I think a lot about boxes. Cardboard societal conventions or things people stuff you in under their bed. I write a lot about boxes. Searing acid burns against the flesh of identity, cattle prods. But I've said before, boxes aren't real, someone made them up. There is, however, one box I believe in. There is a box that was made with no semblance of uniformity, a box that might sparkle when you hold it at just the right angle of light, a box that might be full of sugar, a box that might be full of hate. There is a box that we all have, or were at least given, maybe some of us do our best to never use it or fill it or take it out of its carefully guarded closet.
My box is pink and sage and covered in flowers and cut up magazines and glitter and misplaced clothes and jewelry and earring backs and books and half filled diaries and letters. It's somewhere, underneath a pile of blonde hair and reasons why I don't want you to locate the box. You see, if someone found my box, they might use it to store their own things inside of, which would be fine, I can share. But sometimes when someone begins to use your space as their own, all of the things that belong in their own special box begin to suffocate the things that are uniquely yours in your uniquely you box.
Your special box is your special place, to put inside of what you cherish most. That is why I have always hidden my box; who knows what someone could do if they got their hands on all of the things that mean the most to you? There are a lot of times in our lives when the best move seems like it is to shut the box, to lock it, and to only bring it back out when the sun is shining and the monsters have all been reduced to ash in its light.
I used to put bad things that didn't belong to me inside of my box, insecurities, jealousies, fears, anxieties, and scars. I thought that the good things in my box could smother these foreign contents with love, I thought that if I loved the adopted contents enough that they would change into new things, I hoped my box would overflow with love. Instead, the bad things started to eat away at the good things in my box. I felt myself becoming insecure, scared, angry, jealous, and empty. I had to clean out my box, sew it back together in the parts that had become worn, scrub off the corners that had collected mold and dust. I lined it with soft things, I filled it with new flowers, different kinds, poured water on the floor and splashed my feet in it. My box had lost things that I thought were important, but I realized my box was just so used to being strangled that it had forgotten how well it could breathe without help.
I put my box on a shelf. I still carried it with me everywhere, but it was mine. If someone else wanted to share my box with me, they'd have to be gentle and good at climbing. I didn't believe in people that knew how to properly handle my box.
Then, my box got knocked off its shelf, in a clumsy, silly way. It came toppling off the shelf and you caught it on the way down, keeping all of the contents intact. We poured candy and lots and lots and lots of coffee into my box. We laughed a lot, so we put some of that in mine and some in yours. There were nights we couldn't remember clearly but we still put them in, just in case. There were little fights and a big fight and a million blonde hairs and poems, we put them all in. We put our debates and our movies and our successes and our failures into the boxes, all of them into both. I put words that you said casually inside the walls of my box so that when I looked around, I would always see how loved I was. I put fingerprints, perfume, post it notes, lipstick all over the walls of your box, so you could see the same. We put people we loved into each other's boxes and things we hated into each other's boxes. I thought that bad things would unearth themselves and come crawling out to eat away at the happy boxes, I thought that the bottoms of the boxes would cave in from all of the wonderful things we were putting inside of them. I thought that my box would overflow as I was walking down the street and that I would carelessly miss an important piece flying away from me like a red balloon. I thought that one day you would ask for all of the things you put inside of my box back and I would have to unpack them, soaking wet with love and trust and tears. Whenever you asked for my box, it was only to put more things inside of, it was only to tip me over with the immensity of your love.
My box no longer sits on a shelf, in fact, you can never find it in just one place anymore. It is scattered all over the continental U.S., part of it is even in Brussels. I used to think that a heart is meant to be kept locked away, safe and sound, until the perfect key comes on the perfect day to set it free and simultaneously coddle it like an infant. I used to think that a heart had a cap, a maximum amount of love that could be inside of it before it burst into pieces and shattered all over a cold tile floor. But I look at my heart now, my box, and I know there is no such thing as too much love. I know now, there is no such thing as bad love, there is only what we mistake as love. I know now, that when you submit yourself to the immensity of God, of the world, of how much love there is to be found, in all of the dirty corners of the all the boxes, love comes. Not good love or bad love or real love or fake love or young love or old love or strong love or weak love, just love. It comes in with the morning light and warms you and cherishes you. Love does not consume or suffocate your box, love is what fills your box.
Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.
Happy Valentine's Day! I hope your box overflows with love.
Thursday, February 13, 2014
Thursday, January 9, 2014
An Instruction Manual for Putting Yourself Back Together
Put this next to your bed, where your eyes reach first in morning light. Your bed, not anyone else's. If you do not have your own bed, put it in your place, where you read, where you write, where you know it's safe to hide. If you don't know where your place is, find it.
Pray. Constantly.
You will find that you don't know where you are going.
Ask God. Trust God. Be patient, believe that the path will
Be illuminated. Believe that you will be illuminated in God's love.
Cry. In the morning, in the afternoon, on Saturday nights when it will ruin your makeup,
Tears are for washing, for protecting,
Stuffed tears turn to poison, to hate, pulsing through the sea of you.
Cry when you are happy, cry when you are broken, cry when you need to,
and because someone weak once told you it made you weak.
Begin to belong to you, and only you.
Did you ever belong to just yourself?
Be the person who you can count on, to laugh with,
to endure with, to wipe the eyeliner from beneath your eyes.
Be the person to hug your hips, to read books to, to lay in the grass with.
You do not have to fill your spaces with someone else.
