"You are not responsible for the programming you picked up in childhood. However, as an adult, you are one hundred percent responsible for fixing it."
--Ken Keyes, Jr.
(via Tudo Bom(b))
Showing posts with label childhood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label childhood. Show all posts
Sunday, December 30, 2012
Thursday, December 27, 2012
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
To illustrate why Jada is winning all the points with me:
"They question why I would LET Willow cut her hair. First the LET must be challenged. This is a world where women, girls, are constantly reminded that they do not belong to themselves; that their bodies are not their own, nor their power of self-determination. I made a promise to endow my little girl with the power to know that her body, spirit, and mind are HER domain. Willow cut her hair because her beauty, her value, her worth is not measured by the length of her hair. It's also a statement that says that even little girls have the RIGHT to own themselves and should not be a slave to even their mother's deepest insecurities, hopes, and desires. Even little girls should not be a slave to the preconceived ideas of what a culture believes a little girl should be."
--Jada Pinkett-Smith
(via Lavender Labia)
Sunday, December 9, 2012
Fuck yeah Sweden
Because shooting shit with foam balls is fucking awesome, regardless of what's between your legs.
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| Reblogged from feministing |
Sunday, November 11, 2012
"Bullying" is a euphemism.
"If we actually started calling bullying what it is and address it as racism, sexism, homophobia, transphobia, ableism, fat phobia, and classism, it would actually give children a better way to deal with the very same power dynamics they will face as adults, while also giving adults more responsibility to challenge the intolerance that is rooted within our society overall."
--Amanda Levitt, of Fat Body Politics
(via come correct)
Friday, March 9, 2012
Why do you assume your children are straight?
I think that more kids have 'crushes' on persons of the same gender than would report having done so as children when they're adults, because we're socialized to call those feelings 'friendship.'
This came up in conversation between me, Choosing Pancakes, and JB a while ago. I wrote it down because I really liked what I had said, and figured I would elaborate on it at some point. As I rant about a little in my guest post over at Met Another Frog this week, I hate that we live in a culture that assumes heterosexuality. Even more than that, I hate when people try to justify the assumption of heterosexuality by saying that the vast majority of the population is heterosexual. First off, majority rule should never be used to effectively erase the minority's existence from public discourse or recognition. That's just a fact. But secondly, and more throw-off-your-understanding-of-how-the-world-works-y, that argument ignores the fact that living in a culture that assumes heterosexuality socially encourages people to assume heterosexuality on a personal level too.
Members of the LGBTQ community often respond to others' questioning about their sexuality with denial; I know I did. I honestly don't know how my friend CC even dealt with me, unless she recognized my denial/rejection as the early stages of self-acceptance; I remember having an incredibly problematic conversation with her sometime at the beginning of my sophomore year about how I'd be uncomfortable living with a lesbian (a disgusting blanket statement I no longer endorse in nearly any form, the one remaining form being living with a lesbian who was interested in me but whom I was not interested in, because that would just be awkward). I remember junior year being at a party and her flat out asking me, in front of KS, whether I was bi-curious. I brushed it off, but she could tell I was bluffing.
The ONLY reason we ever feel we have to bluff about our sexualities, sexual practices, and sexual orientations, is because we live in this society that drills into our heads from the earliest days that sex (and thus romantic interest and flirting and love) is something that happens between a man and a woman (insert whatever variations you were raised with regarding constructs like love and marriage here). In all seriousness, I ask you, what is the difference between best-friend-ship and "interest" when you're seven? Little kids know that they like being around certain other little kids, and I'm convinced that we'd have a lot of people who are both more versed in and comfortable with their sexualities if we didn't put a million constraints around that liking from Day One.
Even the most idiotic advise we give to children about dating and relationships and flirting is gendered. I swear, I want to brand anyone who tells a little girl that some little boy is hitting/pinching/pushing/being mean to her "because he likes her" as unfit to be around children. You're actually just priming that child to accept physical and emotional abuse from men for the rest of her life, you asshole. But think about it--when boys fight with each other or bully each other, no one says it's because one of them caught feelings for the other. There is no idiotic insertion of romance in a spat between little girls. There is also no--perhaps fully warranted--insertion of romance into two little girls holding hands while they walk down the street. We raise our children to understand the same actions--the holding of a hand, the giving of a smile, etc.--as insignificant when between persons of the same gender, and as potentially meaning "EVERYTHING" when between persons of different genders. Yes, love and lust and romanticisim are contextual. I'll give you that. But our society demands that children be grounded in one particular context while regarding all others as deviant--if they recognize them at all.
I don't think I knew that romance and love and sex could exist between people of the same gender until I was in middle school. THAT is an act of erasure, no matter how you want to frame it, and it's not fair to anyone. Even if a child is going to grow up to only be romantically interested in persons of the so-called "opposite" gender--which is absolutely 100% perfectly fine--they should understand that interest as it exists along the spectrum of possible interests, not as the way interest works.
This came up in conversation between me, Choosing Pancakes, and JB a while ago. I wrote it down because I really liked what I had said, and figured I would elaborate on it at some point. As I rant about a little in my guest post over at Met Another Frog this week, I hate that we live in a culture that assumes heterosexuality. Even more than that, I hate when people try to justify the assumption of heterosexuality by saying that the vast majority of the population is heterosexual. First off, majority rule should never be used to effectively erase the minority's existence from public discourse or recognition. That's just a fact. But secondly, and more throw-off-your-understanding-of-how-the-world-works-y, that argument ignores the fact that living in a culture that assumes heterosexuality socially encourages people to assume heterosexuality on a personal level too.
