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.
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
I'm in the Closet.
Let me tell ya’ll a story ‘bout survival and finding hope where hope no longer lives. Gather ‘round, chitlins. Some of ya’ll might not believe this story, some of ya’ll might be afeared. Ain’t no use in either, honeychild, life is a wild ride. Every day is something new to face.
When did it all start? Ah, yes….
I done emailed my landlady on this here computer machine, and I told her, I done said I plan to move into school dorms at the end of the month. Yeah, yeah, sure, I had I told her I would be living here until January, but cross my heart and hope to die, she said to let her know by the 25th of the month if I had gone and had a change of mind. Which I did, baby. I sure did.
Well, she wunnit havin’ it. Nuh uh. Let me tell you somethin’… that Israel girl tells me moving out is unacceptable and she right up demands I pay rent. Matter of fact, since I went and said I wanted to leave, she demanded I pay that very same day. Honey, I do not have that sort of money just lying around!
It was then I realize, if she catches me home, who knows what awful things she’d do to me! God have mercy on my soul. This little Jew decided then, there ain’t no way I’m getting into a big something something because of all this drama. So I went and I shut the lights and turned off the fan. Let me tell you, you ain’t never smelt the smell of fear like I smelled that fateful night. I never packed my things so fast. I wunnit used to running away. I don’t believe in fear, but that night the Devil was on my trail. I swear it as far as I can throw it.
Every time I tried to make my escape, my door would loudly bang, I couldn’t make a run for it just yet. The time was not right. Besides, them 60 lbs of luggage were a backbreaker going down 3 flights of stairs. I knew I’d have to stay the night and fight another fight for survival.
That night was the worst of my life. Every noise, every voice, I felt myself quivering from big toe to the hair on my head. I was a nervous wreck and I knew I was in trouble if I made a noise. I did what I had to do to survive, feasting on dead roaches and relieving myself in a corner. I ain’t never gonna be the same. Didn’t get me a wink of sleep.
That’s why I planned on the computer machine to get away when my captors were at work. My hero would come by in his car today while
they’z at work. I still heard the white man in the kitchen at 10 AM, though. Clinking dishes and silverware. Just clinking carelessly, awaiting to hear just a single cough or blink from me. For now, I just wait, not knowing what my future holds; or if I’ll even have a future.
Part II:
The day came and it was time for the escape. Mama A was on Skype all jumpy just as I was. We was anxiously awaitin’ my fate. I was at my computer when I heard that dreaded noise. A thud on the door. Now, I heard many thuds in my day, but this one held the wrath of Satan. Boy, I tell you. I up and grabbed my computer and dashed right into the closet. That there closet was as small as, well, a closet. Tiny as the dickens, but I fit my entire body in, except my toes stuck out a little. She walked away from the door. I felt relief, but weren’t taking no chances by leaving the closet, so I held in most of my breaths, took the pain, and dealt with my arms losing blood. Where was that dang hero of mine with his car? He weren’t nowhere to be heard from! So, not a woman for letting no man and no woman hold me back, I came out of the closet. I listened real close-like to the door. When it went silent, I made my flee. I grabbed my guitar, my backpack, my 60 lb luggage, my 20 lb luggage, and I jolted down the three flights of stairs. I swore any second they’d stop me and Krav Manga me in the face, but ain’t you know it, I got free. I whistled for a cab and it came near, all I said was, “Take me to the University, boy, take me home.” He looked at me funny and said, “What?” So, I clarified and asked him how much it would cost. Best 50 shekels ever spent, I tell you. Who would have thought freedom would come in the shape of a burly Israeli man and his little white taxi? Sure, I left behind my razor, but what I didn’t leave behind was my dignity! ‘Cept when she knocked the second time and I peed myself a little. I kept most of it, though.
Now here I am in the dorm room. Alone. Air conditioner on.
Just back from the mall with a beer. Life ain’t never been sweeter. Lordy, let me tell you, life is good.
When did it all start? Ah, yes….
I done emailed my landlady on this here computer machine, and I told her, I done said I plan to move into school dorms at the end of the month. Yeah, yeah, sure, I had I told her I would be living here until January, but cross my heart and hope to die, she said to let her know by the 25th of the month if I had gone and had a change of mind. Which I did, baby. I sure did.
Well, she wunnit havin’ it. Nuh uh. Let me tell you somethin’… that Israel girl tells me moving out is unacceptable and she right up demands I pay rent. Matter of fact, since I went and said I wanted to leave, she demanded I pay that very same day. Honey, I do not have that sort of money just lying around!