If you expect someone else to fill you, there will never be enough love.
Let light flood the empty parts of you. Heal with sunshine, not fingerprints.
Exist, and let your existence speak for itself.
Do not make yourself a smoker or a prude or a body cavity to fill.
Do not make yourself into anything other than the person you are.
There is an identity, there was always an identity, you have never ceased to exist.
You have never disappeared, despite your many attempts.
Eat. As much or as little as you want. Do not vanish.
Breathe, deep, shaky, powerful gulps of air. Do not suffocate.
Wander into the places of yourself you've been afraid to touch,
You may find bruises, you may find scars,
Know yourself, map yourself.
One day, someone will want to understand your geography,
Know how to teach them.
Wander too far away from home, leave home, build new homes.
When one burns down, you will always have another one to learn
to trust warmth inside of.
Set down your burdens.
You carried their emotions inside your heart for far too long.
You are not a backpack, or a hamper, or a trunk for all of
their old demons to sit and rot inside of.
You are not luggage, you are a person.
Love will come to you in forms that you don't recognize.
People will love you who don't need saved.
People will love you for your face in the morning,
and not when they tear down your strength.
People will love you for the way your voice sounds when reading,
and not when telling them what they want to hear.
People will love you because of the creation you are,
and not a wax figurine they tried to turn you into.
Learn to be fresh. To begin each day without yesterday's mistakes.
Learn to sit in the rocking chair
And hold their flaws gently, cradling them,
As they learn to trust your balance beam heart.
Learn to smile when plans fall through, when the food gets cold,
When the rain drenches us on our walk home.
Say, "I love you," only when you want to say it.
Say no, maybe, and yes. But not just Yes.
And not just No.
Carry inside of you the story of a person who is a tapestry,
A person made to help flowers grow,
A person made to give the world something no one else could.
A person made in God's divine light.
Let the hate steep with the tea.
Let your fear of remembering be forgotten.
Let your toes curl up in delight.
Let happiness sit upon your windowsill like a sleeping cat
so that everyone who passes will smile knowing:
You are whole.
You have always been whole.
You will always be whole.
Pray. Constantly.
You will find that you don't know where you are going.
Ask God. Trust God. Be patient, believe that the path will
Be illuminated. Believe that you will be illuminated in God's love.
Cry. In the morning, in the afternoon, on Saturday nights when it will ruin your makeup,
Tears are for washing, for protecting,
Stuffed tears turn to poison, to hate, pulsing through the sea of you.
Cry when you are happy, cry when you are broken, cry when you need to,
and because someone weak once told you it made you weak.
Begin to belong to you, and only you.
Did you ever belong to just yourself?
Be the person who you can count on, to laugh with,
to endure with, to wipe the eyeliner from beneath your eyes.
Be the person to hug your hips, to read books to, to lay in the grass with.
You do not have to fill your spaces with someone else.
If you expect someone else to fill you, there will never be enough love.
Let light flood the empty parts of you. Heal with sunshine, not fingerprints.
Exist, and let your existence speak for itself.
Do not make yourself a smoker or a prude or a body cavity to fill.
Do not make yourself into anything other than the person you are.
There is an identity, there was always an identity, you have never ceased to exist.
You have never disappeared, despite your many attempts.
Eat. As much or as little as you want. Do not vanish.
Breathe, deep, shaky, powerful gulps of air. Do not suffocate.
Wander into the places of yourself you've been afraid to touch,
You may find bruises, you may find scars,
Know yourself, map yourself.
One day, someone will want to understand your geography,
Know how to teach them.
Wander too far away from home, leave home, build new homes.
When one burns down, you will always have another one to learn
to trust warmth inside of.
Set down your burdens.
You carried their emotions inside your heart for far too long.
You are not a backpack, or a hamper, or a trunk for all of
their old demons to sit and rot inside of.
You are not luggage, you are a person.
Love will come to you in forms that you don't recognize.
People will love you who don't need saved.
People will love you for your face in the morning,
and not when they tear down your strength.
People will love you for the way your voice sounds when reading,
and not when telling them what they want to hear.
People will love you because of the creation you are,
and not a wax figurine they tried to turn you into.
Learn to be fresh. To begin each day without yesterday's mistakes.
Learn to sit in the rocking chair
And hold their flaws gently, cradling them,
As they learn to trust your balance beam heart.
Learn to smile when plans fall through, when the food gets cold,
When the rain drenches us on our walk home.
Say, "I love you," only when you want to say it.
Say no, maybe, and yes. But not just Yes.
And not just No.
Carry inside of you the story of a person who is a tapestry,
A person made to help flowers grow,
A person made to give the world something no one else could.
A person made in God's divine light.
Let the hate steep with the tea.
Let your fear of remembering be forgotten.
Let your toes curl up in delight.
Let happiness sit upon your windowsill like a sleeping cat
so that everyone who passes will smile knowing:
You are whole.
You have always been whole.
You will always be whole.
Monday, November 18, 2013
Calling Yourself a Feminist
Disclaimer: I have wanted to write this blog for a long time and have been waiting to feel qualified enough to do so. I still don't feel qualified or educated enough to do so, but it is what it is, feel free to lay the criticisms on thick. Some people might find this redundant or giving acknowledgement to old stigmas, but I know enough young people who read my blog and grew up where I grew up to believe that I should write this.