Members of the LGBTQ community often respond to others' questioning about their sexuality with denial; I know I did. I honestly don't know how my friend CC even dealt with me, unless she recognized my denial/rejection as the early stages of self-acceptance; I remember having an incredibly problematic conversation with her sometime at the beginning of my sophomore year about how I'd be uncomfortable living with a lesbian (a disgusting blanket statement I no longer endorse in nearly any form, the one remaining form being living with a lesbian who was interested in me but whom I was not interested in, because that would just be awkward). I remember junior year being at a party and her flat out asking me, in front of KS, whether I was bi-curious. I brushed it off, but she could tell I was bluffing.
The ONLY reason we ever feel we have to bluff about our sexualities, sexual practices, and sexual orientations, is because we live in this society that drills into our heads from the earliest days that sex (and thus romantic interest and flirting and love) is something that happens between a man and a woman (insert whatever variations you were raised with regarding constructs like love and marriage here). In all seriousness, I ask you, what is the difference between best-friend-ship and "interest" when you're seven? Little kids know that they like being around certain other little kids, and I'm convinced that we'd have a lot of people who are both more versed in and comfortable with their sexualities if we didn't put a million constraints around that liking from Day One.
Even the most idiotic advise we give to children about dating and relationships and flirting is gendered. I swear, I want to brand anyone who tells a little girl that some little boy is hitting/pinching/pushing/being mean to her "because he likes her" as unfit to be around children. You're actually just priming that child to accept physical and emotional abuse from men for the rest of her life, you asshole. But think about it--when boys fight with each other or bully each other, no one says it's because one of them caught feelings for the other. There is no idiotic insertion of romance in a spat between little girls. There is also no--perhaps fully warranted--insertion of romance into two little girls holding hands while they walk down the street. We raise our children to understand the same actions--the holding of a hand, the giving of a smile, etc.--as insignificant when between persons of the same gender, and as potentially meaning "EVERYTHING" when between persons of different genders. Yes, love and lust and romanticisim are contextual. I'll give you that. But our society demands that children be grounded in one particular context while regarding all others as deviant--if they recognize them at all.
I don't think I knew that romance and love and sex could exist between people of the same gender until I was in middle school. THAT is an act of erasure, no matter how you want to frame it, and it's not fair to anyone. Even if a child is going to grow up to only be romantically interested in persons of the so-called "opposite" gender--which is absolutely 100% perfectly fine--they should understand that interest as it exists along the spectrum of possible interests, not as the way interest works.
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
We've come a long way.
I don't have a
wealth of memories of my ex-stepfather that could be construed as
positive, but one of those few happened in the toy section of a
department store. It wasn't one of the stores we regularly shopped at,
and it wasn't a toy store...if I remember correctly, it was my cousin's
birthday the next day, and we were wherever we were trying to find a
cheap-ish gift to bring to her birthday party. There weren't very many
Black dolls at the store, and while they were choosing between a few
dolls, I pointed at another to ask why she wasn't being brought into
consideration.
This doll was a fabric doll, rather than one made of plastic. She had a very wide, very round face, with a pretty flat head. Her nose was puggish and also quite wide. Her hair was some knotty short thing that, to the best of my current understanding, was meant to represent what happens when you let your fro try to form locs naturally. She was wearing some kind of dowdy dress. In short, she was just not cute. But I was an inquisitive child like I am an inquisitive adult, and thus I asked, "What about this one?"
My ex-stepfather stopped the conversation he was having with my mother. He looked from me to the doll and back again, and in a rare moment of actual parenting, decided to use this as a teaching moment rather than an excuse to beat my ass. He asked my mother if she had a mirror in her purse. She produced one, and he told me to look at myself. I did. He then said to look at the doll. I did.
"Does that doll look anything like you?" he asked.
I hesitated. "...Not really?"
"No. It doesn't look anything like you. But that's what They think you look like, and it's what They want you to think you look like. So no, we're not buying that doll."
I didn't really know who They were at the time, but I had the distinct understanding that They were bad people and I wanted nothing to do with Them, and that maybe They didn't like me (or my cousin) very much. We bought a different doll and went on home.
I thought about that day when Mattel announced it was introducing new dolls in the Barbie line, who were varying shades of Black and had ethnic features, hair, and names. I bought one for my young cousin, to give her the cultural representations we struggled to find when I was her age. I thought about that day again last night, when I stumbled across this image on one of the blogs I read:
My first thought was, 'Now there's a doll that looks like me.'
Seriously, that's my hair on a good day sitting on her head right now.
[There's this new trend amongst naturalistas to give their daughters'
straight-haired dolls straw sets with pipe cleaners and hot water to
induce the natural look, which is sooo creative and innovative and
awesome, and I applaud it, but hers comes like this!] Her nose and lips
are just slightly fuller than your average doll, and she comes with the
outfit seen above and a more vibrant yellow top and red sarong. I think
dollmakers are really starting to understand the versatility of the
African diasporic experience and have started to produce representations
that highlight the beauty and just accurately reflect those
experiences.
It just might be exciting when people I know start having kids and I won't have to fret about what buying a certain doll might make a certain little girl I care about think about herself.