It was then I realize, if she catches me home, who knows what awful things she’d do to me! God have mercy on my soul. This little Jew decided then, there ain’t no way I’m getting into a big something something because of all this drama. So I went and I shut the lights and turned off the fan. Let me tell you, you ain’t never smelt the smell of fear like I smelled that fateful night. I never packed my things so fast. I wunnit used to running away. I don’t believe in fear, but that night the Devil was on my trail. I swear it as far as I can throw it.
Every time I tried to make my escape, my door would loudly bang, I couldn’t make a run for it just yet. The time was not right. Besides, them 60 lbs of luggage were a backbreaker going down 3 flights of stairs. I knew I’d have to stay the night and fight another fight for survival.
That night was the worst of my life. Every noise, every voice, I felt myself quivering from big toe to the hair on my head. I was a nervous wreck and I knew I was in trouble if I made a noise. I did what I had to do to survive, feasting on dead roaches and relieving myself in a corner. I ain’t never gonna be the same. Didn’t get me a wink of sleep.
That’s why I planned on the computer machine to get away when my captors were at work. My hero would come by in his car today while
they’z at work. I still heard the white man in the kitchen at 10 AM, though. Clinking dishes and silverware. Just clinking carelessly, awaiting to hear just a single cough or blink from me. For now, I just wait, not knowing what my future holds; or if I’ll even have a future.
Part II:
The day came and it was time for the escape. Mama A was on Skype all jumpy just as I was. We was anxiously awaitin’ my fate. I was at my computer when I heard that dreaded noise. A thud on the door. Now, I heard many thuds in my day, but this one held the wrath of Satan. Boy, I tell you. I up and grabbed my computer and dashed right into the closet. That there closet was as small as, well, a closet. Tiny as the dickens, but I fit my entire body in, except my toes stuck out a little. She walked away from the door. I felt relief, but weren’t taking no chances by leaving the closet, so I held in most of my breaths, took the pain, and dealt with my arms losing blood. Where was that dang hero of mine with his car? He weren’t nowhere to be heard from! So, not a woman for letting no man and no woman hold me back, I came out of the closet. I listened real close-like to the door. When it went silent, I made my flee. I grabbed my guitar, my backpack, my 60 lb luggage, my 20 lb luggage, and I jolted down the three flights of stairs. I swore any second they’d stop me and Krav Manga me in the face, but ain’t you know it, I got free. I whistled for a cab and it came near, all I said was, “Take me to the University, boy, take me home.” He looked at me funny and said, “What?” So, I clarified and asked him how much it would cost. Best 50 shekels ever spent, I tell you. Who would have thought freedom would come in the shape of a burly Israeli man and his little white taxi? Sure, I left behind my razor, but what I didn’t leave behind was my dignity! ‘Cept when she knocked the second time and I peed myself a little. I kept most of it, though.
Now here I am in the dorm room. Alone. Air conditioner on.
Just back from the mall with a beer. Life ain’t never been sweeter. Lordy, let me tell you, life is good.
Monday, September 23, 2013
Why you Should make him a Sandwich *This will offend you*
This is a list I dreamt about. Upon sharing it with a fellow scholar of advanced intellect and sophistication, he suggested that I post the list, along with images from the 50s and thereabouts that I felt fitting. I am easily influenced, so why not?
Reason #5:
Cardio! It may seem minor, but even just those 10 extra minutes off the couch will do your body some real good. We all know how hubby likes a slim wife, after all.
Reason #4:
Power! He may like to feel like he's in control, but she who decides what goes into his meal controls what matters. Show him who's boss!
Reason #3:
While you're at it, make yourself a sandwich too! Or even better, make yourself a salad. Remember: Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.
Reason #2:
Know your way around. You know how in war there's a home base advantage? Same goes for the kitchen. Every woman should know her kitchen like the back of her man's hand.
The final reason to make him a sandwich?
Reason #1:
Because he asked you once and he shouldn't have to ask you again!
Reason #5:
Cardio! It may seem minor, but even just those 10 extra minutes off the couch will do your body some real good. We all know how hubby likes a slim wife, after all.
Reason #4:
Power! He may like to feel like he's in control, but she who decides what goes into his meal controls what matters. Show him who's boss!
Reason #3:
While you're at it, make yourself a sandwich too! Or even better, make yourself a salad. Remember: Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.
Reason #2:Know your way around. You know how in war there's a home base advantage? Same goes for the kitchen. Every woman should know her kitchen like the back of her man's hand.
The final reason to make him a sandwich?
Reason #1:
Because he asked you once and he shouldn't have to ask you again!
Wednesday, September 11, 2013
If there's one thing I've learned...