For the first eighteen years of my life, I would have never called myself a feminist. I grew up in a town where 'feminism' was a word you rarely heard unless someone was associating it with man-hate, lesbianism, and bra-burning. I never studied feminism or women's rights as a child; I remember very distinctly the paragraph women's suffrage & the 19th amendment were allotted in my U.S. History book, as well as the two pages the Civil Rights Movement happened inside of. High school is a pretty misogynistic place, especially in small town Ohio, where short shorts, nose rings, and feathers in your hair are considered distractions to your peers, where you'll find yourself slut-shamed in the school newspaper if you show cleavage at a party, where average football players are treated like Gods and grow up to become cops in a boring town where the biggest crime bust is a house full of college-accepted/scholarship-awarded students. High school is a place where boys are called, "pussys" for any number of reasons, liking someone, playing the wrong sport, not fighting others. A place where girls are judged on physical presentation, called sluts/whores/bitches/hoes endlessly whether they're sleeping with someone or no one, and taught that the competition between us is never ending, might as well adapt. To all of the confused people who have been told high school will be the best years of your life, they lied, that's a big fucking lie.
These days I sport a red fist in the center of my back, and I call myself a feminist. Somewhere, in an alternate universe, there is a little blonde cheerleader who would be completely mindfucked by my existence (or maybe she would think I was cool as hell, after all, she is going to become me). I'm not using this blog to stand on a soapbox and preach my beliefs, I simply want to express, as the daughter of a feminist who said, "I wouldn't call myself a feminist," there is nothing wrong with calling yourself a feminist. Feminism is defined by the individual and accomplished by the unification of those individuals. There are a million or more definitions of Feminism. I call myself a mermaid and a fairy princess too, and by some definitions, I guess I'm not? (But I am).
I recently read a quote by Lady Gaga that said, "I'm not a feminist. I hail men. I love men."And a quote by Katy Perry that said, "I'm not a feminist, but I do believe in the strength of women." These make me sad, these statements mean that little girls who worship these women will hear these statements, read these statements and continue to believe that the stigma of feminism is feminism. For starters, Lady Gaga, I too love men, I too hail men. My father, my boyfriend, my brother, my Uncle John, my Uncle Rich, my Grandpa, my Uncle Kris, are some of the most important, influential, beautiful people in my life. Feminism can have so much to do with loving men, with banding together with men, with believing in the goodness of men as they honor the power of women and vice versa. Feminism is about men and women, it's about cooperation, partnership, accepting that as a man it is difficult to see the privilege you have. People say Feminism needs a better marketing campaign, a fresh new look, to be beautified; but isn't that just perpetuating everything that is already hard about being a woman in this society? Maybe people could read into it a little, spend a couple minutes on feministing.com, womenundersiegeproject.org, jezebel.com, etc. once a week, just to see that there are constant human rights attacks surrounding us in every sphere. Read The Feminine Mystique, The Vagina Monologues, Sexing the Cherry; read anything and think about it, all of it. And if you genuinely don't care, you think that the world is fine that the way it is and we are just nitpicking, I implore you to do a few things:
1. Google the phrases, "Women have...", "Women should...", "Women can't..." "Women shouldn't..." etc.
2. Google the things that are happening to women and girls in India/South Africa/Syria/all over the world.
3. Investigate the efforts throughout this country to take away/limit a woman's right to a safe abortion, a woman's access to birth control, or the fact that 60% of sexual assault in the past five years has gone unreported (RAINN).
4. Does it make sense that women make up 50.8% of the U.S. population and only make up 18.3% of the U.S. Congress (CAWP)? That means, for the most part, old men are deciding what women can and can't do with their vaginas.
5. Wait patiently for the next article to come out about a woman who was raped and then somehow made out to be the perpetrator of her rape, because it will happen again, our society allows for it.
6. Watch the movie, Miss Representation on Netflix.
7. Just ask yourself a couple questions:
-Do women deserve to earn the same amount of money as men?
-Should young women be taught that their empowerment is often made synonymous with militance, bitchiness, ugliness, etc.?
-Is there any sound reason why every day, a third of my twitter feed is men calling women sluts, women calling women sluts, women and men criticizing women for the way they dress, do their makeup, how much they weigh, what they go to school for, the way they talk, who they sleep with, who they don't sleep with, and on, and on, and on?
My own personal definition of feminism is this: We live in a society in which boys and girls are taught from a very young age that there are certain qualities they should uphold in order to belong in our society and that is bullshit. As girls, we are constantly fed images of photoshopped, oversexualized models, we are taught that we have to be innocent and virginal but at the same time sexy, sophisticated, and experienced; two standards that are impossible to carry at the same time. I believe that because I am a human, not just a woman, it is my job to fight for the rights of all humans; I believe in intersectionality and I believe in recognizing your privilege and your injustices and the experiences with which you can only empathize. I believe that we should have the career we want, the education we want, the healthcare coverage we want, the ability to wear what we want, say what we want, be with who we want and that we shouldn't be limited or held back or condemned or judged or slut-shamed for the decisions we make. Parts of my feminism need reinforced, and some parts may not belong in your definition of feminism, and that's okay. My favorite part of feminism is accepting that it looks different to all of us and yet, we still believe our unity is the driving force behind women's empowerment.
I have always believed that what makes a person special is their desire to reach the top, and instead of trying to get higher, climbing back to the bottom and bringing back as many others as they can back to the top with them.
