For the past three months since I graduated from Chatham, I have done a few things consistently: work, cry, rip my hair out, wonder what the fuck I'm doing, and yoga. I've applied to a lot of jobs and done a few interviews, some of which I really wanted, others of which I was horrified by; none of which worked out. This morning I found out that the most recent of these interviews had not worked out either and I started to cry for a millisecond.
Every time I have one of these meltdowns, Zach says, "What do you want to do?" and I roll my eyes and say, "Write." Every time. But I haven't been writing, I've been moping. I sit down to write and my hands feel heavy cus they're busy feeling sorry for themselves and then I get tired in the middle of a paragraph or a poem or a ploy and give up. This morning, instead of going to hunt down the next job to apply to, I came here instead. Right now, I make more than enough money to live on. I like my two jobs, they're not my dream jobs, but I like them. And I have about two to three days off a week, depending on my schedule. Those two to three days are the bane of my existence right now, I question my purpose, get down on myself, and agonize over what I should be doing that I'm not.
Today, I decided that these will be my writing days, not that they weren't said to be that before, but from here on out, they will be. I'm stepping away from the 9-5 full time + benefits dream that's been projected onto me by myself and countless others, and I'm following my dream. I won't be a starving artist, because I'm working too. I won't decide to get an MFA before I know I need one. And I will stop wondering about what I've always known. Over the past six months while I was graduating and looking for jobs and Zach was transitioning jobs and we were super broke, I kept thinking about the light at the end of the tunnel. Now, that we're financially stable and able to save and plan a little, I guess I could think of this at the light at the end of the tunnel.
But I don't. I kind of like the idea of the tunnel, of keeping your head down and pushing through, even if you don't know what you're heading towards, even if you'd much rather curl up in a ball in your bed and stay there indefinitely. In the tunnel, I've found choice and voice and agency. I've found the ability to sweep my own floors, pay my own bills, and write my own story, separate and intertwined with all of the others I know. In the tunnel, I've learned that I'm tough, but now I want to build my dreams.
The other day, Chelsea Handler tweeted this:
Being an adult is exactly what I hoped it would be. More responsibility, but now I'm the only one I have to answer to, and I'm the best boss.
And I realized that I felt this way too. It is scary and it is certainly not easy, and who the fuck knows if I'll ever be a successful writer? But I want to be, I've always wanted to be. And wanting it is important, but doing it is more important. Choosing to fight for it, that's the key. Choosing to try, choosing to fail and stand back up, choosing to love yourself whether you win or lose; and they're all cliched, but they're the key, the piece of the puzzle I've been missing.
So consider this the beginning of a very long and exhaustive tunnel that I'm carving the walls out of as I go.
Monday, March 21, 2016
Friday, February 5, 2016
Do you want to be right or do you want to be happy?
About a week ago, my boyfriend and I had an argument that got blown cataclysmically out of proportion. I had hurt his feelings and instead of acknowledging that and apologizing, I reacted the way I frequently react when someone calls me out. I get really mad and really mean and freeze you out. Just straight up stop talking to you. And if you try to make me talk to you, I'll say any cold thing I can think of to get you to stop, to keep freezing you out. On this particular night, however, he was determined to break through, to talk to me, the real me, not the front I put up in fights.
He sat down in our driveway and asked me, "What am I supposed to do when you're wrong?" He was asking how to handle it, how to approach it, so that when he needs to confront me about something, I don't react this way. And something within me clicked that never had before. I am always right. Always. Always have been. In reality, I've been wrong thousands of times, but I really, really, really don't like admitting it. I don't like being wrong, who does? But in my situation, I commit so hard to being right when I'm wrong, that I exhaust whoever else is participating in my wrongness. I exhaust them to the point where they give up and continue loving me and everything goes back to normal. I'm lucky to be loved by some pretty kind people who'd rather not fight with me than be right. In my case, however, right-ness sometimes trumps reality. I've given up a lot to maintain my right-ness, friendships, opportunities, relationships, and more. I've told people I don't care if they walk away from me, if they never speak to me again, if they never look back, because some part of me feels that she NEEDS to be right. But the truth is, at the end of the day, I love being loved and loving more than I love being right.
As we tried to psychoanalyze me and what makes me so determined to be right about everything, Zach brought up my ego. When he said the word, "ego" I started to cry, because I realized quite easily what my right-ness was all about. I told him that my ego had taken a hit lately, that I didn't feel like the woman I thought I was, that I felt less than. I ascribed this to my inability to find an illustrious big girl job right after graduation. I said I thought I'd done everything right in college: gotten the grades, completed the internships, joined extracurriculars, studied abroad, worked my ass off, and now, it felt like all of that was just meaningless bullshit to ramp up a resume. I was so determined to win this fight--any fight--because I felt incapable of winning anything else. So yes, my ego is bruised. But my ego is not me. I am better, kinder, and stronger than my ego. I am better, kinder, and stronger than the voice telling me that I have failed, that I am not good at anything.
I turn 22 in seven days. I wrote this blog in my journal first, and as I wrote it, my foot fell asleep. I had to walk around while I was writing in order to keep it from falling asleep. It was very uncomfortable and made me want to rip my hair out at first, but as it went on, I started to think about what was going on. My foot has fallen asleep countless times, I always know circulation will come back if I move around and it will be over. I know it will end, and yet, in the moment, I am so frustrated by it. Just like this period of my life. It is kind of uncomfortable and scary, I don't know what comes next and I am pretty unsure of what I'm doing. But I know, this period will end. There will be a job, an idea, a transition, a change, a shift, and I will be onto the next big thing, forgetting quite readily the discomfort and anxiety I felt post-graduation. And what is so bad about discomfort? It reminds you that you're alive, that you're in control and able to alter your perception, your surroundings, the way you feel inside and outside.