Throughout my travels, it's that I do not travel well. Sure, I'll sign up for the major trek and I'll do it, so that's pretty impressive... however, getting me there and the first week or two... or three... or several months are misery. As my mother once said and I quote often to explain my mentality, "Most people get hungry and they're grumpy. You get hungry and you're a pit of despair."
This applies to hunger, travel, socializing, and... life. I don't deal well with things. Particularly new things. I'm kind of autistic in that way. Is that an adjective one may use non-offensively? To be fair, my anxiety is an offshoot of autism, so it's kind of true. As in, I am HIGHLY reactive. I get a sensory overload quite easily. Too much clothing in the clothing store! AH! Too many plans this week! AH! This did not go as planned! AHHHH!! Yeah, that's another thing, I don't deal well with last minute changes. If someone says we'll meet at a certain time, if they're late, or even if I am late due to unforeseen circumstances, I die. I straight up just die. Fortunately, I come back to life, but the death part is overwhelming and anxiety-provoking in itself.
This is not the direction I was planning on taking this bloggy thingermadoo, but I always seem to turn things, whether it be a travel log or a romantic venture, into over-intellectualized existential crises. Anywho, sensory overload (or overlord, as I almost typed), what is this you speak of? You being me. Me being me. Well, it means I take in everything I see, feel, think, do, smell, and hear in a way that makes my head cry. It even goes as far as how I feel about things. I obsess, I overthink, I care too much. Fortunately, this is balanced out a bit by my lack of attention span. This, however, may sound like me saying I'm too good of a person that not even the tremendous capacity of the human mind can handle it, but that's certainly not what I mean. What that means is that I take things and people to heart. Let me simplify: I have the feels big time, yo. However, in a little twist of events, it's so overpowering, that in order to cope, my mind practically shuts those feels down. As in, I know before a big trip that I am crazy nervous and excited. I'm not a robot, as it appears sometimes. I am maddeningly emotional and sensitive. However, if I constantly spouted those feelings out and cried or screamed in joy all the time, someone would slice open my throat. In order to fix this, my body has decided to turn me into the person who's like, "Oh- the 4 month trip to the Middle East? Yeah. That'll be coolstuffandthingswhatever."
I am certain many individuals can relate to this poor way of coping. After all, it would be nice and healthy to turn on some sort of emotional faucet once in a while, right? Maybe the ability is inside us all and we just need to believe and let the emotions free!
Yeah, I get that line a lot. People seem to think I hold back my emotions because I fear vulnerability. You too? You hear that all the time also? Wow, we should be best buddies or something! Sure, this may be part of the defense mechanism. Like I said earlier, it's risky to constantly let everyone know how you feel and think... BUT I don't think this is entirely the case. As a matter of fact, I know it isn't. I'm happy to tell people about much of my dark past (cue bats and witches and junk). I just won't necessarily go into the emotional aspect. Obviously if I cried in a dark corner, I wasn't Cheerful Charlie, but that's for you to infer, not for me to go into a whole rant about. "And then I felt like my sadness was just a big crumpled piece of looseleaf paper. I just wanted to chuck it into the trash can. Chuck it! I want to CHUCK IT! DO YOU HEAR ME!?"
Here's what I say: My rule is that I am allowed to be as terrified and sad and angry in my private time as I need to be. I won't be mad at myself for it or embarrassed, I'll just let it happen. At the end of the day, though, I have to go forward with the plan. Of course, in small print it says, "Unless it's really not worth it." Indeed, I'm also allowed to back out of it. The idea is just trying. Sometimes things end up being intolerable, of course. Even if I think I am ready for something, it doesn't mean my mind is. I have to respect that. This can get tricky, too. Sometimes you can't just walk out of a situation or say, "I'm getting off this ride now." Sometimes... maybe (????) it's good to put yourself in a new, scary situation that you can't escape. Maybe it'll be awful and horrible, but I do recommend it is something temporary. Even if it's 4 months. Those 4 months will end and I'll either fail out of school and go home crying like a true failure or maybe I'll excel and adjust and want to come back right away. Admittedly, these are two extremes, and neither are likely to happen... That too is in the fine print. I'll just keep the cheerful, positive voice. Yay! Everything will work out and all your dreams will come true and unicorns will pop out of your eye sockets!
This applies to hunger, travel, socializing, and... life. I don't deal well with things. Particularly new things. I'm kind of autistic in that way. Is that an adjective one may use non-offensively? To be fair, my anxiety is an offshoot of autism, so it's kind of true. As in, I am HIGHLY reactive. I get a sensory overload quite easily. Too much clothing in the clothing store! AH! Too many plans this week! AH! This did not go as planned! AHHHH!! Yeah, that's another thing, I don't deal well with last minute changes. If someone says we'll meet at a certain time, if they're late, or even if I am late due to unforeseen circumstances, I die. I straight up just die. Fortunately, I come back to life, but the death part is overwhelming and anxiety-provoking in itself.