This doll was a fabric doll, rather than one made of plastic. She had a very wide, very round face, with a pretty flat head. Her nose was puggish and also quite wide. Her hair was some knotty short thing that, to the best of my current understanding, was meant to represent what happens when you let your fro try to form locs naturally. She was wearing some kind of dowdy dress. In short, she was just not cute. But I was an inquisitive child like I am an inquisitive adult, and thus I asked, "What about this one?"
My ex-stepfather stopped the conversation he was having with my mother. He looked from me to the doll and back again, and in a rare moment of actual parenting, decided to use this as a teaching moment rather than an excuse to beat my ass. He asked my mother if she had a mirror in her purse. She produced one, and he told me to look at myself. I did. He then said to look at the doll. I did.
"Does that doll look anything like you?" he asked.
I hesitated. "...Not really?"
"No. It doesn't look anything like you. But that's what They think you look like, and it's what They want you to think you look like. So no, we're not buying that doll."
I didn't really know who They were at the time, but I had the distinct understanding that They were bad people and I wanted nothing to do with Them, and that maybe They didn't like me (or my cousin) very much. We bought a different doll and went on home.
I thought about that day when Mattel announced it was introducing new dolls in the Barbie line, who were varying shades of Black and had ethnic features, hair, and names. I bought one for my young cousin, to give her the cultural representations we struggled to find when I was her age. I thought about that day again last night, when I stumbled across this image on one of the blogs I read:
 |
| Meet Hearts for Hearts Girls' newest addition: Rahel from Ethiopia |
It just might be exciting when people I know start having kids and I won't have to fret about what buying a certain doll might make a certain little girl I care about think about herself.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Few things have ever made me feel like a "bad" child.
Selfish, yeah sometimes. Occasionally even ungrateful. Stubborn. I told little lies from tiem to time. But there is generally an understanding within my household that I am "the good child." 95% of the time, I was a straight-A student. Doing my homework was always top priority, even if my friends and I would get distracted as we struggled through calculus together on the phone. I maintained a job during the school year and bought my own school clothes, supplies, lunch, etc. and paid for all my own fun. I didn't even kiss a boy until I was 18, and waited until the unheard of age of 21 to let go of my virginity. [I don't like the phrase "lose;" it was a conscious decision.] My friends used to tease me about how innocent I was, and were shocked that I never talked back to my mother and was concerned about being dishonest. I was a good kid.
The only time I've ever really felt "bad" was during the two months I snuck around with my first boyfriend, whom my entire family disapproved of (for very good reason--I myself disapprove of him in retrospect). It's probably slightly problematic that he was my first experience with physical/sexual pleasure at hands that were not my own, so being bad was (temporarily?) conflated with feeling oh so incredibly good. I intentionally misled my mother about where I was to engage in actions she would not have approved of in any manner, but dammit I was 18, had just graduated high school, my whole life was changing, and it was nice to rebel a little!
I'm getting off topic here. Basically, the point here is that I have always thought I was a good kid.
And then I found out yesterday that a very close friend of mine didn't start to masturbate until high school. And I was FLOORED. And I know you all of the internet are going to think I'm joking, but this person would not front with me about this. We don't play that. This person even told me hir [haha third-gender pronoun; I'm not giving away any hints] best friend doesn't know this. Part of hir explanation was having been "such a good child." And I was still like Sebastian in The Little Mermaid with his jaw on the ground.
Because I'm almost positive I started to experiment with self-pleasure around the age of 8. I might have been 9, but I'm positive it was in the house that we lived in when I was in 2nd and 3rd grade, which means first half of being 9 at the absolute oldest. When my cousin and I played Barbies, our Barbies had sex. I discovered porn accidentally in the 6th grade, with that same cousin, but we were both intrigued rather than disgusted, and made a ritual out of sneaking down to the living room to see what was on HBO and Cinemax late at night when she slept over.
Does having a sexual appetite (and having had one from an early age) make me a "bad" child? I know that there are some people, even some people I'm very good friends with, who have never masturbated, either for religious reasons or because our patriarchal misogynistic society has socialized them into believing that women are not sexual beings and that our bodies are disgusting and should not be touched/probed unnecessarily. I am sad for these people. I am also sad for my friend. But maybe I should be sad for me?
[On second thought, fuck that. Who equated "sheltered" with "good," and why do they deserve my time/attention? I turned out just fine, if I do say so myself.]
The only time I've ever really felt "bad" was during the two months I snuck around with my first boyfriend, whom my entire family disapproved of (for very good reason--I myself disapprove of him in retrospect). It's probably slightly problematic that he was my first experience with physical/sexual pleasure at hands that were not my own, so being bad was (temporarily?) conflated with feeling oh so incredibly good. I intentionally misled my mother about where I was to engage in actions she would not have approved of in any manner, but dammit I was 18, had just graduated high school, my whole life was changing, and it was nice to rebel a little!
I'm getting off topic here. Basically, the point here is that I have always thought I was a good kid.
And then I found out yesterday that a very close friend of mine didn't start to masturbate until high school. And I was FLOORED. And I know you all of the internet are going to think I'm joking, but this person would not front with me about this. We don't play that. This person even told me hir [haha third-gender pronoun; I'm not giving away any hints] best friend doesn't know this. Part of hir explanation was having been "such a good child." And I was still like Sebastian in The Little Mermaid with his jaw on the ground.
Because I'm almost positive I started to experiment with self-pleasure around the age of 8. I might have been 9, but I'm positive it was in the house that we lived in when I was in 2nd and 3rd grade, which means first half of being 9 at the absolute oldest. When my cousin and I played Barbies, our Barbies had sex. I discovered porn accidentally in the 6th grade, with that same cousin, but we were both intrigued rather than disgusted, and made a ritual out of sneaking down to the living room to see what was on HBO and Cinemax late at night when she slept over.