This is a strange period. My feelings change about it every day and I have to honor that. This morning, when Zach left for meetings, I started to cry. I felt like a failure again. I wanted to go to a job, a career, and feel like I was building something for myself. I felt like I was failing him and myself. He promptly reminded me that I am working close to 23 hours in the next two and a half days and that he is proud of me. He told me to write down 3 things I'm proud of, 3 things I'm afraid of, and 3 ways I can alleviate my fears. He is my boyfriend and my therapist and I am extremely grateful for his never-ending supply of love for me and I love him so very much.
So here are my things:
3 things I'm proud of:
1. How hard I've been working at jobs I didn't necessarily want but am starting to genuinely like, to pay my bills/rent, to take care of myself, and to do things that make the people I love and myself, happy.
2. For graduating. For making it out when I didn't think I would and for being okay on the other side, even though its scary.
3. For admitting, finally, that I can't always be right and that I have to let that control go. Who the fuck said do you want to be right or do you want to be happy? I forget. But I want to be happy :)
3 things I'm afraid of:
1. Failure.
2. Never getting published again/never getting a "dream job"
3. Being stagnant
3 ways to alleviate my fears:
1. Accept that I'm going to fail, over and over again, and I can't prevent or control it. Don't look at failure with a captial F, look at it as the place where you grow, learn, become a better/stronger person.
2. Keep trying. No matter what. Fight.
3. Recognize the difference between stagnance and stillness.
He sat down in our driveway and asked me, "What am I supposed to do when you're wrong?" He was asking how to handle it, how to approach it, so that when he needs to confront me about something, I don't react this way. And something within me clicked that never had before. I am always right. Always. Always have been. In reality, I've been wrong thousands of times, but I really, really, really don't like admitting it. I don't like being wrong, who does? But in my situation, I commit so hard to being right when I'm wrong, that I exhaust whoever else is participating in my wrongness. I exhaust them to the point where they give up and continue loving me and everything goes back to normal. I'm lucky to be loved by some pretty kind people who'd rather not fight with me than be right. In my case, however, right-ness sometimes trumps reality. I've given up a lot to maintain my right-ness, friendships, opportunities, relationships, and more. I've told people I don't care if they walk away from me, if they never speak to me again, if they never look back, because some part of me feels that she NEEDS to be right. But the truth is, at the end of the day, I love being loved and loving more than I love being right.
As we tried to psychoanalyze me and what makes me so determined to be right about everything, Zach brought up my ego. When he said the word, "ego" I started to cry, because I realized quite easily what my right-ness was all about. I told him that my ego had taken a hit lately, that I didn't feel like the woman I thought I was, that I felt less than. I ascribed this to my inability to find an illustrious big girl job right after graduation. I said I thought I'd done everything right in college: gotten the grades, completed the internships, joined extracurriculars, studied abroad, worked my ass off, and now, it felt like all of that was just meaningless bullshit to ramp up a resume. I was so determined to win this fight--any fight--because I felt incapable of winning anything else. So yes, my ego is bruised. But my ego is not me. I am better, kinder, and stronger than my ego. I am better, kinder, and stronger than the voice telling me that I have failed, that I am not good at anything.
I turn 22 in seven days. I wrote this blog in my journal first, and as I wrote it, my foot fell asleep. I had to walk around while I was writing in order to keep it from falling asleep. It was very uncomfortable and made me want to rip my hair out at first, but as it went on, I started to think about what was going on. My foot has fallen asleep countless times, I always know circulation will come back if I move around and it will be over. I know it will end, and yet, in the moment, I am so frustrated by it. Just like this period of my life. It is kind of uncomfortable and scary, I don't know what comes next and I am pretty unsure of what I'm doing. But I know, this period will end. There will be a job, an idea, a transition, a change, a shift, and I will be onto the next big thing, forgetting quite readily the discomfort and anxiety I felt post-graduation. And what is so bad about discomfort? It reminds you that you're alive, that you're in control and able to alter your perception, your surroundings, the way you feel inside and outside.
This is a strange period. My feelings change about it every day and I have to honor that. This morning, when Zach left for meetings, I started to cry. I felt like a failure again. I wanted to go to a job, a career, and feel like I was building something for myself. I felt like I was failing him and myself. He promptly reminded me that I am working close to 23 hours in the next two and a half days and that he is proud of me. He told me to write down 3 things I'm proud of, 3 things I'm afraid of, and 3 ways I can alleviate my fears. He is my boyfriend and my therapist and I am extremely grateful for his never-ending supply of love for me and I love him so very much.
So here are my things:
3 things I'm proud of:
1. How hard I've been working at jobs I didn't necessarily want but am starting to genuinely like, to pay my bills/rent, to take care of myself, and to do things that make the people I love and myself, happy.
2. For graduating. For making it out when I didn't think I would and for being okay on the other side, even though its scary.
3. For admitting, finally, that I can't always be right and that I have to let that control go. Who the fuck said do you want to be right or do you want to be happy? I forget. But I want to be happy :)
3 things I'm afraid of:
1. Failure.
2. Never getting published again/never getting a "dream job"
3. Being stagnant
3 ways to alleviate my fears:
1. Accept that I'm going to fail, over and over again, and I can't prevent or control it. Don't look at failure with a captial F, look at it as the place where you grow, learn, become a better/stronger person.
