Clothing. Being the person to finally construct a shirt out of a chamois is not only a way to stave off embarrassing sweat stains, but also an ingenious way to make some extra money. I'd buy one online. Really. PayPal's awesome.

4. Paying Attention. Not paying attention is a great way to get a hold of some type of band memorabilia. For instance, I was messing around with my camera and got hit in the face with a drumstick. Having catlike reflexes and an iron-clad grip is also helpful for this category.

5. Camera. Readers might remember a previous post where I stated that I liked to keep my camera on my person at all times during some concerts. This is true. The advice I have to give now is that you probably should purchase some sort of camera case if you are not fortunate enough to develop the aforementioned chamois shirt because cameras may experience water damage.... which is actually swoobie damage. What? I'm just saying...

6. Crowd Placement. In a small venue, the crowd can still seem big and therefore surge and crush and pulsate. Perchance, if you find yourself smashed up, bosom, sweaty camera, and all, against a person whom you vaguely know from a class a few semesters ago, but only really through blogger, then just go with it. You are probably very close to the stage. It's all about the closeness at concerts.

7. Other People's Sweat. You'll wear it. Deal with it.

8. Invitees. If you happen to ask someone to go to a moshy-type concert with you last minute, and they've never actually heard of the band or been to a moshy-type concert, for the love of God, warn them about what will happen, what to wear, etc., especially if this person is homosexual because they might end up being the only gay man in a crowd of 400. (Thanks for being a good sport buddy!)

9. Questions. Questioning is always good. Questions in concert settings like, "When the hell are the Bouncing Souls coming on?!" or "Hey. Can you not put your hand there?" are great. Some questions are not good to ask in certain settings when you're surrounded by die hard fans of a 20 year old band, i.e., "Wait. Is it Bouncing Soul or Soulzzzz?" are just not smart things to say. Be a good little patron and hold your questions 'til the end.

10. Hair. If you're a girl with hair past mid-neck and fitting said hair into one, two, or three pony-tail holders is at all is possible, the pull your f***ing hair up. You make me want to rip it out. No one likes sweaty, stringy hair stuck to them in the pit.

Now, go out and enjoy some concerts.

Also, sorry about all of the hyperlinks. I just learned how to do it today. It's amazing!

Here's a link to a neat new artist. I've heard his name dropped twice in the past week.

I like this too.

And this.

Hoookay. Bye!

A Random Spattering of Thought due to High Engery and Mountain Dew via My Work Computer

The past few days have been surreal and happy. Surreal in the way that I'd forgotten what it's like to have multiple, life changing incidents occur all at the same time and have all of the aforementioned incidents be positive. Happy in the way that people tell me I'm glowing again and I feel like it. I woke up with a smile on my face this morning and it was a good moment.

Shall I expound? Yes. Yes I shall.

Yesterday, I was informed by a professor at NAU that I got a Graduate Assistantship. This basically means that I will save $12,000 a year in tuition and fees, I get paid to go to school, I get to teach a section of 1050 (1010 elsewhere) with my very own syllabus, books, and assignments, and, get ready for this, I get to have office hours. I'm going to have office hours. I'm 22 and I have office hours. That means, in deconstructionist terms, that I am going to have an office. How cool is that?

A certain C. Joe Willis wanted to make sure of the details of my GA position with the lady over them (...us?....weird) at NAU. He told her my name and she said (via Joe), "Oh. Sarah? She had that position within ten minutes of the start of the meeting. We don't not hire people like that." I was floored. After three rejections (grad school, not otherwise - that's a higher number), it's really, really nice to be wanted. I thought on the dates of my acceptance letter as well. NAU got my application on the 6th, 7th, or 8th. My acceptance letter was dated the 25th. I felt special.

Next Sarah-happy-making event. I bought my ticket to London today. I will be in Europe from July 10 to the 29th. I even got a deal: $967.60. Although, this does mean I will be on a place for something like 16 hours. But still, London is London.