For the first eighteen years of my life, I would have never called myself a feminist. I grew up in a town where 'feminism' was a word you rarely heard unless someone was associating it with man-hate, lesbianism, and bra-burning. I never studied feminism or women's rights as a child; I remember very distinctly the paragraph women's suffrage & the 19th amendment were allotted in my U.S. History book, as well as the two pages the Civil Rights Movement happened inside of. High school is a pretty misogynistic place, especially in small town Ohio, where short shorts, nose rings, and feathers in your hair are considered distractions to your peers, where you'll find yourself slut-shamed in the school newspaper if you show cleavage at a party, where average football players are treated like Gods and grow up to become cops in a boring town where the biggest crime bust is a house full of college-accepted/scholarship-awarded students. High school is a place where boys are called, "pussys" for any number of reasons, liking someone, playing the wrong sport, not fighting others. A place where girls are judged on physical presentation, called sluts/whores/bitches/hoes endlessly whether they're sleeping with someone or no one, and taught that the competition between us is never ending, might as well adapt. To all of the confused people who have been told high school will be the best years of your life, they lied, that's a big fucking lie.
These days I sport a red fist in the center of my back, and I call myself a feminist. Somewhere, in an alternate universe, there is a little blonde cheerleader who would be completely mindfucked by my existence (or maybe she would think I was cool as hell, after all, she is going to become me). I'm not using this blog to stand on a soapbox and preach my beliefs, I simply want to express, as the daughter of a feminist who said, "I wouldn't call myself a feminist," there is nothing wrong with calling yourself a feminist. Feminism is defined by the individual and accomplished by the unification of those individuals. There are a million or more definitions of Feminism. I call myself a mermaid and a fairy princess too, and by some definitions, I guess I'm not? (But I am).
I recently read a quote by Lady Gaga that said, "I'm not a feminist. I hail men. I love men."And a quote by Katy Perry that said, "I'm not a feminist, but I do believe in the strength of women." These make me sad, these statements mean that little girls who worship these women will hear these statements, read these statements and continue to believe that the stigma of feminism is feminism. For starters, Lady Gaga, I too love men, I too hail men. My father, my boyfriend, my brother, my Uncle John, my Uncle Rich, my Grandpa, my Uncle Kris, are some of the most important, influential, beautiful people in my life. Feminism can have so much to do with loving men, with banding together with men, with believing in the goodness of men as they honor the power of women and vice versa. Feminism is about men and women, it's about cooperation, partnership, accepting that as a man it is difficult to see the privilege you have. People say Feminism needs a better marketing campaign, a fresh new look, to be beautified; but isn't that just perpetuating everything that is already hard about being a woman in this society? Maybe people could read into it a little, spend a couple minutes on feministing.com, womenundersiegeproject.org, jezebel.com, etc. once a week, just to see that there are constant human rights attacks surrounding us in every sphere. Read The Feminine Mystique, The Vagina Monologues, Sexing the Cherry; read anything and think about it, all of it. And if you genuinely don't care, you think that the world is fine that the way it is and we are just nitpicking, I implore you to do a few things:
1. Google the phrases, "Women have...", "Women should...", "Women can't..." "Women shouldn't..." etc.
2. Google the things that are happening to women and girls in India/South Africa/Syria/all over the world.
3. Investigate the efforts throughout this country to take away/limit a woman's right to a safe abortion, a woman's access to birth control, or the fact that 60% of sexual assault in the past five years has gone unreported (RAINN).
4. Does it make sense that women make up 50.8% of the U.S. population and only make up 18.3% of the U.S. Congress (CAWP)? That means, for the most part, old men are deciding what women can and can't do with their vaginas.
5. Wait patiently for the next article to come out about a woman who was raped and then somehow made out to be the perpetrator of her rape, because it will happen again, our society allows for it.
6. Watch the movie, Miss Representation on Netflix.
7. Just ask yourself a couple questions:
-Do women deserve to earn the same amount of money as men?
-Should young women be taught that their empowerment is often made synonymous with militance, bitchiness, ugliness, etc.?
-Is there any sound reason why every day, a third of my twitter feed is men calling women sluts, women calling women sluts, women and men criticizing women for the way they dress, do their makeup, how much they weigh, what they go to school for, the way they talk, who they sleep with, who they don't sleep with, and on, and on, and on?
My own personal definition of feminism is this: We live in a society in which boys and girls are taught from a very young age that there are certain qualities they should uphold in order to belong in our society and that is bullshit. As girls, we are constantly fed images of photoshopped, oversexualized models, we are taught that we have to be innocent and virginal but at the same time sexy, sophisticated, and experienced; two standards that are impossible to carry at the same time. I believe that because I am a human, not just a woman, it is my job to fight for the rights of all humans; I believe in intersectionality and I believe in recognizing your privilege and your injustices and the experiences with which you can only empathize. I believe that we should have the career we want, the education we want, the healthcare coverage we want, the ability to wear what we want, say what we want, be with who we want and that we shouldn't be limited or held back or condemned or judged or slut-shamed for the decisions we make. Parts of my feminism need reinforced, and some parts may not belong in your definition of feminism, and that's okay. My favorite part of feminism is accepting that it looks different to all of us and yet, we still believe our unity is the driving force behind women's empowerment.
I have always believed that what makes a person special is their desire to reach the top, and instead of trying to get higher, climbing back to the bottom and bringing back as many others as they can back to the top with them.
Tuesday, October 15, 2013
Who is the strongest person you know?
"There is so much pain and I don't know how to not notice it."