2. Keep trying. No matter what. Fight.
3. Recognize the difference between stagnance and stillness.
Tuesday, January 26, 2016
After the End
It's funny how reading an article about another woman who happens to be 22 and also, possibly, the next Einstein, sends me into a complete tailspin. Do you ever have a day when you're not feeling profound enough, so your ego just lies around, licking itself like a bored cat? It's stupid and self indulgent, as though profoundness comes in the mail and I just haven't gotten mine yet. The thing is, I didn't expect graduating from college to result in the following careers: tanning salon worker, restaurant hostess, and intern with potential. In fact, I expected a lot more but I admitted that very little.
When I imagined myself, four years ago, I'm not sure what I thought I'd be like. Determined, thoughtful, ambitious, creative, gentle, gifted: all words that swirl around in my head without sticking. Today, four years later, I work a lot. And I live in a one bedroom apartment in Pittsburgh with my boyfriend. And I'm tired from working a lot. And I like to read and write and love and smile and think and see my friends and do yoga and reject authority. I like to think that I oversimplified somewhere along the way, that I made my life too easy, and that that's why I'm not a PhD candidate at MIT, who may or may not be the next Einstein. I actually hated Physics quite thoroughly; I took it my senior year of high school for college credit, and because a certain Physics instructor liked me, I didn't have to take it again in college. But now I wonder, what am I doing with my life? Why am I not remarkable yet? Why am I not profound?
I think the answer, is that I am thinking about the wrong stuff. What you meditate on, what you hum in the back of your mind throughout the day, becomes your reality. Regardless of the way the rest of the world sees you, regardless of what you've accomplished, what ultimately determines your success, your abilities, is what you see when you see yourself. So if I look in the mirror every day and compare myself to 22 year old physics PhD candidates, that would be a misinformed thing to do because I am not a physics PhD candidate. Or if I look in the mirror every day and wonder why after countless years of working out, I am still not a supermodel. That would be another misinformed thing to do, for a lot of reasons.
I guess I've never worried before about straying from the beaten path and now that I'm here, on a weird path I never imagined for myself, I can't help but feel...stray. I have read countless stories of writers that worked as waitresses and bartenders and maids and taxi drivers and more, while they tried really hard to be successful writers and then eventually were. And then there are the prodigal stories, of twenty year old writers who stumbled into success and fame and fortune and a lifetime of writerness. The bottom line, the root of all my issues, is that no other story will be the same as mine. When I look into the shelves for comfort or solace, I'm only pulling up shards of other people's comfort and solace. The truth is, reading someone else's writing can make you feel a little bit better for a little bit of time. But writing something, writing your own advice, your own story, your own manifestations, it really saves you, from yourself and from the world. It reminds you that you exist, you're here and you're building and no one can take that away.
When I imagined myself, four years ago, I'm not sure what I thought I'd be like. Determined, thoughtful, ambitious, creative, gentle, gifted: all words that swirl around in my head without sticking. Today, four years later, I work a lot. And I live in a one bedroom apartment in Pittsburgh with my boyfriend. And I'm tired from working a lot. And I like to read and write and love and smile and think and see my friends and do yoga and reject authority. I like to think that I oversimplified somewhere along the way, that I made my life too easy, and that that's why I'm not a PhD candidate at MIT, who may or may not be the next Einstein. I actually hated Physics quite thoroughly; I took it my senior year of high school for college credit, and because a certain Physics instructor liked me, I didn't have to take it again in college. But now I wonder, what am I doing with my life? Why am I not remarkable yet? Why am I not profound?
I think the answer, is that I am thinking about the wrong stuff. What you meditate on, what you hum in the back of your mind throughout the day, becomes your reality. Regardless of the way the rest of the world sees you, regardless of what you've accomplished, what ultimately determines your success, your abilities, is what you see when you see yourself. So if I look in the mirror every day and compare myself to 22 year old physics PhD candidates, that would be a misinformed thing to do because I am not a physics PhD candidate. Or if I look in the mirror every day and wonder why after countless years of working out, I am still not a supermodel. That would be another misinformed thing to do, for a lot of reasons.
I guess I've never worried before about straying from the beaten path and now that I'm here, on a weird path I never imagined for myself, I can't help but feel...stray. I have read countless stories of writers that worked as waitresses and bartenders and maids and taxi drivers and more, while they tried really hard to be successful writers and then eventually were. And then there are the prodigal stories, of twenty year old writers who stumbled into success and fame and fortune and a lifetime of writerness. The bottom line, the root of all my issues, is that no other story will be the same as mine. When I look into the shelves for comfort or solace, I'm only pulling up shards of other people's comfort and solace. The truth is, reading someone else's writing can make you feel a little bit better for a little bit of time. But writing something, writing your own advice, your own story, your own manifestations, it really saves you, from yourself and from the world. It reminds you that you exist, you're here and you're building and no one can take that away.
Tuesday, November 10, 2015
18 Year Old Chloe
This morning, as we both fought different degrees of influenza, Zach showed me a letter he had written in high school. It was called, "A Letter to my Future Self" and it was filled with rather sage advice from the eighteen year old version of my best friend. At the end, he told himself, "You're never going to be the best, but you can always be better." I laughed at this and read it aloud to him and he said, "It's true." And then I started to think about what it actually meant.
If I had a letter to read from my eighteen year old self, I don't think I'd like it very much, but maybe I'm discounting her. She is, after all, the reason I am where I am today. She is the one who got us to Chatham, to English, to Pittsburgh, to Zach, and to countless other adventures. When I think about her now, I only remember the parts of her that are different from me. She was extremely religious but failed to see her shortcomings. She was woefully romantic but failed to see how unromantic her predicaments were. She knew exactly where she wanted to go and exactly who she wanted to be. Unlike Zach's eighteen year old self, my eighteen year old self believed she would be the best at something, she believed she was impenetrable and revolutionary. Only to discover that the world changed quite drastically when you stepped foot outside of Cortland, Ohio. I discount her naivety, I scoff at it. I wonder how she could ever be so trusting, so rose-colored, so simple.
