What do I hate more than women who make me feel ugly? Women who make my mom feel ugly.
When my mother asks me, "Does she look the same age as me?" or tells me, "I need to lose weight." "I want to look like ____." I feel bad. I feel bad for myself, I feel bad for her, and I feel bad for society. We are living in a world where a woman can enter college at 16, graduate medical school, graduate law school, have 3 children who grow up to be successful, and yet still look another woman and still think, "I'm not as good as her." There is something sick in the air. Something putrid.
Yet, this is what life has given us and what we accept. Even the most charmingly dorky, compassionate, and intelligent women of the world feel overpowered by their desire to fit the mold of "attractive", of "skinny enough", of "fashionable". They may not even care deep down, but to feel feminine and empowered, this is what it takes.
No number of feminist butch women can outnumber those who make women feel useless and terrible on a daily basis. Talk big all you want, women still go about their lives waxing, and tanning, and comparing, and feeling a genuine sense of worthlessness. Of course, they then cover up these feelings by calling out others on their lack of "ooh la la!", and so the cycle continues.
When I look at my mom, I see her blue eyes, her rosy cheeks, her normal sized nose, her mom-on-the-run outfit, and that inspires me. Everything about her is evidence of a successful woman. She may not be perfect at parenting and may not have the neatest work desk and may not always have the answer, but she is the woman every girl should dream to be. She may not dress like Elizabeth Taylor, look like Audrey Hepburn, dance like Benonyoncee (Okay, I don't know how to spell her name. Is that even a name??), or sing like Mariah Carey, but she is so much better. SO MUCH BETTER. Not just as a mom, either. As a human, as a supermodel, as a teacher, as a role model...
Alas, no matter how many times I say this, no matter how many times you read this, every single one of us will continue beating ourselves up for not being born to the right parents, not saying the right thing, and not looking like every other freakin' plastic, miserable, stupid pop star wannabe.
I am not writing this to make my mom feel good and continue paying my bills. I'm not even writing this to convince anyone or point fingers. I just thought it had to be put out there and said and maybe someone will take a moment to consider what I've written. Maybe something will change in one person.
Thursday, October 3, 2013
Tuesday, October 1, 2013
Back to Life through Sound
It is sad to me that my hero will never know what he has done for me. I wish he knew. I wish when he reached the end of his time, in some part of his mind, there was a tiny memory of the moment he discovered he saved me. I wish I could tell him how his life and artistry woke me up and rekindled my passion for existence.
It would be fine with me if he didn't care. I don't need to feel special or loved by him, I just want him to know that he affected me just like millions of other people. I am not the first to feel this way, nor will I be the last, but I was one of those people. Out of the clusters and clouds of trendsetters in their glassless eyewear, I stood amongst those sorts and unashamedly, I screamed. I screamed in a way I never scream otherwise, with a happier affect than I have ever exposed to even my closest loved ones.
I cried when I heard those words and saw what could only described as metaphysical birth of something one cannot touch, but only can feel. I wish my hero knew that feeling- or maybe he does. He doesn't know how I experience it, though. I wish he could feel MY skin tighten to my bones and the ache of my smile and eyebrows raised. The cramps in my calves as I stand on my tip toes because the front row is never enough. It's not the same as being as close to the microphone as his cuff links.
He should know how proud I was. How I didn't give in when the other kids, the other adults, my peers laughed at my devotion. As they called me weird and crazy. How I defended him and told them why he mattered, why his words meant so much, why he will not be forgotten. Why he should not be forgotten.
I will never forget the first time he inspired me and woke me from my internal defeat. Nor will I forget the movement of my hips as I escaped my end and discovered my redemption. He brought me back from the half dead; the half gone.
I walked through his hoops of wise words. Ones he threw into the universe with intricacies of data, etched into the youthful public minds. I escaped through the back door of the "norm" and I saw what he could reveal to me. What sheets he could pull away from a sacred child, and I learned. I listened. I explored. I need him to know how I have tried. My every attempt to keep up with his message, his prophecy, his dreams. I was always there taking notes and hoping through some osmosis, I too could flee the moment and create my own... something. I too can create poetry from the words others dare not say. On the other hand, I can laugh at chaos and open my life. mind. world. eyes to it.
He has pieced together this mind in infancy and raised it into a glowing being. The person I needed to be today. Someone that the world could not go on without. I only wish. I just wish my hero knew.
It would be fine with me if he didn't care. I don't need to feel special or loved by him, I just want him to know that he affected me just like millions of other people. I am not the first to feel this way, nor will I be the last, but I was one of those people. Out of the clusters and clouds of trendsetters in their glassless eyewear, I stood amongst those sorts and unashamedly, I screamed. I screamed in a way I never scream otherwise, with a happier affect than I have ever exposed to even my closest loved ones.
I cried when I heard those words and saw what could only described as metaphysical birth of something one cannot touch, but only can feel. I wish my hero knew that feeling- or maybe he does. He doesn't know how I experience it, though. I wish he could feel MY skin tighten to my bones and the ache of my smile and eyebrows raised. The cramps in my calves as I stand on my tip toes because the front row is never enough. It's not the same as being as close to the microphone as his cuff links.
He should know how proud I was. How I didn't give in when the other kids, the other adults, my peers laughed at my devotion. As they called me weird and crazy. How I defended him and told them why he mattered, why his words meant so much, why he will not be forgotten. Why he should not be forgotten.
I will never forget the first time he inspired me and woke me from my internal defeat. Nor will I forget the movement of my hips as I escaped my end and discovered my redemption. He brought me back from the half dead; the half gone.
I walked through his hoops of wise words. Ones he threw into the universe with intricacies of data, etched into the youthful public minds. I escaped through the back door of the "norm" and I saw what he could reveal to me. What sheets he could pull away from a sacred child, and I learned. I listened. I explored. I need him to know how I have tried. My every attempt to keep up with his message, his prophecy, his dreams. I was always there taking notes and hoping through some osmosis, I too could flee the moment and create my own... something. I too can create poetry from the words others dare not say. On the other hand, I can laugh at chaos and open my life. mind. world. eyes to it.
He has pieced together this mind in infancy and raised it into a glowing being. The person I needed to be today. Someone that the world could not go on without. I only wish. I just wish my hero knew.
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