-Charlie
I have always identified myself as strong; tough as nails, sticks and stones can't break my bones, you can't break me, you can't even shake me, you know, that whole thing. And I do genuinely believe I have strong characteristics and I do think I'm capable of handling a lot, but the truth is: nothing really bad has ever happened to me. I have been very loved, very blessed, and very privileged for my entire life. I have done stupid things and that had bad consequences, but I chose them. I have cared about people who hurt me, but I chose them. In all of the moments when my strength was tested, there was a preceding moment in which I knew, this could go horribly wrong, and then it did. But I don't think these things make me exceptional and I don't think they make me strong, they just make me a person who deals with shit when she has to deal with shit. I might have defined strength differently, I might have thought the things I experienced were hard, I might have gone so far as to think I can genuinely understand the kind of pain people are put through, if I wasn't my mother's daughter.
My mother is little, very little. To hear her tell it, she is an ogre, but in reality, she is a beautiful, sunny little person. You might know her from church or from knowing me or from high school or from work or from her writing, but no matter how you know her, very quickly you realized that she is a lot of woman contained in that tiny body. She will pray for you until your burden is lessened, she will readily hit you with a barrage of fucks, and I guarantee she can drink more beer than you. Any of you reading this, I don't care your body weight or your age or your presumed drinking talents, she can drink more beer than you.
When I was ten I got a C+ in social studies. My dad told me it was okay and sometimes smart people get bad grades and that I would just have to try harder next semester. But it didn't really matter what dad said because I knew my mom was going to come home and shove my report card up my ass; I never got a C on a report card again. When I was sixteen she grounded me for two weeks because I drank at a party and lied to her about it, when I was eight she smacked me in the head with a brush because I wouldn't sit still. And in all of the twenty years I've known her, these are the only bad things I ever remember her putting me through, and they were for my own good. For the entirety of my life, she has always gone infinitely above and beyond for me, more so than anyone I've ever known. She is so good and so kind and she will love you, no matter who you are, and when you wrong her, she will love you more.
My mother is sweeter than I am, she is more friendly and more likely to take an interest in random people in Wal-Mart than I am. She is sweeter, but she is much stronger than anyone I have ever known. When she was fifteen, her brother and her everything died. A year later, her best friend died of cancer. When she was twenty four, another one of her brothers committed suicide. And two years ago, her father died. She has survived three labors, bankruptcy, countless betrayals, and the kind of experiences that make people go wonky-eyed. Her story is hers to tell though, not mine. The reason I write is not because I want to tell you all how much I love my mom or admire her or am in awe of her, she and all of you are well aware of that. I write because I am in awe of so many of you, your strength, your resiliency, your ability to get out of bed and keep fighting and keep succeeding. I write because throughout my lifetime I have been asked a thousand and one times, "Who is the strongest person you know?"
And I have to say, I think everyone I know is the strongest person in the world.
The world has a lot of conflicting ideas, a lot of beauty and a lot of pain and a lot pain disguised as beauty and beauty disguised as pain. But you are all surviving, thriving in it. And some days you have to remember that getting out of bed is more than someone else could do today. And other days you have to remember that the universe is not conspiring against you, sometimes shit just sucks. But every day, you have to remember that you are trying, that you are probably being too hard on yourself, and that we get to do this only one time, and doing something that makes you happy, is not a bad thing.
For the ones doing everything in their power to be the best big brother they can, I am in awe of you. For the ones who are planting churches and raising babies, I am in awe of you. For the ones battling depression, I am in awe of you. For the ones struggling to find God, find yourself, find your way out of the closet, I am in awe of you. For the ones loving people in different states, different time zones, different countries, I am in awe of you. For the ones who can't see the next step, the next paycheck, the next light at the end of the tunnel, I am in awe of you. I don't know if someone tells you how strong you are being every day, but damn, you are truly remarkable.
I don't think it is my burden to be the strongest person in the world, I don't even think it is my burden in this life to be strong. I think it is my burden to be a person to the strong people. My mom said once that I internalize her pain, but I think I was just built to love people who go through an exceptional amount of pain. I am small but I am sturdy and for a long time I could not understand why so many bad things happened to so many of the wonderful people I love. I think it is not why these things happen, but when they happen and who is nearby to love them when they do. God puts soldiers where they need to be, and I am a good man in a storm.
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
Justine
There are very few people in my life whom I remember the precise moment that I realized God sent them to me for a reason. I remember sitting on Bonnie Chronister's piano bench, however, and telling you that I wanted to write and be a baby heart surgeon and you telling me that you just wanted to do something where you could talk to people and make them realize how loved they are. Long story short, we missed the first hour of chamber choir rehearsal, but we realized we were soulmates. Our friendship has since been filled with a mutual love of Jillian Hickey, Nick Preston, Alex Pettyfer, and objectifying men, singing...so much singing in and out of puffy blue dresses, boobs (lots of boobs), the terms 'casual', 'kittens', and, 'so there's that,' jiggling your butt around, sushi, Jet, and all of the secret things that make us so fucking awesome. We are Sex in the City, without Miranda, because...ugh.