This is not the direction I was planning on taking this bloggy thingermadoo, but I always seem to turn things, whether it be a travel log or a romantic venture, into over-intellectualized existential crises. Anywho, sensory overload (or overlord, as I almost typed), what is this you speak of? You being me. Me being me. Well, it means I take in everything I see, feel, think, do, smell, and hear in a way that makes my head cry. It even goes as far as how I feel about things. I obsess, I overthink, I care too much. Fortunately, this is balanced out a bit by my lack of attention span. This, however, may sound like me saying I'm too good of a person that not even the tremendous capacity of the human mind can handle it, but that's certainly not what I mean. What that means is that I take things and people to heart. Let me simplify: I have the feels big time, yo. However, in a little twist of events, it's so overpowering, that in order to cope, my mind practically shuts those feels down. As in, I know before a big trip that I am crazy nervous and excited. I'm not a robot, as it appears sometimes. I am maddeningly emotional and sensitive. However, if I constantly spouted those feelings out and cried or screamed in joy all the time, someone would slice open my throat. In order to fix this, my body has decided to turn me into the person who's like, "Oh- the 4 month trip to the Middle East? Yeah. That'll be coolstuffandthingswhatever."
I am certain many individuals can relate to this poor way of coping. After all, it would be nice and healthy to turn on some sort of emotional faucet once in a while, right? Maybe the ability is inside us all and we just need to believe and let the emotions free!
Yeah, I get that line a lot. People seem to think I hold back my emotions because I fear vulnerability. You too? You hear that all the time also? Wow, we should be best buddies or something! Sure, this may be part of the defense mechanism. Like I said earlier, it's risky to constantly let everyone know how you feel and think... BUT I don't think this is entirely the case. As a matter of fact, I know it isn't. I'm happy to tell people about much of my dark past (cue bats and witches and junk). I just won't necessarily go into the emotional aspect. Obviously if I cried in a dark corner, I wasn't Cheerful Charlie, but that's for you to infer, not for me to go into a whole rant about. "And then I felt like my sadness was just a big crumpled piece of looseleaf paper. I just wanted to chuck it into the trash can. Chuck it! I want to CHUCK IT! DO YOU HEAR ME!?"
Here's what I say: My rule is that I am allowed to be as terrified and sad and angry in my private time as I need to be. I won't be mad at myself for it or embarrassed, I'll just let it happen. At the end of the day, though, I have to go forward with the plan. Of course, in small print it says, "Unless it's really not worth it." Indeed, I'm also allowed to back out of it. The idea is just trying. Sometimes things end up being intolerable, of course. Even if I think I am ready for something, it doesn't mean my mind is. I have to respect that. This can get tricky, too. Sometimes you can't just walk out of a situation or say, "I'm getting off this ride now." Sometimes... maybe (????) it's good to put yourself in a new, scary situation that you can't escape. Maybe it'll be awful and horrible, but I do recommend it is something temporary. Even if it's 4 months. Those 4 months will end and I'll either fail out of school and go home crying like a true failure or maybe I'll excel and adjust and want to come back right away. Admittedly, these are two extremes, and neither are likely to happen... That too is in the fine print. I'll just keep the cheerful, positive voice. Yay! Everything will work out and all your dreams will come true and unicorns will pop out of your eye sockets!
Tuesday, August 20, 2013
In your eyes...
There are few times in my life when I become spiritual. Whatever that means. As a matter of fact, I don't know that I've ever felt there was a bigger, better reason for the way of the world. I may have hoped it, I may have wished it, but I never saw any signs, any memories, any times in my life when the world plotted a path for me or taught me something through metaphysics or astronomy. Nor has a tree ever given me wisdom conspired from the hundreds of years prior. However, I will say, on my latest exploration abroad, something quite mind blowing occurred.
It happened after a short chain of events. At first I experienced something some would consider dark, horrific, and traumatizing. Something, I unfortunately, have come to see as what life brings to me for some reason. I won't go into specifics, but it was just not good. Around the same day, the next, I believe, I went to the cruise ship's headlining act. He was a country singer, but he mostly did folk music covers. In my depths of despair, I sat through his show and lip synched the songs in a sorrowful and dejected manner. The musician kept catching my eye and smiling. I assumed this was because I was the only one in the room who wasn't wearing Depends and Poligrip. While I cannot say the music made the events less harmful, they did make the situation more bearable.