Does having a sexual appetite (and having had one from an early age) make me a "bad" child? I know that there are some people, even some people I'm very good friends with, who have never masturbated, either for religious reasons or because our patriarchal misogynistic society has socialized them into believing that women are not sexual beings and that our bodies are disgusting and should not be touched/probed unnecessarily. I am sad for these people. I am also sad for my friend. But maybe I should be sad for me?
[On second thought, fuck that. Who equated "sheltered" with "good," and why do they deserve my time/attention? I turned out just fine, if I do say so myself.]
Friday, September 2, 2011
"The jig is up," my mother said.
"This time next year you'll be off starting your own life hopefully somewhere far away, and that means that it's time for you to start getting rid of your junk. All the stuff in you and your sister's room, in the basement--go through it, figure out what you want to keep, what's trash, what can go to Goodwill."
Translation: you don't live here anymore.
I've been saying that to myself for a while now, jokingly calling myself a houseguest when I go home, but evidently the time to make that a legitimate reality is fast approaching. My mother wants me to move out of her house.
I think this is the single most intimidating thing anyone has ever said to me. Nothing really says you're not a kid anymore like your mom wants her closet space back.
I'm claiming the GRE as an excuse to not start this project until the next time I'm home on break, but I'm already freaking out a little. I'm sure this is going to be a huge emotional rollercoaster, as I will literally be digging through the remains of my childhood and seeing most of it go out the door.
The clothes I don't wear anymore: First, I will let my sister rifle through them. We're basically the same size and she kind of considers anything I leave in the room while I'm at school to be her property anyway. My less over-the-top semi-formal/formal dresses that still fit, I will probably keep in hopes that owning such dresses will inspire me to have a life that involves cocktail parties, fancy dates, and ridiculous birthday outings. I've been meaning to sell the others on ebay for a while now. I have a very large collection of heels, most of which still fit, but are in varying degrees of wear. I will see which of these seem most like they need to be part of my adult life, and the rest will go in the Goodwill bags.
That may be the only clearly definable category. Other random stuff I'm expecting to find: old CDs that I might try to sell at the Princeton Record Exchange for a few bucks, a ridiculous number of books that I should mail in small amounts to my friend Krystal who is teaching English in Alabama somewhere and has an absolute dearth of material for her 7th graders, nick-knacks and souvenirs from places I went on school trips in elementary school, remnants from my Magick phase, old photographs, gifts given to me by friends I barely speak to anymore. A memory box to which I've lost the key. Broken jewelry and earrings that are missing their other halves.
What from that cornucopia of miscellany deserves salvaging? Is any of it worth bringing with me as I move forward into the rest of my life? If the remnants of the first 18 years of my life can be divided into trash bags and trash-bags-that-are-going-to-Goodwill, with the exception of two teddy bears, a couple of decorative pillows, and maybe a few pairs of shoes...where has the important stuff from my life gone? I know my mom isn't wrong when she calls it all "junk," but...it's the junk that made me. But when the junk that made you no longer defines you, you have to let it go, right?
The stuff that's in my dorm (okay, well right now is in various closets in my house waiting to go back to my dorm) is way more relevant to my last-year-of-undergrad self than anything in my bedroom is. That's scary, but it's the truth. I've grown up. It's time for that which I lay claim to to grow up too.
Translation: you don't live here anymore.
I've been saying that to myself for a while now, jokingly calling myself a houseguest when I go home, but evidently the time to make that a legitimate reality is fast approaching. My mother wants me to move out of her house.
I think this is the single most intimidating thing anyone has ever said to me. Nothing really says you're not a kid anymore like your mom wants her closet space back.
I'm claiming the GRE as an excuse to not start this project until the next time I'm home on break, but I'm already freaking out a little. I'm sure this is going to be a huge emotional rollercoaster, as I will literally be digging through the remains of my childhood and seeing most of it go out the door.
The clothes I don't wear anymore: First, I will let my sister rifle through them. We're basically the same size and she kind of considers anything I leave in the room while I'm at school to be her property anyway. My less over-the-top semi-formal/formal dresses that still fit, I will probably keep in hopes that owning such dresses will inspire me to have a life that involves cocktail parties, fancy dates, and ridiculous birthday outings. I've been meaning to sell the others on ebay for a while now. I have a very large collection of heels, most of which still fit, but are in varying degrees of wear. I will see which of these seem most like they need to be part of my adult life, and the rest will go in the Goodwill bags.
That may be the only clearly definable category. Other random stuff I'm expecting to find: old CDs that I might try to sell at the Princeton Record Exchange for a few bucks, a ridiculous number of books that I should mail in small amounts to my friend Krystal who is teaching English in Alabama somewhere and has an absolute dearth of material for her 7th graders, nick-knacks and souvenirs from places I went on school trips in elementary school, remnants from my Magick phase, old photographs, gifts given to me by friends I barely speak to anymore. A memory box to which I've lost the key. Broken jewelry and earrings that are missing their other halves.
What from that cornucopia of miscellany deserves salvaging? Is any of it worth bringing with me as I move forward into the rest of my life? If the remnants of the first 18 years of my life can be divided into trash bags and trash-bags-that-are-going-to-Goodwill, with the exception of two teddy bears, a couple of decorative pillows, and maybe a few pairs of shoes...where has the important stuff from my life gone? I know my mom isn't wrong when she calls it all "junk," but...it's the junk that made me. But when the junk that made you no longer defines you, you have to let it go, right?