Sometimes you are moody and angry and bitter and sassy. Sometimes you won't let me help you. Sometimes you and I get into fights because you always, always, ALWAYS let my dog run away. Sometimes bring out the crazy parts of me that I try to keep top-secret...like that one time we went swimming in your apartment building's swimming pool or Halloween or nudey Snapchats or...let's just stop there. But you always make me laugh, you always care way too much about the people you love, you always remind me that my writing is important and meaningful, you refer to your parents as though they are better than all other humans which, I think at this point, we all agree with. You refuse to call my boyfriend and my cats by their true names; but you love Boston, Sean, and Steve, so it's fine. You are always the brightest, sunniest, smartest, daisiest, loveliness, emo-music-loving, shrimp-sauce-filled vegetarian princess in my life and in every life you touch.
You may not see this or know this about yourself every day, but you are beautiful. You are simply stunning, all the way to the core of your heart. Your ability to be incredibly stressed, burnt out, and exhausted and still give out all of the love you have left in your heart is what makes me want to be a better, stronger friend, sister, girlfriend, daughter, etc. You may not believe in God but your presence in my life makes my faith stronger every day; not very many people have loved us the way we love each other, not very many people have held us up when we cannot stand the way we have held each other, no one has replaced the painful shards of our glass hearts the way we have replaced each others. Your goodness affects your every action, your compassion is never hidden, you are never too busy or too stressed to bend over backwards for someone you love; you embody so many things that God wants us to exemplify.
Sometimes nothing I say or write or promise or give can heal all of the wounds the world gives, and that is a good thing, it means you are real and alive and experiencing all of the awful realities that make humans imperfect. All I ask of you, always, is to know, that the way you love people changes them. You enlighten us to the beauty in our flaws. You inspire us to do all of the things we think we're not good enough to do. You tell the truth, even when it hurts, even when it's the last thing we'd ever wanna hear. You fill in gaps and insecurities and absences. You give encouragement and smiles and empathy out like they're easy to find more of. You love better and stronger and more sacrificially than anyone I know, besides my mother, and it's scary and it's beautiful and I am in awe of it. I want you to know that everyone who has ever been loved by you knows what unconditional love feels like. You have given the people you love a gift that heals, that gives meaning to living this silly, lovely, horrendous life.
I love you, Justine. Not for all of our lovely memories or moments or secrets or stories or days or daydreams, but for just you, being you. Being your friend changed me, it made me grow up and see that sometimes I am incredibly selfish, it made me believe that my writing is powerful, it made me believe that people can be good inside and out and that they can love you permanently. I only hope to spend every day, for always, loving my people the way you have taught me to love. I wrote this because you deserve to hear how much you are loved and how much your love has shaped us every day, and now you will.
Sometimes nothing I say or write or promise or give can heal all of the wounds the world gives, and that is a good thing, it means you are real and alive and experiencing all of the awful realities that make humans imperfect. All I ask of you, always, is to know, that the way you love people changes them. You enlighten us to the beauty in our flaws. You inspire us to do all of the things we think we're not good enough to do. You tell the truth, even when it hurts, even when it's the last thing we'd ever wanna hear. You fill in gaps and insecurities and absences. You give encouragement and smiles and empathy out like they're easy to find more of. You love better and stronger and more sacrificially than anyone I know, besides my mother, and it's scary and it's beautiful and I am in awe of it. I want you to know that everyone who has ever been loved by you knows what unconditional love feels like. You have given the people you love a gift that heals, that gives meaning to living this silly, lovely, horrendous life.
I love you, Justine. Not for all of our lovely memories or moments or secrets or stories or days or daydreams, but for just you, being you. Being your friend changed me, it made me grow up and see that sometimes I am incredibly selfish, it made me believe that my writing is powerful, it made me believe that people can be good inside and out and that they can love you permanently. I only hope to spend every day, for always, loving my people the way you have taught me to love. I wrote this because you deserve to hear how much you are loved and how much your love has shaped us every day, and now you will.
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
Boxes
I like to put things into boxes; Tiffany boxes, lined up in pretty rows with pretty bows that get lots of Instagram likes and lots of eye rolls and heart shakes and vibrations of jealous current. I don't like to talk about the boxes, because I don't like to admit they are there. I made the boxes because I like their organization and their alphabetization and their simplicity and their complexity and because someone once said I should. I made the boxes because boxes get good girls good grades and good girls do well and good girls, good girls, good girls. Good girls go into boxes like Barbie dolls with shiny hair but hairless skin; but did you know, women naturally grow hair on their skin? And did you know that you can't put yourself into a box because, eventually, you will suffocate from the lack of oxygen? And did you know, that my mom tells me all the time, "You can't put things into boxes, things don't fit into boxes." But, she puts shit in boxes too.
Why are we always trying to minimize the space we take up? Why are we constantly trying to fulfill the role that was chosen for us and nothing more or less? Why is it easier to bite our tongues until blood fills up our throats than simply say the words scratching to be let out of our lip doors? Why is it easier to give up on ourselves than on someone else? Why did we build the boxes and what are they here for? There is a woman box and a man box, a race box, a who-you-like-to-bang box, a money box, a loud box, a fat box, a box for daddy issues, a box for addicts, a box for perfectionists, a box for failures, and a box that holds the dreams that didn't fit in the boxes we brought with us. But the thing is, boxes aren't real; they are made of air and lies and some stupid shit some philosophical oppressive wig-wearing fuckbags pulled out of their pantyhose constricted assholes.