Last happy-making-event for this blog, for there will surely be more to come later today. My dad wants to help me buy a condo for when I live in Flagstaff so that I can basically live rent free and establish mortgage credit. I really hope it works out because I've been searching Realtor.com, but even if it doesn't, it'll be okay. It'll be okay because I have parents who are willing to help me with something like this. It'll be okay because I know that I have people who love me and support me in any way they can. I can't believe I am so lucky.

I suppose in some way, all these event should make me feel older and more mature. They don't. True, they make me very happy, but I feel like a little kid playing dress up in a grown up's life. I know that I will be able to handle teaching and syllabizing and grading and grad-studenting, but, I feel very young. I don't know why.

All of this got me thinking. I realized how cantankerous (such a great word) I've been over the past four months. I fully feel that my stress was legitimate, but the purpose is not to just endure, but to endure it well. I feel badly that I may have been as horrible as I think I've been lately - or for months. I see an area I need to grow in my life, so I am glad of the time to self-reflect. For those of you who have supported me, loved me, and put up with me, thank you. Really. Thank you.

Life is cyclical and a balancing act, but for now, I shall bask the euphoria that comes with the blessings that are specifically designed for us and our experience here.

I'd Rather be Dead in California Than Alive in Arizona

I got accepted to grad school today. I'm going to be a graduate student! I'm getting a Master's degree! Grad school! New books, new people, new teachers, new chapter in my life!

Awwwwwwwwwoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

After three rejection letters - Mizzou, Washington State, U of Utah - I got my first acceptance letter today. I still need to hear from one more school, but, as of August 2008 I will be living in Flagstaff, Arizona attending Northern Arizona University getting my Master's Degree in Literature.

Words cannot explain how happy and relieved and thankful I am to have to have security for the next two years of my life. 

No, this is not an April Fool's joke. I'm really going to grad school.

The feeling is very surreal right now, even though I have access to the web site and can look at Fall 2008 classes; I really feel like someone is playing a joke on me. (I will stuck otter pops up their butts if they are *insert shaking fist*.)

The best part of today, besides getting accepted to grad school, a celebratory coke slurpee, or the hiding of my phone in the ceiling much like The Office, was telling my dad. He got emotional as he told me he was glad I wasn't going too far away.

It's nice to be loved so much.

Farewell, adios, and, as always, spooning leads to forking.

More Than Words

Many of you who know me know that I place much value in the visual aspect of our world. I just took part in presenting a panel with two friends about the importance of graphic novels, I am working with a professor on campus to establish a visual literacy program, and I hope to get a Master's degree with an emphasis in visual narratives.

The visual makes up much of our lives and our experience here.

As such, I feel that I have stumbled upon the crystallization of why I will never work in the food service industry again. Watch it all; I promise, it's worth the wait.

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 Bit Too Chilling

My heart goes out to the people effected by the shooting in Illinois today. The fact that people are sometimes very senseless and selfish still astounds me. A part of me hurts that to hear about shootings on the news every six months is almost commonplace; schools and universities have evacuation plans in for shooters  - it doesn't feel like people should have to live or prepare like that. 

The reoccurring nature of shootings got me thinking. I blog about music, and music listeners leave me comments. I write about poetry, and other poets read my writing.

I googled "how to be a columbine shooter" tonight. The fifth, 5th, hit on the first, 1st, page was called "Super Columbine Massacre RPG!" (Take special care to notice the exclamation point.) Curiosity got the best of me and I clicked the link. The page contains normal data links for downloads and directions for players of the "game." What is most chilling is the game description: "This game delves into the morning of April 20th, 1999 and asks players to relive that day through the eyes of Eric Harris and Dylan Kleblod, those responsible for the deadliest school shooting in American history."

How humanity can come to this is beyond my comprehension. The producer of this savage site is obviously intelligent. Only someone truly atrocious and intelligent could matter of factly state that he or she wants users to "delve" into the eyes of monsters. The unremorseful nature of the description, although sickening, makes the nature of these copy-cat shooters more clear - but never acceptable.