The stuff that's in my dorm (okay, well right now is in various closets in my house waiting to go back to my dorm) is way more relevant to my last-year-of-undergrad self than anything in my bedroom is. That's scary, but it's the truth. I've grown up. It's time for that which I lay claim to to grow up too.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
A small bit of nostalgia:
I watched Larry Crowne on Sunday night, and I really liked it. I'd figured it was the kind of movie I would enjoy from the moment I saw the first preview. It reminded me a lot of the kind of movies my dad and I used to watch together--dramas, peeks into people's lives, stories that were only extraordinary in the fact that they were on the silver screen. This is his favorite genre, and by default of the fact that he's a huge movie buff and I was an impressionable child, it became mine as well. The entire time I was watching this movie, part of me wanted to be watching it with him. We used to see everything Julia Roberts made (Denzel too). This, in turn, reminded me of the years in high school where every single movie I saw in theaters, I saw with S. This, in turn, made me wonder if I will ever have a period of my life like this again, where my movie-partner is so comfortably predictable.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
OH. MY. GOD.
This could either be wonderful or terrible. Either way I CAN HARDLY CONTAIN MY EXCITEMENT!!!!
THE 90S WILL NEVER DIE. NEVERRRRRR.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Through Distance and Time...
When I told two of my co-workers that my best friend from middle school was coming to spend the weekend with me in New Brunswick, they were shocked that I still TALKED to such people, let alone arrange visits. I told them that we had never really lost touch, despite the fact that she moved away when we I was thirteen (she was still twelve. baby.) and we'd never lived in the same state since. Even as I was explaining this, I realized how downright weird it was. I don't talk to the overwhelming majority of even the people I graduated high school with--only about two on a semi-daily basis. There are more I'll have occasional catch-up convos with or hang out with while we're both home, but on the whole most of my once-best-friends and I have grown apart. 'Tis unfortunate, but that's life, man...and we can still hang out from time to time, so it's not the worst thing in the world.
But SP...it's different with her. She was whisked away out of my life before we had cell phones and regular internet access...we actually mailed letters back and forth for years. We tried to have hours-long conversations but 8 people live in her house, so tying up the landline for that long was nearly impossible. She didn't give up on me even when it looked like our trio could never reunite because T and I weren't speaking. Going to visit her the summer after our freshman year of high school was my first independent non-familial adventure. Enter facebook: she's someone I actually have regular communication with, not just a random status-like or whatnot. Through elaborate schemes of lying to our parents, she was with me the first time I ever got drunk, and when I found out that Greg and my mom broke up. And now she was here with me again this weekend. We combined childhood--water gun battles, swings, and sidewalk chalk--with grown up games--drinking Jenga, Dirty Minds, Uno with the added rules that you have to drink every time you draw a card--and like every other time, it was like no time had passed at all.
We're such different people from such different backgrounds. It would have been ridiculously easy for this friendship to fizzle out. But it never has, and it never will. We've been friends through the miles for wayyyy longer than we were ever close while we lived in the same town. And we're luckily not one of those multiperson friendships that can only function with the whole group; our trio has awesome reunions, yes, but SP and I and SP and T can each have separate awesome hang out sessions too. And the best part is, it has never felt like it has taken a lot of effort or like we're fighting against a world that tries to pull us apart...we don't get to see each other as much as we'd like, and we don't always talk super-regularly, but something right found us in the hallways of William Davies Middle School and we're never going to let it go.
You never know who's going to come into your life. You never know how they're going to change you by doing so. You never know if the person you rely on today will still be around the next time you need a shoulder to lean on. You can bulldoze your walls and let people in. You can share and trust and love all without quite knowing if the person you're sharing with and trusting and loving is giving as much to you as you are to them. Relationships of all kinds have as much power to hurt as they have to heal, and you never quite know which will do which to a larger extent. What I'm saying here is the strength of this friendship never ceases to surprise me. May you all have such ride-or-die chicks.
But SP...it's different with her. She was whisked away out of my life before we had cell phones and regular internet access...we actually mailed letters back and forth for years. We tried to have hours-long conversations but 8 people live in her house, so tying up the landline for that long was nearly impossible. She didn't give up on me even when it looked like our trio could never reunite because T and I weren't speaking. Going to visit her the summer after our freshman year of high school was my first independent non-familial adventure. Enter facebook: she's someone I actually have regular communication with, not just a random status-like or whatnot. Through elaborate schemes of lying to our parents, she was with me the first time I ever got drunk, and when I found out that Greg and my mom broke up. And now she was here with me again this weekend. We combined childhood--water gun battles, swings, and sidewalk chalk--with grown up games--drinking Jenga, Dirty Minds, Uno with the added rules that you have to drink every time you draw a card--and like every other time, it was like no time had passed at all.
We're such different people from such different backgrounds. It would have been ridiculously easy for this friendship to fizzle out. But it never has, and it never will. We've been friends through the miles for wayyyy longer than we were ever close while we lived in the same town. And we're luckily not one of those multiperson friendships that can only function with the whole group; our trio has awesome reunions, yes, but SP and I and SP and T can each have separate awesome hang out sessions too. And the best part is, it has never felt like it has taken a lot of effort or like we're fighting against a world that tries to pull us apart...we don't get to see each other as much as we'd like, and we don't always talk super-regularly, but something right found us in the hallways of William Davies Middle School and we're never going to let it go.