Sometimes I listen to Marvin Gaye and other times I listen to Bob Dylan and sometimes Sia and 80s pop and some really awful shit and some really beautiful shit. Some days I want platinum blonde hair and other days I want to shave my fucking head and other days I want a pixie cut and on Wednesdays, I wear pink. I like to solve chemical equations and write and debate everything and I have a hard time communicating my emotions. And some days I wake up and know it is all going to be okay and other days I wake up and realize that, "Everything is going to be okay," is just a box that a scared person made because everything is not always okay. There is a part of me that thinks I should run far away from college and civilization and write books about teenagers who don't know how to accept love in pretty ways. There is another part of me who wants to go to school forever and get all of the degrees I fantasize about having, and not so that I can be smug in PhD arrogance, but so that I can do whatever I fucking want to do and be awesome at it. Sometimes I want to be bony and sometimes I want to be curvy. Sometimes I am really disappointed in the people I love more than anything because my expectations are difficult to understand and they don't fit into boxes any better than I do. They fit perfectly into my heart and that will always be enough. Sometimes I want to be the one that leaves wreckage in her wake and sometimes I want to be the one who fixes the wreckage until it sparkles again. Sometimes I want to put everyone in a box together so we can all hug and be happy and sometimes I want you to all step the fuck out of my box before I send trained wolves to slowly eat your limbs off.
I am small and yet, I need a lot of space. I need space to fuck up and space to do better than I ever imagined. I need the world and not to take but to explore and touch and inject. I need enough space to run and build treehouses and have babies and careers and catch dreams in an ever-growing net. I'm gonna need a lot of oxygen, a lot of opportunity, a lot of passion, a lot more than a box's worth. So fuck boxes. Fuck the box someone told you that you belonged in and fuck the box that you put yourself into. We are multi-colored, multi-talented, kaleidoscopes of possibility and potential, and a box is made of fucking cardboard. Rock breaks scissors, humanity breaks cardboard.
And you can put me in all the boxes that you want. You can call me a dumb blonde or a spoiled white girl or a crazy, evil, manipulative bitch from hell or a Jesus freak. We have a box for that, we call it the God Box.
Why are we always trying to minimize the space we take up? Why are we constantly trying to fulfill the role that was chosen for us and nothing more or less? Why is it easier to bite our tongues until blood fills up our throats than simply say the words scratching to be let out of our lip doors? Why is it easier to give up on ourselves than on someone else? Why did we build the boxes and what are they here for? There is a woman box and a man box, a race box, a who-you-like-to-bang box, a money box, a loud box, a fat box, a box for daddy issues, a box for addicts, a box for perfectionists, a box for failures, and a box that holds the dreams that didn't fit in the boxes we brought with us. But the thing is, boxes aren't real; they are made of air and lies and some stupid shit some philosophical oppressive wig-wearing fuckbags pulled out of their pantyhose constricted assholes.
Sometimes I listen to Marvin Gaye and other times I listen to Bob Dylan and sometimes Sia and 80s pop and some really awful shit and some really beautiful shit. Some days I want platinum blonde hair and other days I want to shave my fucking head and other days I want a pixie cut and on Wednesdays, I wear pink. I like to solve chemical equations and write and debate everything and I have a hard time communicating my emotions. And some days I wake up and know it is all going to be okay and other days I wake up and realize that, "Everything is going to be okay," is just a box that a scared person made because everything is not always okay. There is a part of me that thinks I should run far away from college and civilization and write books about teenagers who don't know how to accept love in pretty ways. There is another part of me who wants to go to school forever and get all of the degrees I fantasize about having, and not so that I can be smug in PhD arrogance, but so that I can do whatever I fucking want to do and be awesome at it. Sometimes I want to be bony and sometimes I want to be curvy. Sometimes I am really disappointed in the people I love more than anything because my expectations are difficult to understand and they don't fit into boxes any better than I do. They fit perfectly into my heart and that will always be enough. Sometimes I want to be the one that leaves wreckage in her wake and sometimes I want to be the one who fixes the wreckage until it sparkles again. Sometimes I want to put everyone in a box together so we can all hug and be happy and sometimes I want you to all step the fuck out of my box before I send trained wolves to slowly eat your limbs off.
I am small and yet, I need a lot of space. I need space to fuck up and space to do better than I ever imagined. I need the world and not to take but to explore and touch and inject. I need enough space to run and build treehouses and have babies and careers and catch dreams in an ever-growing net. I'm gonna need a lot of oxygen, a lot of opportunity, a lot of passion, a lot more than a box's worth. So fuck boxes. Fuck the box someone told you that you belonged in and fuck the box that you put yourself into. We are multi-colored, multi-talented, kaleidoscopes of possibility and potential, and a box is made of fucking cardboard. Rock breaks scissors, humanity breaks cardboard.
And you can put me in all the boxes that you want. You can call me a dumb blonde or a spoiled white girl or a crazy, evil, manipulative bitch from hell or a Jesus freak. We have a box for that, we call it the God Box.
Thursday, August 8, 2013
Big Girl Summers
For as long as I can remember, summertime had meant a certain doctrine of sacred activity. Cheerleading camps and Nelson Ledges and the Street Fair and the Greek Fest and driving around aimlessly after 11 pm and endless runs on the bike trail and lemon shakes and cotton candy and searching for cattle to tip over and watching the sunset at Mosquito Lake. Summers were reserved for sleeping till noon and staying out until...well, whenever we wanted. We wasted all of our gas going to see boys in different zip codes and searching for beaches off the coast of Ohio and listening to our favorite mix cds. We had little to no responsibility other than getting darker than we'd gotten the summer before. I can't help but be nostalgic about these summers, they had been my favorite way to live with my favorite people in the world for seven years running. We grew up and we spread out, but we promised that come the end of May, we'd find ourselves knee deep in blissful irresponsibility.