I was raised to respect guns because I was also taught to respect the sanctity of life. I understood that guns were not bad, that guns were a good thing in the right hands. They were for protection and for the hunting of food. I still feel that way. I knew what guns were capable of because my mother and father took the time to teach me. I knew this mostly because I grew up in a family of police officers. My dad was a cop, my uncles were cops, and my cousins are cops. Had I not injured my knee, the police force would have been a heavyweight fighter in my career choices.

When I was fifteen, I learned that my father had killed a man in the line of duty while the man was holding an apartment complex hostage. In doing so, my father saved the life of another officer. I am, always have been and and always will be proud of my father for this. Taking such action takes courage. My father knows he did the right thing, so do I. But, my father made sure to teach me that people deserve to live, and that life is precious.

Events like today do not want to make me ban guns. Events such as today make me want to help legislate access to guns and who gets them. I do not have a gun right now, but that's because of where I live. I will have a gun in my home though. I am not afraid of them. I am afraid of what would happen if someone tried to take my life, or the lives of those I love, and I was not properly equipped. People in Australia learned what would happen; when the right to bear arms is removed and people are forced to turn over their guns only one thing happens - the good, law abiding citizens turn over their arms and the bad people keep theirs.

Stupid, angry people make stupid, angry decisions with guns, true, but they would have made a stupid, angry decision no matter the access to materials.

I pray for humanity tonight. I pray that those who suffer, not just in Illinois, might be comforted. I pray that people will be smart and aware of the inherent value of life.

Find a Happy Place

Sometimes, being happy is a battle for me. I imagine myself as a stanch fighter in some kind of war, like the war at the beginning of "The Lord of the Rings" movie, fighting against the powers that would make me unhappy, because the key to happiness lies just on the other side of the opposing army. A weird picture to be sure, but that's what happens when you're a dork with an overactive, visual imagination.

Last February 14th, I was realized I had depression. Two days later, I was diagnosed with severe depression and severe anxiety. Writing, or saying, this on paper or out loud is not difficult when I share my experience with a trusted few. I knew that I would inevitably share this particular trial with many. And for some reason, I feel the need to share tonight.

The two months prior to that fateful day, and the three months after, were the hardest in my life. I have never known despair to that extent. I felt hopeless, helpless, miserable, and empty. I had nothing to give; I could only take.

But, and this is a big but, because I knew sadness to that depth, I knew that I could also experience happiness to that degree, and more. 

There is a stigma in many cultures, particularly in the Utah culture, that the word depression is a synonym for crazy. I think this is why I don't share my experience with many. I am not ashamed of myself, but leaving the sacred parts of my life open to the judgements and sneers of those who choose not to understand is difficult.

I heard once that we should not share sacred experiences with many, because they lose their sanctity, much like I shouldn't tell someone I'm in love with them when I really am unsure of my feelings. And although my trial with depression is sacred, I refuse to let an unhappy memory have power of my life. Instead, I choose to let it be a secure foothold in my life. A place where I know I have strength, courage, and experience so that it cannot be an unhappy memory anymore. Depression has been replaced with wisdom and love.

There are many things that help me now. I don't feel the need to share them. I just want to illustrate that sometimes my happiness is a choice and a battle. Today was a difficult day to keep fighting though.

The past few days have been really tough. I missed an extremely important grad school deadline and almost forgot another. I still have no idea what to do with my life after August, I feel like I'm in limbo, I feel like I can't do anything right, that people have no faith in me, and that if they do have faith in me that it's a wasted effort, and that all things that I have been trying to do "better" lately have been for naught. I feel depressed.

Maybe it's the time of year or the fact that the sun hasn't been out in a really long time, maybe I'm fighting what I'm supposed to really be doing instead of what God needs me to be doing, maybe I don't know what I really want. Maybe it's P.M.S.

I don't know. 

What I do know is that writing about this helps me. Sharing my experience does too. Maybe that's all I need to know right now.