You never know who's going to come into your life. You never know how they're going to change you by doing so. You never know if the person you rely on today will still be around the next time you need a shoulder to lean on. You can bulldoze your walls and let people in. You can share and trust and love all without quite knowing if the person you're sharing with and trusting and loving is giving as much to you as you are to them. Relationships of all kinds have as much power to hurt as they have to heal, and you never quite know which will do which to a larger extent. What I'm saying here is the strength of this friendship never ceases to surprise me. May you all have such ride-or-die chicks.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
2nd 30 Day Letter Challenge--Day 24: Letter to Your Favorite Character from a Childhood Cartoon
Dear Chuckie Finster,
You were such a little nerd baby, with your chunky glasses and wild unruly ginger hair. As much as I wanted to identify with brave adventurer/explorer Tommy, I was always hiding behind my hands every time you were. You made me feel like being a little worrywart child was okay. And you hated clowns as much as I do. You were really close to your daddy, just like me, and you had asthma too. You were always getting into trouble for things that weren't your fault, just like me. I wanted to punch Angelica in the face on your behalf multiple times. I remember being kind of jealous when you got a sister. I was glad you weren't going to be lonely anymore, because I'd always thought you were kind of a lonely melancholy child like me, but somebody else got to spend all her time with you. All in all, even though you were always two as I got older and older, I always wanted to be your friend.
In fact, I've come to realize that my imaginary friend when I was 7 was based largely on you. His name was Melvin. He had orange hair and wore a purple shirt and dark green pants. He was older than me, maybe 12 or so, and he wasn't a wild adventurer either, but he looked out for me just like you looked out for Tommy and the twins.
Further confessions: I was even a little jealous of Samantha in All Grown Up! You hadn't changed at all and being my age-ish finally, I still thought you were absolutely adorable...but now in the if you were a real person I just might eat you up kind of way.
;),
Maya
You were such a little nerd baby, with your chunky glasses and wild unruly ginger hair. As much as I wanted to identify with brave adventurer/explorer Tommy, I was always hiding behind my hands every time you were. You made me feel like being a little worrywart child was okay. And you hated clowns as much as I do. You were really close to your daddy, just like me, and you had asthma too. You were always getting into trouble for things that weren't your fault, just like me. I wanted to punch Angelica in the face on your behalf multiple times. I remember being kind of jealous when you got a sister. I was glad you weren't going to be lonely anymore, because I'd always thought you were kind of a lonely melancholy child like me, but somebody else got to spend all her time with you. All in all, even though you were always two as I got older and older, I always wanted to be your friend.
In fact, I've come to realize that my imaginary friend when I was 7 was based largely on you. His name was Melvin. He had orange hair and wore a purple shirt and dark green pants. He was older than me, maybe 12 or so, and he wasn't a wild adventurer either, but he looked out for me just like you looked out for Tommy and the twins.
Further confessions: I was even a little jealous of Samantha in All Grown Up! You hadn't changed at all and being my age-ish finally, I still thought you were absolutely adorable...but now in the if you were a real person I just might eat you up kind of way.
;),
Maya
Monday, June 13, 2011
2nd (Annual?) 30 Day Letter Challenge! Day One: Letter to a Dinosaur
So my best friend (whose blog can be found here) and I had so much fun with the 30 Day Letter Challenge we did last year that we decided to create our own and do it again this year! We had to get pretty creative for some of the days, since we did all the normal things last time around. Example A:
Dear Sue,
I have to admit, you're a pretty cool greeter at the Natural History Museum in Chicago. When I first walked in, I felt like I had stepped onto the set of Night at the Museum and half expected you to start wagging your tail. Then I got closer to the point where I was standing right up against the metal bars surrounding you, looking up in awe as you towered over me. In that instant, I remembered what it felt like being seven years old and fascinated by dinosaurs. I remembered my collection of figurines and the stuffed stegosaurus I got for Christmas that year that I slept with every night. It was like running into an old friend you haven't seen in a long time--you're suddenly transported back to an earlier time when you were a different person with different hopes and dreams and wants and needs. I was in awe again of the pure majesty you must have had in your day, Sue. And I was a little sad, because it's kind of a shame that you were once a bad-ass bitch at the top of the food chain, in total control, and now you're just an attraction for tourists like me to come take pictures of. But maybe that's not so sad, maybe it's just a testament to how awesome you, in fact, are: true greatness is permanent; even your bones are worthy of display and deserve respect. Hmm. I like that.
Admiringly,
Maya
Dear Sue,
I have to admit, you're a pretty cool greeter at the Natural History Museum in Chicago. When I first walked in, I felt like I had stepped onto the set of Night at the Museum and half expected you to start wagging your tail. Then I got closer to the point where I was standing right up against the metal bars surrounding you, looking up in awe as you towered over me. In that instant, I remembered what it felt like being seven years old and fascinated by dinosaurs. I remembered my collection of figurines and the stuffed stegosaurus I got for Christmas that year that I slept with every night. It was like running into an old friend you haven't seen in a long time--you're suddenly transported back to an earlier time when you were a different person with different hopes and dreams and wants and needs. I was in awe again of the pure majesty you must have had in your day, Sue. And I was a little sad, because it's kind of a shame that you were once a bad-ass bitch at the top of the food chain, in total control, and now you're just an attraction for tourists like me to come take pictures of. But maybe that's not so sad, maybe it's just a testament to how awesome you, in fact, are: true greatness is permanent; even your bones are worthy of display and deserve respect. Hmm. I like that.