And then I wonder, why am I not? What changed between now and then, between 18 and 21, besides everything? Where have I hidden her away--the girl who believed she could, and then did, and then did over and over and over again. Why am I so afraid of just trusting that I will find my way? Why am I so hellbent on having "A PLAN" even if it has nothing to do with me or what I want? I have always trusted myself not to fail, not because I am exceptional or brilliant, but because I am too stubborn to have that kind of chink in my armor. And now, as the whole world opens up before me (the whole entry-level world that is) I can only see the vast array of opportunities I have to fail, rather than to flourish. I don't know why I think that, perhaps its that since 2008 people have been saying, "Good luck finding a job" to our entire generation. Maybe its that we live in a society of false perceptions and advertisements: look how great my life is, applaud me! False images that we are then left to compare ourselves to. Maybe its just that I'm scared and scrambling and feel like I'm standing on the edge of a cliff that has no fathomable valley. But just because things are getting less college, doesn't mean they have to get darker.
If I could sit down and have coffee with my eighteen-year old self, I don't think I'd give her any advice. I wouldn't want her to life to change, I'd still want her to become me. I'd want her to have all of the same triumphs and failures, to cry herself to sleep some nights and to go off the grid on others. I'd want her to have the good friendships and the bad, the meaningful relationships and the duds. I'd want her to stand in front of people she didn't know and read poems she'd been embarrassed to write. I'd even let her go to Brazil. I'd want her to do it all over again, in the same way, because the last four years were, simply, magnificent.
But if I could, I'd certainly ask for her advice. I'd ask her if she could choose, anything in the world, what would she want to do next? And I know what she'd say, it's always been the same thing. And then I'd ask her, if she was proud of me, if she was surprised about who I was, who I'd become over the past three and a half years since I'd left her, or if she was disappointed. I think she'd be really surprised, but I know she'd be proud and probably a little scared to do it all over again. Mostly, I'd want her to tell me that everything is going to be okay. It isn't that everyone I know hasn't already said this to me, its just that, I think I'll only believe it when I hear it from my own mouth.
And finally I'd say, "Zach gave me some really good advice today that I think I should tell you."
And she'd say, "Are you talking about that kid from the party the other night?" (Because my eighteen year old self knew Zach for precisely 10 days before she turned nineteen)
And I'd say, "No, someone else." Because I wouldn't want to spoil the ending.
And she'd say, "Okay what's the advice?"
And I'd say, "You're never going to be the best but you can always be better."
And she'd probably say I know, dickhead or Obviously or start an argument with me depending on what kind of mood she was in.
But then I'd know, that I didn't expect myself to be the best. I could just get better, a little bit every day, and see where I end up.
"Can you say it out loud? In front of an entire room of people, people you know, people you don't, your family, strangers, people who fascinate you, people who loathe you. Could you say it to them? The truth, the absolute truth of your life, the secret you've been keeping, the black hole you've been protecting. Could you stand on a podium, in front of a microphone, and bare your soul? Does it make you a bad person if you couldn't? I want to live in such a way that I can stand on the stage, in the spotlight, burning, sweating, scared shitless, and say it, no holds barred, and be proud of my truth." -18 Year Old Chloe
If I had a letter to read from my eighteen year old self, I don't think I'd like it very much, but maybe I'm discounting her. She is, after all, the reason I am where I am today. She is the one who got us to Chatham, to English, to Pittsburgh, to Zach, and to countless other adventures. When I think about her now, I only remember the parts of her that are different from me. She was extremely religious but failed to see her shortcomings. She was woefully romantic but failed to see how unromantic her predicaments were. She knew exactly where she wanted to go and exactly who she wanted to be. Unlike Zach's eighteen year old self, my eighteen year old self believed she would be the best at something, she believed she was impenetrable and revolutionary. Only to discover that the world changed quite drastically when you stepped foot outside of Cortland, Ohio. I discount her naivety, I scoff at it. I wonder how she could ever be so trusting, so rose-colored, so simple.
And then I wonder, why am I not? What changed between now and then, between 18 and 21, besides everything? Where have I hidden her away--the girl who believed she could, and then did, and then did over and over and over again. Why am I so afraid of just trusting that I will find my way? Why am I so hellbent on having "A PLAN" even if it has nothing to do with me or what I want? I have always trusted myself not to fail, not because I am exceptional or brilliant, but because I am too stubborn to have that kind of chink in my armor. And now, as the whole world opens up before me (the whole entry-level world that is) I can only see the vast array of opportunities I have to fail, rather than to flourish. I don't know why I think that, perhaps its that since 2008 people have been saying, "Good luck finding a job" to our entire generation. Maybe its that we live in a society of false perceptions and advertisements: look how great my life is, applaud me! False images that we are then left to compare ourselves to. Maybe its just that I'm scared and scrambling and feel like I'm standing on the edge of a cliff that has no fathomable valley. But just because things are getting less college, doesn't mean they have to get darker.
If I could sit down and have coffee with my eighteen-year old self, I don't think I'd give her any advice. I wouldn't want her to life to change, I'd still want her to become me. I'd want her to have all of the same triumphs and failures, to cry herself to sleep some nights and to go off the grid on others. I'd want her to have the good friendships and the bad, the meaningful relationships and the duds. I'd want her to stand in front of people she didn't know and read poems she'd been embarrassed to write. I'd even let her go to Brazil. I'd want her to do it all over again, in the same way, because the last four years were, simply, magnificent.