I started going to his shows every opportunity I got. Each time, my confidence and ability to dance and sing along becoming more visible. The musician continued to smile at me and play towards me. Until, finally, after about a week or a week and a half, I ran into the musician outside one of his shows. He came to me with a smile and said, "I don't believe I've learned your name." He held out his hand and I gave him mine. He didn't let go, he just gripped it. I told him my name and he responded with, "What. a. BEAUTIFUL name. Fits for such a beautiful girl." He told me little details about himself, the one that stood out to me was that he had 17 Great Danes. My curiosity was peaked.
More days went on, and even though we now were familiar with one another, I did not think much of it. We did not speak again, we didn't even wave 'hello'. That is, until the very last night of the trip. After a night of one particularly "friendly" older gentleman dancing with me and making jokes about kissing my neck, I made an excuse to excuse myself and then, when I saw he was gone, I snuck back into the area where the musician had been performing and I sat. I was hoping he would stop to chat, but it was rather late, he was rather inebriated, and he was already chatting with another family. He had thrown my name into one of the songs earlier, but I am certain this was just a crowd pleasing technique.
Still, I waited. I jumped each time someone walked past, thinking it could be the "friendly" man, but he was preoccupied by waiting at the bar until I was to return. Which I was not going to do (I think it best to be kind to people you will be spending 10 days on a ship with. Until the very last night, of course.) The waiting turned into an hour wait. This would not be a big deal, but I was growing more nervous, it was getting later, and I had to leave the ship early the next morning. Not to mention, I knew my grandmother would go off on me if I got back to the room too late.
After sneaking a peek every few minutes to see if the musician would notice my presence, I hear, "Mind if I finish my beer with you?"
I look up with a smile and there is the big Southern boy all dressed in black and looking down at me. I tell him it would be my pleasure, inserting some sort of less-than-clever witticism. He sat down next to me and asked me, "What do you want to do with your life?" Without hesitation I told him I was studying music therapy. That wasn't exactly an answer to his question, but it was the best I could come up with off the bat and I don't think I had a better answer within me.
At this, he went off on a tangent. He had a website idea and kept mentioning this fancy name he came up for a physical therapy plus music therapy plus massage therapy sort of deal. It wasn't the most original or genius idea, but it was definitely impressive how confidently he shared and how much he came up with in the moment. The whole time he spoke, he maintained eye contact and looked at me with such intensity and genuine concern, that I couldn't stop looking into his eyes and focusing on each word (something I am utterly horrible at). When he finished with the idea, I nodded that it was a great idea. Fortunately, he didn't stop speaking long enough for me to worry about what worthwhile response I should give.
He then stood up and searched everywhere for a pen and paper to give me his personal contact information. He assured me repeatedly that it was not his business or agent, but his personal email and phone number. He wrote in silver marker. I said, "Wow. I love that marker!" He then handed it to me with a wink and followed with something which would normally totally creep me out, but it didn't feel wrong when he spoke it. He said, "I've been watching you for 10 days. Whenever you were within 10 feet of me, I knew. You radiate. You are a special lady."
I have been told I am special many a'times. Not because I am special, but because guys know girls want to hear it. I can't say why this felt different, but it felt like the words were glowing and in bold font. I took it to heart, which I never do. Anyways, he tells me about his wife and his life and then he tells me if I ever want to move to Nashville, he can hook me up with housing and a job. He then gives me one last really good eye stare and stands to pack up his things. "Need me to walk you anywhere to avoid bad old men?" He jokes. I normally wouldn't accept such an offer, but I both wanted to feel safe that night and quite honestly, I wanted to have a few last minutes with this fellow. At this point I should clarify, there was nothing uncomfortable or sexual or even remotely flirty about the conversation we had. This man is 60 years old and his genuine concern is what led to our friendship. At no point did I feel he was making advances or attempting to woo me. As a matter of fact, once we safely arrived on my floor, he asked if my room was near the end of the corridor. I told him it was midway, so he looked me in the eye, shook my hand, held it tight for a moment that felt like an hour, and said, "This won't be the last time I see you." and walked away.
SO... a couple days after I got home, as I picked up the book I had been reading throughout the trip; some depressing memoir in which a child dies or is killed each chapter (it was about Haiti), a paper slips out. The paper is the musician's contact information written in silver marker. At seeing it, his eyes flash in mind and throughout the day, I cannot escape them. They are the eyes of Dr. T.J. Eckleburg (Great Gatsby reference) to me. I decided to send him a message and I explain what had just occurred. I can't say his response was particularly spectacular or profound, but he let me know he would be texting me when he got back into the states. Whenever that will be. He was sure to include, "You're a special lady."