Admiringly,
Maya
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
My life is such a strange mixture of childhood and adulthood.
I suppose I should expect that, based on everything I learned doing my independent work this year, but the degree to which my lived experiences mirror/exceed what I found in my research still strikes me.
I guess part of this feeling stems from being back home for these past two weeks. It's so easy to feel like no time at all has passed as I slip back into familiar roles with my mom, my brother and sister, my friends from high school, my town as a concept. It's so easy to do all the familiar comfortable old things again: friends' houses that haven't changed in recent memory, the same old mall, the same old bowling alley, the same pink house we park next to when we go to the beach. Home is...comfortable, like a favorite sweatshirt, but also makes me feel as though I haven't aged.
Except now I can drink...legally. Which means I get to see my hometown/the surrounding area in one new light: that of the local bar scene. I can find out today that I got an A on my JP (!!!) and then hit up happy hour at Applebee's with my bestie for drinks and not get carded and simply enjoy life. I can enjoy an amaretto sour from the bar at the bowling alley I've been going to since I was so little I had to squat and push the ball on the floor with both hands to get it down the lane.
And that's not the only thing that reminds me I'm an adult. I sent my landlord (!) the check for my first month's rent (!) at the place in New Brunswick I'm subletting yesterday. I'm embarking on the process of buying a netbook to replace my computer that got stolen. I'm a real person, I promise.
And yet I bought sidewalk chalk and a water gun from Five Below this week. When I went to fill out my I-9 because I have a job on campus this summer, the woman at the Financial Aid office didn't know how to fill out the form because I'd brought a non-driver ID instead of a license, because I don't have one. Sure I'm moving out to live in a house on my own for the first time (even temporarily), but my mom is still driving me and all my shit.
I just feel so in-between in so many ways. But I've learned that that's how I'm SUPPOSED to feel right now, that that's what your twenties are for, so I guess I'm on the right track. This growing up thing is so hard.
I guess part of this feeling stems from being back home for these past two weeks. It's so easy to feel like no time at all has passed as I slip back into familiar roles with my mom, my brother and sister, my friends from high school, my town as a concept. It's so easy to do all the familiar comfortable old things again: friends' houses that haven't changed in recent memory, the same old mall, the same old bowling alley, the same pink house we park next to when we go to the beach. Home is...comfortable, like a favorite sweatshirt, but also makes me feel as though I haven't aged.
Except now I can drink...legally. Which means I get to see my hometown/the surrounding area in one new light: that of the local bar scene. I can find out today that I got an A on my JP (!!!) and then hit up happy hour at Applebee's with my bestie for drinks and not get carded and simply enjoy life. I can enjoy an amaretto sour from the bar at the bowling alley I've been going to since I was so little I had to squat and push the ball on the floor with both hands to get it down the lane.
And that's not the only thing that reminds me I'm an adult. I sent my landlord (!) the check for my first month's rent (!) at the place in New Brunswick I'm subletting yesterday. I'm embarking on the process of buying a netbook to replace my computer that got stolen. I'm a real person, I promise.
And yet I bought sidewalk chalk and a water gun from Five Below this week. When I went to fill out my I-9 because I have a job on campus this summer, the woman at the Financial Aid office didn't know how to fill out the form because I'd brought a non-driver ID instead of a license, because I don't have one. Sure I'm moving out to live in a house on my own for the first time (even temporarily), but my mom is still driving me and all my shit.
I just feel so in-between in so many ways. But I've learned that that's how I'm SUPPOSED to feel right now, that that's what your twenties are for, so I guess I'm on the right track. This growing up thing is so hard.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
The Meaning of Christmas...
GAH, MY FACEBOOK NEWS FEED HAS TURNED INTO SOME RELIGIOUS WEBPAGE WITH SHOUTOUTS TO JESUS, AND CALLS TO REMEMBER THAT HE'S THE REASON FOR THE SEASON. *runs for cover*
Just so you know, this is not another religion-bashing post. This is, after all, their holiday. But as someone who didn't realize that Christ had anything to do with Christmas til late childhood, I'm endeavoring to understand what exactly Christmas is supposed to mean to me. I love that the Wikipedia page for Christmas recognizes the secular aspects of the holiday early on; I feel...validated in my understanding of Christmas as an American cultural holiday, as opposed to as a Christian religious one.
I've talked about Christmas a lot already, because this Christmas is...different for my family this year. To make a long story short, times are tough for everyone involved--myself definitely included--and thus things are being kept...simple. And I've been kind of down in the dumps about it. But on the phone tonight, my friend M a) inadvertently reminded me how good a friend she is and how much I miss her, and b) told me that it takes a Christmas like this to appreciate all the other Christmases. And she's right. It's a Christmas like this, apart from the small children and the cookies for Santa and the tree and the anticipation that makes me sit back and think about what Christmas really means.