But if I could, I'd certainly ask for her advice. I'd ask her if she could choose, anything in the world, what would she want to do next? And I know what she'd say, it's always been the same thing. And then I'd ask her, if she was proud of me, if she was surprised about who I was, who I'd become over the past three and a half years since I'd left her, or if she was disappointed. I think she'd be really surprised, but I know she'd be proud and probably a little scared to do it all over again. Mostly, I'd want her to tell me that everything is going to be okay. It isn't that everyone I know hasn't already said this to me, its just that, I think I'll only believe it when I hear it from my own mouth.
And finally I'd say, "Zach gave me some really good advice today that I think I should tell you."
And she'd say, "Are you talking about that kid from the party the other night?" (Because my eighteen year old self knew Zach for precisely 10 days before she turned nineteen)
And I'd say, "No, someone else." Because I wouldn't want to spoil the ending.
And she'd say, "Okay what's the advice?"
And I'd say, "You're never going to be the best but you can always be better."
And she'd probably say I know, dickhead or Obviously or start an argument with me depending on what kind of mood she was in.
But then I'd know, that I didn't expect myself to be the best. I could just get better, a little bit every day, and see where I end up.
"Can you say it out loud? In front of an entire room of people, people you know, people you don't, your family, strangers, people who fascinate you, people who loathe you. Could you say it to them? The truth, the absolute truth of your life, the secret you've been keeping, the black hole you've been protecting. Could you stand on a podium, in front of a microphone, and bare your soul? Does it make you a bad person if you couldn't? I want to live in such a way that I can stand on the stage, in the spotlight, burning, sweating, scared shitless, and say it, no holds barred, and be proud of my truth." -18 Year Old Chloe
Thursday, September 3, 2015
It Hurts and We're Trying: Can That Be Enough?
As many of you probably know or have experienced, Chatham University, my school and soon to be alma mater, made the decision to go coeducational in Spring of 2014. After a year of preparation, on August 26th, move in began, and we welcomed the largest class of first years in a long time. They're great! They're smiling and engaging and full of excitement for what the next four years will bring...I am energized and inspired by interacting with them. And yet, they remind me of another eighteen year old I used to know...
When I came to Chatham, largely because of my scholarship at first, I didn't know what to expect and despite what I thought, I didn't really know who I was. I stumbled a lot throughout my first year, went through a lot of the stereotypical terrifying things that they warn you about going to college. I remember sitting in a really awful environmental science class next to the woman who would become my best friend. I didn't know her very well at the time, I just knew that we had the same sarcastic sense of humor, and we both hated the class. Feeling lost and missing my friends from home, I confided in her what was weighing me down. Instead of reacting with judgement, like I was afraid she would, she listened intently and squeezed my hand. She gave really good advice and reminded me, because I had certainly forgotten, that I was a strong woman, and no one could take that away from me, no matter what happened. Even though it is one anecdote, it is one of the most important from my time at Chatham, and even though its so simple, in that moment, her encouragement defined for me the importance of Chatham College for Women.
Now...nearly three years later, Phoebe and I are both graduating in December. We have one last semester. One last semester at the place where I learned how to be a woman, a feminist, a writer, a scientist, a friend, a sister, a daughter, a girlfriend, and an independent, self-sustaining human being. One last semester with Dean Waite, Dr. Bruckner, Dr. Kingsbury, Heather Black, Chief, Kitty, and all of the other amazing people and cats behind the scenes, making things happen. One last semester of giggles, wine, late study nights, and ripping my hair out over tutorial. One last semester of Anderson's vendetta against vegans. One last semester leaning on my sisters and letting them lean on me. One last semester with my Mooncats. One last semester at my home. And even though it is so intensely exciting, there is a tiny (not that tiny) part of me that is devastated.
You can't deny, if you knew it before, that something feels different in the air at Chatham University. People keep blaming the pheromones...but trust me, this school has never been lacking sexual energy. I really think there is a loss, a mourning weighing down on the women who've returned, the women who've left, and those who will still be here when the dust of this massive transition has settled. It scares me to think that three years from now, every student who attends Chatham will know it as a coeducational institutional only. Maybe that won't make a difference to them...but now, as we rapidly approach the bridge between students and alumnae, I worry that it will make a difference to me. You know, its hard to explain really, what it feels like, what we've lost...
In the basement of Rea house, there is a space called Rea Coffeehouse. It is a space that's used pretty frequently for open mic nights and performances, all great events that should be checked out. But on occasion, when it is empty, we sneak our way in and turn the lights on and bask in all of the history packed into those walls. The walls are colored with graffiti, the words of our sisters, passed down from class to class, our special secret. When we showed the new students the place on a behind the scenes tour of Chatham, several of the men told me they felt scared or uncomfortable down there. And I realized pretty suddenly, what was going on...this was and is their space, the women of Chatham. It is a sacred female space. It is impossible not to walk down there and not feel the energy vibrating your very being. The words scrawled across the walls make me laugh, cry, and feel things that belong to that space, to Chatham exclusively. And yeah... I guess if you didn't get it, what it meant, who it belonged to, the secrets and treasures it holds in its heart, it would be scary. Scrawled across what looks like an old church pew are the words, "This is a place where wymyn have been finding themselves for 121 years...can you feel it?" And yes, in every inch of your being, you can feel it.