Was this a spiritual encounter? Oh, I don't know. Probably nothing in the stars about it... but so help me if it wasn't precisely what I needed during the trip. Each night when the other young people would come to collect me and have me come up to the lounge to dance to hip hop and pop and R&B, I would reject them and stay where I felt wanted and safe. If not for the musician, my sadness would have been overwhelming, this I know for sure. I can't thank God or fate, I can only thank the musician and his music.
It happened after a short chain of events. At first I experienced something some would consider dark, horrific, and traumatizing. Something, I unfortunately, have come to see as what life brings to me for some reason. I won't go into specifics, but it was just not good. Around the same day, the next, I believe, I went to the cruise ship's headlining act. He was a country singer, but he mostly did folk music covers. In my depths of despair, I sat through his show and lip synched the songs in a sorrowful and dejected manner. The musician kept catching my eye and smiling. I assumed this was because I was the only one in the room who wasn't wearing Depends and Poligrip. While I cannot say the music made the events less harmful, they did make the situation more bearable.
I started going to his shows every opportunity I got. Each time, my confidence and ability to dance and sing along becoming more visible. The musician continued to smile at me and play towards me. Until, finally, after about a week or a week and a half, I ran into the musician outside one of his shows. He came to me with a smile and said, "I don't believe I've learned your name." He held out his hand and I gave him mine. He didn't let go, he just gripped it. I told him my name and he responded with, "What. a. BEAUTIFUL name. Fits for such a beautiful girl." He told me little details about himself, the one that stood out to me was that he had 17 Great Danes. My curiosity was peaked.
More days went on, and even though we now were familiar with one another, I did not think much of it. We did not speak again, we didn't even wave 'hello'. That is, until the very last night of the trip. After a night of one particularly "friendly" older gentleman dancing with me and making jokes about kissing my neck, I made an excuse to excuse myself and then, when I saw he was gone, I snuck back into the area where the musician had been performing and I sat. I was hoping he would stop to chat, but it was rather late, he was rather inebriated, and he was already chatting with another family. He had thrown my name into one of the songs earlier, but I am certain this was just a crowd pleasing technique.
Still, I waited. I jumped each time someone walked past, thinking it could be the "friendly" man, but he was preoccupied by waiting at the bar until I was to return. Which I was not going to do (I think it best to be kind to people you will be spending 10 days on a ship with. Until the very last night, of course.) The waiting turned into an hour wait. This would not be a big deal, but I was growing more nervous, it was getting later, and I had to leave the ship early the next morning. Not to mention, I knew my grandmother would go off on me if I got back to the room too late.
After sneaking a peek every few minutes to see if the musician would notice my presence, I hear, "Mind if I finish my beer with you?"
I look up with a smile and there is the big Southern boy all dressed in black and looking down at me. I tell him it would be my pleasure, inserting some sort of less-than-clever witticism. He sat down next to me and asked me, "What do you want to do with your life?" Without hesitation I told him I was studying music therapy. That wasn't exactly an answer to his question, but it was the best I could come up with off the bat and I don't think I had a better answer within me.
At this, he went off on a tangent. He had a website idea and kept mentioning this fancy name he came up for a physical therapy plus music therapy plus massage therapy sort of deal. It wasn't the most original or genius idea, but it was definitely impressive how confidently he shared and how much he came up with in the moment. The whole time he spoke, he maintained eye contact and looked at me with such intensity and genuine concern, that I couldn't stop looking into his eyes and focusing on each word (something I am utterly horrible at). When he finished with the idea, I nodded that it was a great idea. Fortunately, he didn't stop speaking long enough for me to worry about what worthwhile response I should give.
He then stood up and searched everywhere for a pen and paper to give me his personal contact information. He assured me repeatedly that it was not his business or agent, but his personal email and phone number. He wrote in silver marker. I said, "Wow. I love that marker!" He then handed it to me with a wink and followed with something which would normally totally creep me out, but it didn't feel wrong when he spoke it. He said, "I've been watching you for 10 days. Whenever you were within 10 feet of me, I knew. You radiate. You are a special lady."