Christmas means taking at least a few days off from the rest of life. Christmas means being with my family, even if not everyone is thrilled about this. Christmas means doing everything within your means to get your loved ones in the Christmas spirit, meaning the spirit of love and peace and joy and giving. Christmas means love, the kind of love that, while it may lie peacefully dormant for most of the year, shows itself flamboyantly in bouts of colorful joy every once in a while, and gives of itself even knowing it can expect nothing in return. Christmas means creating your own traditions to supplement the ones your childhood gave birth to. Christmas is being in the arms of someone who loves you, and resting your head on your mom's shoulder, mixed in with a hint of how it feels to be picked up for the first time in years. Christmas is the familiarity of your Grandmother's kitchen combined with the thrill of a young Denzel and a pre-crack Whitney in The Preacher's Wife and the slightest of desires to jingle when you walk. Christmas is always wanting to believe Santa is real, no matter how old you get; it's hating snow but wishing for it anyway. Christmas is warm and somewhat fuzzy and somehow magical. Christmas is love.
Just so you know, this is not another religion-bashing post. This is, after all, their holiday. But as someone who didn't realize that Christ had anything to do with Christmas til late childhood, I'm endeavoring to understand what exactly Christmas is supposed to mean to me. I love that the Wikipedia page for Christmas recognizes the secular aspects of the holiday early on; I feel...validated in my understanding of Christmas as an American cultural holiday, as opposed to as a Christian religious one.
I've talked about Christmas a lot already, because this Christmas is...different for my family this year. To make a long story short, times are tough for everyone involved--myself definitely included--and thus things are being kept...simple. And I've been kind of down in the dumps about it. But on the phone tonight, my friend M a) inadvertently reminded me how good a friend she is and how much I miss her, and b) told me that it takes a Christmas like this to appreciate all the other Christmases. And she's right. It's a Christmas like this, apart from the small children and the cookies for Santa and the tree and the anticipation that makes me sit back and think about what Christmas really means.
Christmas means taking at least a few days off from the rest of life. Christmas means being with my family, even if not everyone is thrilled about this. Christmas means doing everything within your means to get your loved ones in the Christmas spirit, meaning the spirit of love and peace and joy and giving. Christmas means love, the kind of love that, while it may lie peacefully dormant for most of the year, shows itself flamboyantly in bouts of colorful joy every once in a while, and gives of itself even knowing it can expect nothing in return. Christmas means creating your own traditions to supplement the ones your childhood gave birth to. Christmas is being in the arms of someone who loves you, and resting your head on your mom's shoulder, mixed in with a hint of how it feels to be picked up for the first time in years. Christmas is the familiarity of your Grandmother's kitchen combined with the thrill of a young Denzel and a pre-crack Whitney in The Preacher's Wife and the slightest of desires to jingle when you walk. Christmas is always wanting to believe Santa is real, no matter how old you get; it's hating snow but wishing for it anyway. Christmas is warm and somewhat fuzzy and somehow magical. Christmas is love.
Monday, July 26, 2010
30 Day Letter Challenge--Day Nine: Someone You Wish You Could Meet
Dear Maya Angelou,
I promise I don't just want to meet you because I was named after you. That's a big part of what got me interested in you as a child, but over the years I've become incredibly drawn and attached to your work. As cheesy and stalker-ish as this sounds, I feel like we're connected somehow. Being someone's namesake should be some sort of cosmic connection, right? When I'm going through a dark time, I turn to India.Arie when I want music, and I turn to you when I want poetry. Sometimes the woman I imagine the speaker of your poems to be is myself, reminding me of my glory. Sometimes she's the self I imagine I will one day be, telling me that I'll get through this to a brighter day. Sometimes she's my mother or my grandmother or a woman from the topmost branches of my family tree, telling me that she has been there too. Your words, they comfort me, and inspire me to reach higher and walk taller. You remind me why I do all that I do.
Sometimes I ask myself if I poet because of you. I haven't been able to come up with an answer to that question yet, but it goes without question that you were enough of an influence on my childhood that some part of my interest in wordsmith-ship must have been inspired by your work.
Thank you,
Maya
I promise I don't just want to meet you because I was named after you. That's a big part of what got me interested in you as a child, but over the years I've become incredibly drawn and attached to your work. As cheesy and stalker-ish as this sounds, I feel like we're connected somehow. Being someone's namesake should be some sort of cosmic connection, right? When I'm going through a dark time, I turn to India.Arie when I want music, and I turn to you when I want poetry. Sometimes the woman I imagine the speaker of your poems to be is myself, reminding me of my glory. Sometimes she's the self I imagine I will one day be, telling me that I'll get through this to a brighter day. Sometimes she's my mother or my grandmother or a woman from the topmost branches of my family tree, telling me that she has been there too. Your words, they comfort me, and inspire me to reach higher and walk taller. You remind me why I do all that I do.
Sometimes I ask myself if I poet because of you. I haven't been able to come up with an answer to that question yet, but it goes without question that you were enough of an influence on my childhood that some part of my interest in wordsmith-ship must have been inspired by your work.
One of the memories my father always smiles back on is of a day we were in the Pleasantville public library. If we were in Pleasantville, I was in the fourth grade. I was checking out a biography of you, and most likely a volume or two of your work, along with whatever else I was currently reading, and the librarian who was helping me asked if I was doing a school project. I must have given her a strange look, because she elaborated, "You're checking out all these books on Maya Angelou." I cocked my head to the side and said, "No, I just like her," and grabbed my books and walked out. My dad says she stared at us until we pulled out of the parking lot, and he likes to reminisce about this as being one of the things that marked me as "different."It's one of my absolute greatest dreams in life that you will come to Princeton before I graduate. I will quite literally kick, bite, and claw my way to a ticket to see you. Going back to cheesy and stalker-ish, it would genuinely be an honor to be graced with your very presence.
Thank you,
Maya
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