I guess my heart aches for what was, and as we catapult into this new beginning, all I can hope is that every student who trips, stumbles, or dives headfirst into Chatham, is awakened in the same way I was. Maybe if you didn't live through it, you'll never understand what I'm talking about...and that's okay. There are a lot of things I will never understand, but I'll always try. All I ask for, from anyone who is willing to give it, is for a little patience and goodwill. Today, my boss listened to us try to express our grief and at the end she told us that our sadness was okay, that we were allowed to feel sad, we had lost something important to us. And that statement, that validation, was what I needed. It hurts but we're trying, and I hope, for now, that can be enough.
I'd just like to say one more thing...
As Meg and I wrapped up the viewing of Rea Coffeehouse, Meg remembering the last time she had been there and how different it was and me trying to grasp how anyone could be afraid of this amazing place, I noticed one of the first year men reading a wall. I told him we were getting ready to leave and he looked at me with huge eyes and said, "This place is absolutely amazing..."
And so, hope finds us.
When I came to Chatham, largely because of my scholarship at first, I didn't know what to expect and despite what I thought, I didn't really know who I was. I stumbled a lot throughout my first year, went through a lot of the stereotypical terrifying things that they warn you about going to college. I remember sitting in a really awful environmental science class next to the woman who would become my best friend. I didn't know her very well at the time, I just knew that we had the same sarcastic sense of humor, and we both hated the class. Feeling lost and missing my friends from home, I confided in her what was weighing me down. Instead of reacting with judgement, like I was afraid she would, she listened intently and squeezed my hand. She gave really good advice and reminded me, because I had certainly forgotten, that I was a strong woman, and no one could take that away from me, no matter what happened. Even though it is one anecdote, it is one of the most important from my time at Chatham, and even though its so simple, in that moment, her encouragement defined for me the importance of Chatham College for Women.
Now...nearly three years later, Phoebe and I are both graduating in December. We have one last semester. One last semester at the place where I learned how to be a woman, a feminist, a writer, a scientist, a friend, a sister, a daughter, a girlfriend, and an independent, self-sustaining human being. One last semester with Dean Waite, Dr. Bruckner, Dr. Kingsbury, Heather Black, Chief, Kitty, and all of the other amazing people and cats behind the scenes, making things happen. One last semester of giggles, wine, late study nights, and ripping my hair out over tutorial. One last semester of Anderson's vendetta against vegans. One last semester leaning on my sisters and letting them lean on me. One last semester with my Mooncats. One last semester at my home. And even though it is so intensely exciting, there is a tiny (not that tiny) part of me that is devastated.
You can't deny, if you knew it before, that something feels different in the air at Chatham University. People keep blaming the pheromones...but trust me, this school has never been lacking sexual energy. I really think there is a loss, a mourning weighing down on the women who've returned, the women who've left, and those who will still be here when the dust of this massive transition has settled. It scares me to think that three years from now, every student who attends Chatham will know it as a coeducational institutional only. Maybe that won't make a difference to them...but now, as we rapidly approach the bridge between students and alumnae, I worry that it will make a difference to me. You know, its hard to explain really, what it feels like, what we've lost...
In the basement of Rea house, there is a space called Rea Coffeehouse. It is a space that's used pretty frequently for open mic nights and performances, all great events that should be checked out. But on occasion, when it is empty, we sneak our way in and turn the lights on and bask in all of the history packed into those walls. The walls are colored with graffiti, the words of our sisters, passed down from class to class, our special secret. When we showed the new students the place on a behind the scenes tour of Chatham, several of the men told me they felt scared or uncomfortable down there. And I realized pretty suddenly, what was going on...this was and is their space, the women of Chatham. It is a sacred female space. It is impossible not to walk down there and not feel the energy vibrating your very being. The words scrawled across the walls make me laugh, cry, and feel things that belong to that space, to Chatham exclusively. And yeah... I guess if you didn't get it, what it meant, who it belonged to, the secrets and treasures it holds in its heart, it would be scary. Scrawled across what looks like an old church pew are the words, "This is a place where wymyn have been finding themselves for 121 years...can you feel it?" And yes, in every inch of your being, you can feel it.
I guess my heart aches for what was, and as we catapult into this new beginning, all I can hope is that every student who trips, stumbles, or dives headfirst into Chatham, is awakened in the same way I was. Maybe if you didn't live through it, you'll never understand what I'm talking about...and that's okay. There are a lot of things I will never understand, but I'll always try. All I ask for, from anyone who is willing to give it, is for a little patience and goodwill. Today, my boss listened to us try to express our grief and at the end she told us that our sadness was okay, that we were allowed to feel sad, we had lost something important to us. And that statement, that validation, was what I needed. It hurts but we're trying, and I hope, for now, that can be enough.
I'd just like to say one more thing...
As Meg and I wrapped up the viewing of Rea Coffeehouse, Meg remembering the last time she had been there and how different it was and me trying to grasp how anyone could be afraid of this amazing place, I noticed one of the first year men reading a wall. I told him we were getting ready to leave and he looked at me with huge eyes and said, "This place is absolutely amazing..."
And so, hope finds us.
Friday, July 31, 2015
& yet
I read a line the other day, forgive me for not remembering who said it, "Life is suffering. And yet..." There isn't a whole lot of fluff to it and its certainly not the kind of line that usually sends me into a tizzy. But on this day, in this life, the 'And yet' could not have felt more righteous. I say this because I'm starting to realize that sometimes "the answers" don't come wrapped with shiny red bows and land directly on our doorstep. Sometimes, though we are taught to think otherwise, the right thing to do is not as clear or as obvious as we are told it will be when the time is right, when we are ready to see it.