I have been told I am special many a'times. Not because I am special, but because guys know girls want to hear it. I can't say why this felt different, but it felt like the words were glowing and in bold font. I took it to heart, which I never do. Anyways, he tells me about his wife and his life and then he tells me if I ever want to move to Nashville, he can hook me up with housing and a job. He then gives me one last really good eye stare and stands to pack up his things. "Need me to walk you anywhere to avoid bad old men?" He jokes. I normally wouldn't accept such an offer, but I both wanted to feel safe that night and quite honestly, I wanted to have a few last minutes with this fellow. At this point I should clarify, there was nothing uncomfortable or sexual or even remotely flirty about the conversation we had. This man is 60 years old and his genuine concern is what led to our friendship. At no point did I feel he was making advances or attempting to woo me. As a matter of fact, once we safely arrived on my floor, he asked if my room was near the end of the corridor. I told him it was midway, so he looked me in the eye, shook my hand, held it tight for a moment that felt like an hour, and said, "This won't be the last time I see you." and walked away.
SO... a couple days after I got home, as I picked up the book I had been reading throughout the trip; some depressing memoir in which a child dies or is killed each chapter (it was about Haiti), a paper slips out. The paper is the musician's contact information written in silver marker. At seeing it, his eyes flash in mind and throughout the day, I cannot escape them. They are the eyes of Dr. T.J. Eckleburg (Great Gatsby reference) to me. I decided to send him a message and I explain what had just occurred. I can't say his response was particularly spectacular or profound, but he let me know he would be texting me when he got back into the states. Whenever that will be. He was sure to include, "You're a special lady."
Was this a spiritual encounter? Oh, I don't know. Probably nothing in the stars about it... but so help me if it wasn't precisely what I needed during the trip. Each night when the other young people would come to collect me and have me come up to the lounge to dance to hip hop and pop and R&B, I would reject them and stay where I felt wanted and safe. If not for the musician, my sadness would have been overwhelming, this I know for sure. I can't thank God or fate, I can only thank the musician and his music.
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
It’s a dog-eat-dog world, and I’m just a kitten
"Competition is about winning and losing. That is it. There is no middle ground. It's about being better than the next guy. That's what life is about."
This is a quote I stole from a fella named Matt Hopard**. Matt heard this statement being spewed from the ignorant mouth of a father to his now-jaded son. The topic at hand is that of competition. The need to be the winner. The *requirement* of this man's son to be "better than". The lesson being that anything less will be a failure and a disappointment. This father is not expressing his own desire to be better or a winner, but his expectations of his son to be the very best, like no one ever was. To capture success is his real test, to train himself is his cause. He must travel across the land , searching far and wide. Each Pokemon to underst- wait, I think I may be quoting something else.
I am sure this is a very common sentiment. It may be seen by some as motivation to do better and be better. What's wrong with that? Is it really "tantamount to child abuse", as Matt believes?
Well, here's the problem- any absolute is bound to be flawed. The fact is, there IS a middle ground. There are "losers" who are still a success, who still can makes something of themselves, or feel pride despite not being 100% perfect 100% of the time. Telling a child, your child, no matter his age or background, that he is, essentially, a failure if he does not always win will affect that child in various ways throughout his/her life. Some may be positive effects, but the thinking and the doing may also be negative. Now, it is true this applies to most words of wisdom, but there is a particular empathy, as well as common sense that is involved when it comes to parental advice. There's a difference between telling your child, "Always try everything new" and telling them, "If you think you have something positive to learn or experience from something new, give it a try!" Even this example may have its faults, but my point is, all wisdom must come with leeway. Not to mention, advice should be supportive rather than give a sense of shame or fear. No child gains from fear. Positive reinforcement is the wave of the future. We're moving forward from the hand slapping, head whacking, and emotional deterioration.
The one point that I have not made yet is that failure is not always fruitless, either. It is a learning tool and it may lead to winning in other ways. It leads to understanding, compassion, empathy, and most of all, it leads to resilience. Maybe not most of all, but it certainly does. I was inspired by this topic due to a patient I work with. This patient is extremely intelligent and has tons of potential, but his greatest downfall? His fear of failure. He refuses to play games he does not know how to play or that he is less than perfect at. He loves mechanical engineering, but he is very resistant to the idea of returning to school to continue his studies in fear of not being as successful as his own father expected him to be. This man is 52 and to this day, he fears failure due to his father's unrealistic expectations. His father did not believe in a middle ground, much like the father in aforementioned situation. It was either win or be a loser. This is a common theme I have noticed in the mentally ill patients I work with. They have lived a life being told they are never good enough. That simply trying their best was never good enough. That living life and trying things for the sake of giving it a go was never good enough. That their "normal" and healthy sibling is the better child because they are healthy and "normal". What was it that Einstein said about climbing a tree like a fish?
"Everybody is a genius. But if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid.”
I was close.