But for some reason or another (most likely the looming proximity of the future that you become aware of in college) I didn't find myself skinny dipping in Mosquito Lake or flashing thirteen year olds on bicycles or staying out till 5 am (not that I'd ever done any of these things, Dad). But I worked. Like a lot. Like more than I ever worked before. 8:30 to 5, five days a week. And I really loved it sometimes (when I got to show girls--just as stressed as I had been--the campus where I realized dreams can come true). I really hated it other times (usually at 6:30 am when my alarm went off or when a four year old asked me to wipe his tiny bum). It was full of schedules and structure and bank accounts and time constraints and "I can't, I have to work"s. There were several, "Let's just not go to work today"s and we always ended up going, like some fucking adults. I only had a frozen treat one goddamn time, and it was only cus I had a meltdown about buying books. I didn't attend a single dirty fair, which is infuriating because I love those bitches. I didn't spend any gas money, in fact, I think I only drove two or three times (one of which was Lori's Mustang, so it's fine). I only got to run on the bike trail once, but I tripped and fell on my face plenty of times running in Pittsburgh. It was a summer devoid of most of the things I'd grown to adore about summer.
But it was the best summer of my life.
I was knee deep in blissful irresponsibility and blue, green, and brown water in Deep Creek, the Jersey Shore, the Florida Keys, and Boca Raton. I wandered down beautiful beaches, weathered one way streets of Pittsburgh, and library shelves. I watched my mother's dear friend get married, and then her daughter, my dear friend, got engaged. I watched movies on couches with Jill and Justine and stayed up all night, all dolled up with Jill and Justine. I read a thousand feminist blogs and watched all of Orange is the New Black (which you should be watching right now if you haven't already, bitches gotsta learn). Lily told me I was her best friend in the world. Maddog 20/20, that is all. I watched baseball games in Ohio, Florida, and Pittsburgh. I swam with manatees (kind of, mostly hid behind Zach) and saw dolphins. I ate a lot of really good food and drank a lot of really good drinks. I got to spend my beautiful angel of an aunt's 40th birthday with her, in paradise. There was Led Zeppelin and yoga and bug bites and museums and a bad night at the beach shack (as if there are ever good ones). There were sunsets and rainstorms and movie days and movies in parks and movies in bed and movies at the movies. There were boat rides and airplane rides and 'beer cruises' and ADVENTURES (primarily, the journey home from Key West). And last but not least, I fell in love with my favorite person in the world.
All I can think is that, I finally know, like I suspected all along, the best years of my life are not locked away in a yearbook or in a time capsule or in the suffocating, yellowing walls of Lakeview High School.
The best years have only just begun.
But for some reason or another (most likely the looming proximity of the future that you become aware of in college) I didn't find myself skinny dipping in Mosquito Lake or flashing thirteen year olds on bicycles or staying out till 5 am (not that I'd ever done any of these things, Dad). But I worked. Like a lot. Like more than I ever worked before. 8:30 to 5, five days a week. And I really loved it sometimes (when I got to show girls--just as stressed as I had been--the campus where I realized dreams can come true). I really hated it other times (usually at 6:30 am when my alarm went off or when a four year old asked me to wipe his tiny bum). It was full of schedules and structure and bank accounts and time constraints and "I can't, I have to work"s. There were several, "Let's just not go to work today"s and we always ended up going, like some fucking adults. I only had a frozen treat one goddamn time, and it was only cus I had a meltdown about buying books. I didn't attend a single dirty fair, which is infuriating because I love those bitches. I didn't spend any gas money, in fact, I think I only drove two or three times (one of which was Lori's Mustang, so it's fine). I only got to run on the bike trail once, but I tripped and fell on my face plenty of times running in Pittsburgh. It was a summer devoid of most of the things I'd grown to adore about summer.
But it was the best summer of my life.
I was knee deep in blissful irresponsibility and blue, green, and brown water in Deep Creek, the Jersey Shore, the Florida Keys, and Boca Raton. I wandered down beautiful beaches, weathered one way streets of Pittsburgh, and library shelves. I watched my mother's dear friend get married, and then her daughter, my dear friend, got engaged. I watched movies on couches with Jill and Justine and stayed up all night, all dolled up with Jill and Justine. I read a thousand feminist blogs and watched all of Orange is the New Black (which you should be watching right now if you haven't already, bitches gotsta learn). Lily told me I was her best friend in the world. Maddog 20/20, that is all. I watched baseball games in Ohio, Florida, and Pittsburgh. I swam with manatees (kind of, mostly hid behind Zach) and saw dolphins. I ate a lot of really good food and drank a lot of really good drinks. I got to spend my beautiful angel of an aunt's 40th birthday with her, in paradise. There was Led Zeppelin and yoga and bug bites and museums and a bad night at the beach shack (as if there are ever good ones). There were sunsets and rainstorms and movie days and movies in parks and movies in bed and movies at the movies. There were boat rides and airplane rides and 'beer cruises' and ADVENTURES (primarily, the journey home from Key West). And last but not least, I fell in love with my favorite person in the world.
All I can think is that, I finally know, like I suspected all along, the best years of my life are not locked away in a yearbook or in a time capsule or in the suffocating, yellowing walls of Lakeview High School.
The best years have only just begun.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