Sometimes THE answer is just showing up. Showing up to life and giving it a whirl. Showing up to life and apologizing, head hung low, for whatever you're carrying on your shoulders. Showing up to life and saying, "I don't know how the hell this is going to work" and someone nodding and saying, "Neither do I." Showing up even though you have been throwing up the entire way there. Showing up even though its one of those days where you wish you had the financial freedom to stay in bed. Showing up because you said you would or because you love the person on the other side of the door. And sometimes, showing up means saying no, because you have something more important to do, like take care of yourself.
I guess this is why the 'And yet' spoke to me so deeply. Life right now, and for the next few years, is going to be hard and stressful and broke at times. There will be suffering and it will require growing up. But you keep going for the And yet, the moments where you look around, despite your account balance and overwhelming stress, and realize how much you love this life, the life that you get to shape into your own special story. Sometimes, my And yet moment is when I have a really exhausting day, the bus takes forever, it's hot as hell, and I get to the doorstep and Zach opens the door smiling, and it all melts away. Sometimes, my And yet moment is when my boss and I cannot fathom how we are going to get it all done, and in the midst of it, we find ourselves giggling like crazy. Sometimes, it's just seeing Maddy's face, after all this time, growing up together, and still getting to have her as my friend. Sometimes, it's when I cannot fathom how I'm going to make it, and Sara texts me asking for advice, and I realize we are in the same boat, or when Sara sends me a postcard, and all of the negativity flies out of the window. Sometimes, it's Phoebe pulling up aggressively in her weird little bean car to save the day. Usually, it's my meem, talking me down from whatever mental crises I'm having, and reminding me, how young I am and how good I have it. Yes, my people are almost always my And yets.
I have almost always put more weight on choosing the perfect career path than I have on actually liking my life. Over the past few months, I've realized how scary it is that I'm not 100% sure what I want to be when I grow up. But I've also realized that my life is really special and I am lucky to love a lot of miraculous people and to in turn be loved by them. Maybe I won't know what I'm going to do until I just do it. Maybe that's okay. Maybe that doesn't make me any less smart, just less convinced that there is only one right path.
I don't know what comes next and yet, I love right now.
Sometimes THE answer is just showing up. Showing up to life and giving it a whirl. Showing up to life and apologizing, head hung low, for whatever you're carrying on your shoulders. Showing up to life and saying, "I don't know how the hell this is going to work" and someone nodding and saying, "Neither do I." Showing up even though you have been throwing up the entire way there. Showing up even though its one of those days where you wish you had the financial freedom to stay in bed. Showing up because you said you would or because you love the person on the other side of the door. And sometimes, showing up means saying no, because you have something more important to do, like take care of yourself.
I guess this is why the 'And yet' spoke to me so deeply. Life right now, and for the next few years, is going to be hard and stressful and broke at times. There will be suffering and it will require growing up. But you keep going for the And yet, the moments where you look around, despite your account balance and overwhelming stress, and realize how much you love this life, the life that you get to shape into your own special story. Sometimes, my And yet moment is when I have a really exhausting day, the bus takes forever, it's hot as hell, and I get to the doorstep and Zach opens the door smiling, and it all melts away. Sometimes, my And yet moment is when my boss and I cannot fathom how we are going to get it all done, and in the midst of it, we find ourselves giggling like crazy. Sometimes, it's just seeing Maddy's face, after all this time, growing up together, and still getting to have her as my friend. Sometimes, it's when I cannot fathom how I'm going to make it, and Sara texts me asking for advice, and I realize we are in the same boat, or when Sara sends me a postcard, and all of the negativity flies out of the window. Sometimes, it's Phoebe pulling up aggressively in her weird little bean car to save the day. Usually, it's my meem, talking me down from whatever mental crises I'm having, and reminding me, how young I am and how good I have it. Yes, my people are almost always my And yets.
I have almost always put more weight on choosing the perfect career path than I have on actually liking my life. Over the past few months, I've realized how scary it is that I'm not 100% sure what I want to be when I grow up. But I've also realized that my life is really special and I am lucky to love a lot of miraculous people and to in turn be loved by them. Maybe I won't know what I'm going to do until I just do it. Maybe that's okay. Maybe that doesn't make me any less smart, just less convinced that there is only one right path.
I don't know what comes next and yet, I love right now.
Wednesday, July 1, 2015
Perfection & Rejection & Other Words That Are Dumb
It would seem unwise to tell you all of my secrets, but at this point, I really don't think they're secrets anymore. I'm going through this weird phase where the future is unclear but I'm not scared. In fact, I am deeply content, at this moment, in this life. And I don't think that comes from jobs or awards or recognition or praise, nor do I think it ever will. I don't think it comes from the stars aligning and the world becoming a better place, because there is so much work to do, every day, to keep making things better, for all of us. Hard, dirty, sticky work. I think the reason I am content, even though I'm broke, clueless, and pretty scared for what happens next, is because I know I will be okay.
How can you know its going to be okay? You really can't know that something awful or disastrous won't happen every day when you wake up, because one day, eventually, a bad thing will happen to you. Not that many bad things have happened to me, relatively speaking. That isn't to say that I haven't deemed many days that absolute worst of my life because I was tired, sad, grumpy, or hungry. But all in all, on this side of things, I look at my life so far and I know it has been incredibly lucky and easy. I have parents that bent over backwards in every way possible, to make my life comfortable, and still do. I have friends that love me unconditionally, despite how much of an asshole I can be. And I have a boyfriend whose love I can't put into words. So I think...what do I have to give to the world that no one else does? Because, after all, that is the thing I'm searching for, the answer to my myriad of questions. My answer, though it has always come in different forms, has always been to write things. That isn't to say, I write in some special way that no one else can write. I can't and I don't. But writing has always felt like the way out of the tunnel and into the light for me, and sometimes the best way to find your way out of that tunnel is to listen to how someone else did it. But sometimes not, sometimes finding your way out of the tunnel means hanging up a strand of lights, building a nice bed on the floor, and making a home out of the dark. The tunnel is not so bad. It means you're growing in your uncertainty and you're learning how to struggle with grace.