We are individuals, we are flawed in a thousand ways. We are built to fail and lack and play pool and sometimes (or always) lose. Admittedly, when you are in a competition, you are trying to win. You are trying to reach that point of accomplishment, and "being better", and making the other dude buy you a drink, and bragging like an idiot. However, you are also trying to enjoy the game, and working on your skill, and letting your crush win, and cheating, getting caught, and laughing about it, and punching the other dude in the arm because you lost. It's a game foremost, a hobby or social activity.
The trick when it comes to competition is not only respecting the other player(s) at the end, win or lose, but respecting yourself as well. If you have been raised to believe that losing means you should belittle yourself, that is abuse. Any parent who puts pressure and disdain into the mind of a child is not considering the well-being of the child. A parent who makes their child feel loss of self-respect for one day or one month or their entire life is committing the act of child abuse. That is cruelty. That is unforgivable.
**** You can check out Matt's live stream/Twitter/website @ www.stopmotionsolo.net - stopmotionsolo.tv - https://twitter.com/StopMotionsolo****
This is a quote I stole from a fella named Matt Hopard**. Matt heard this statement being spewed from the ignorant mouth of a father to his now-jaded son. The topic at hand is that of competition. The need to be the winner. The *requirement* of this man's son to be "better than". The lesson being that anything less will be a failure and a disappointment. This father is not expressing his own desire to be better or a winner, but his expectations of his son to be the very best, like no one ever was. To capture success is his real test, to train himself is his cause. He must travel across the land , searching far and wide. Each Pokemon to underst- wait, I think I may be quoting something else.
I am sure this is a very common sentiment. It may be seen by some as motivation to do better and be better. What's wrong with that? Is it really "tantamount to child abuse", as Matt believes?
Well, here's the problem- any absolute is bound to be flawed. The fact is, there IS a middle ground. There are "losers" who are still a success, who still can makes something of themselves, or feel pride despite not being 100% perfect 100% of the time. Telling a child, your child, no matter his age or background, that he is, essentially, a failure if he does not always win will affect that child in various ways throughout his/her life. Some may be positive effects, but the thinking and the doing may also be negative. Now, it is true this applies to most words of wisdom, but there is a particular empathy, as well as common sense that is involved when it comes to parental advice. There's a difference between telling your child, "Always try everything new" and telling them, "If you think you have something positive to learn or experience from something new, give it a try!" Even this example may have its faults, but my point is, all wisdom must come with leeway. Not to mention, advice should be supportive rather than give a sense of shame or fear. No child gains from fear. Positive reinforcement is the wave of the future. We're moving forward from the hand slapping, head whacking, and emotional deterioration.
The one point that I have not made yet is that failure is not always fruitless, either. It is a learning tool and it may lead to winning in other ways. It leads to understanding, compassion, empathy, and most of all, it leads to resilience. Maybe not most of all, but it certainly does. I was inspired by this topic due to a patient I work with. This patient is extremely intelligent and has tons of potential, but his greatest downfall? His fear of failure. He refuses to play games he does not know how to play or that he is less than perfect at. He loves mechanical engineering, but he is very resistant to the idea of returning to school to continue his studies in fear of not being as successful as his own father expected him to be. This man is 52 and to this day, he fears failure due to his father's unrealistic expectations. His father did not believe in a middle ground, much like the father in aforementioned situation. It was either win or be a loser. This is a common theme I have noticed in the mentally ill patients I work with. They have lived a life being told they are never good enough. That simply trying their best was never good enough. That living life and trying things for the sake of giving it a go was never good enough. That their "normal" and healthy sibling is the better child because they are healthy and "normal". What was it that Einstein said about climbing a tree like a fish?
"Everybody is a genius. But if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid.”
I was close.
We are individuals, we are flawed in a thousand ways. We are built to fail and lack and play pool and sometimes (or always) lose. Admittedly, when you are in a competition, you are trying to win. You are trying to reach that point of accomplishment, and "being better", and making the other dude buy you a drink, and bragging like an idiot. However, you are also trying to enjoy the game, and working on your skill, and letting your crush win, and cheating, getting caught, and laughing about it, and punching the other dude in the arm because you lost. It's a game foremost, a hobby or social activity.
The trick when it comes to competition is not only respecting the other player(s) at the end, win or lose, but respecting yourself as well. If you have been raised to believe that losing means you should belittle yourself, that is abuse. Any parent who puts pressure and disdain into the mind of a child is not considering the well-being of the child. A parent who makes their child feel loss of self-respect for one day or one month or their entire life is committing the act of child abuse. That is cruelty. That is unforgivable.
**** You can check out Matt's live stream/Twitter/website @ www.stopmotionsolo.net - stopmotionsolo.tv - https://twitter.com/StopMotionsolo****
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)