I have always considered myself a decent writer and people have told me from time to time that I am more than decent. Over the years, I think I let my ego get the best of me, and I started to believe that my writing deserved to be heard. Writing deserves nothing. It simply exists. I'm not saying it is a bad thing to be confident and secure in your talents, IT IS A WONDERFUL THING. But...over the past year, I failed to win any of the writing contests I entered, or get published at all. And it knocked me down a few notches and it sucked. It felt like a year with no progress, a year with no accolades. I stopped writing poems for a while because they felt hard to write. I haven't written short stories because...well for no good reason. And as you may have noticed, I've written minimal blogs. And I need to stop. I need to write and get over it and be strong and be accountable and keep going. Writing revolves around rejection. Writing is steeped in rejection. Its how you learn to deal, to cope, to survive. And it hurts cus it's raw, but damnit, that's cus it's real.
I often use the same John Steinbeck quote when coping with my sometimes unbearable/ sometimes nonexistent perfectionism, “And now that you don't have to be perfect, you can be good.” In a way, I feel that some of the pressure I've always put on myself has been lifted. Over the past year of writing rejections, I've realized that writing isn't the only thing I can do well. And through that realization, the pressure I put on my writing has alleviated itself. I can be other things and a writer simultaneously. In fact, I could have a job that doesn't revolve around writing and still write. Or I could have a job that revolves around writing and only write at work. There is a lifetime of possibilities. I think practicing goodness and mindfulness, remembering how my actions affect the people who love me, and taking care of my mind, body, and spirit are the important pillars of my life right now. I don't want to rush into a career path that I'm not sure is right for me just to feel like I'm checking off the right boxes. I don't want to spend money on things I don't need just to feel like I'm keeping up appearances. I want to stay hydrated and to stay dreaming. I want to immerse myself in each moment, in the here and now, because I might not ever have this kind of time for breathing again.
So my secret is, even though I should've decided this a long time ago, I don't want to be perfect anymore. I want to make other people happy but I also want to be happy. And to me, those two things, in their purest form, come together. And I think that's enough of a path for now.
How can you know its going to be okay? You really can't know that something awful or disastrous won't happen every day when you wake up, because one day, eventually, a bad thing will happen to you. Not that many bad things have happened to me, relatively speaking. That isn't to say that I haven't deemed many days that absolute worst of my life because I was tired, sad, grumpy, or hungry. But all in all, on this side of things, I look at my life so far and I know it has been incredibly lucky and easy. I have parents that bent over backwards in every way possible, to make my life comfortable, and still do. I have friends that love me unconditionally, despite how much of an asshole I can be. And I have a boyfriend whose love I can't put into words. So I think...what do I have to give to the world that no one else does? Because, after all, that is the thing I'm searching for, the answer to my myriad of questions. My answer, though it has always come in different forms, has always been to write things. That isn't to say, I write in some special way that no one else can write. I can't and I don't. But writing has always felt like the way out of the tunnel and into the light for me, and sometimes the best way to find your way out of that tunnel is to listen to how someone else did it. But sometimes not, sometimes finding your way out of the tunnel means hanging up a strand of lights, building a nice bed on the floor, and making a home out of the dark. The tunnel is not so bad. It means you're growing in your uncertainty and you're learning how to struggle with grace.
I have always considered myself a decent writer and people have told me from time to time that I am more than decent. Over the years, I think I let my ego get the best of me, and I started to believe that my writing deserved to be heard. Writing deserves nothing. It simply exists. I'm not saying it is a bad thing to be confident and secure in your talents, IT IS A WONDERFUL THING. But...over the past year, I failed to win any of the writing contests I entered, or get published at all. And it knocked me down a few notches and it sucked. It felt like a year with no progress, a year with no accolades. I stopped writing poems for a while because they felt hard to write. I haven't written short stories because...well for no good reason. And as you may have noticed, I've written minimal blogs. And I need to stop. I need to write and get over it and be strong and be accountable and keep going. Writing revolves around rejection. Writing is steeped in rejection. Its how you learn to deal, to cope, to survive. And it hurts cus it's raw, but damnit, that's cus it's real.
I often use the same John Steinbeck quote when coping with my sometimes unbearable/ sometimes nonexistent perfectionism, “And now that you don't have to be perfect, you can be good.” In a way, I feel that some of the pressure I've always put on myself has been lifted. Over the past year of writing rejections, I've realized that writing isn't the only thing I can do well. And through that realization, the pressure I put on my writing has alleviated itself. I can be other things and a writer simultaneously. In fact, I could have a job that doesn't revolve around writing and still write. Or I could have a job that revolves around writing and only write at work. There is a lifetime of possibilities. I think practicing goodness and mindfulness, remembering how my actions affect the people who love me, and taking care of my mind, body, and spirit are the important pillars of my life right now. I don't want to rush into a career path that I'm not sure is right for me just to feel like I'm checking off the right boxes. I don't want to spend money on things I don't need just to feel like I'm keeping up appearances. I want to stay hydrated and to stay dreaming. I want to immerse myself in each moment, in the here and now, because I might not ever have this kind of time for breathing again.
So my secret is, even though I should've decided this a long time ago, I don't want to be perfect anymore. I want to make other people happy but I also want to be happy. And to me, those two things, in their purest form, come together. And I think that's enough of a path for now.
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