Random Acts of Value

I apologize, my dear readers, for my silence as of late. Midterms seemed to kill all creative juices and I couldn't really write about anything. Perhaps that's not true, but that is the story I'm sticking to because it's the one I'm choosing to tell.

Truth be told, I haven't really been motivated to write much of anything--I have had no real epiphanies to report, no new found information, no single ray of light emitting from God's Mighty Hand to enlighten me--to instruct me. I won't call it writer's block...I'll call it life. Life happens just as much as shit does. And Boy does shit ever happen.

I finished this novel by Margaret Atwood called "The Handmaid's Tale" and it scared the shit outta me--everywhere I look I am reminded of the oppression that permeates from a patriarchal society. Carrie was right, once you see the world through a Feminist's eyes, you can never go back. It's now become this Albatross that hangs around my neck like a noose---slowly tightening with each passing second. I didn't see it before, and I certainly didn't feel it. The nerve endings have awoken--a mixture of strength and fear. And I'm searching for the knife in my boot to cut it off--wishing someone would do it for me.

I came across this website last night: http://www.girleffect.org/ Go check it out. Do it now. I'll wait.

Do you know what my favorite part is? When she goes to the village council and she tells them that all girls are valuable.
Let it sink in.
Valuable.
Main Entry: 1valu·able
Pronunciation: \ˈval-yə-bəl, -yə-wə-bəl, -yü-ə-\
Function: adjective
Date: circa 1576

1 a : having monetary value b : worth a good price
2 a : having desirable or esteemed characteristics or qualities b : of great use or service
Function: noun
Date: circa 1775

: a usually personal possession (as jewelry) of relatively great monetary value —usually used in plural

We once only fell under the first definitions: "Worth a good price" and "Personal Possession." I don't want to be these kinds of valuable--to be someone's personal property, to fit on his arm like a jewel or a trophy. This brand of value is something that will most surely depreciate. This is a KIA--a vehicle that will be worth nothing once it is driven off the lot.
Now, this second meaning--"having desirable or esteemed characteristics or qualities," it seems rather problematic. Are not all people, by this definition, valuable? If they are, why do we allow certain people who love each other to marry and yet others are denied that right? Why do we fight in silly wars? Why do we murder? Steal? Covet? Why do we oppress Women? Children? People who are different from us? Where is the value in all of this?

This week for my Women's Autobiography: A Narrative Scandal class, we read Dorothy Allison's "Two or Three Things I Know For Sure" and I finished that 94 page book in a matter of hours. I consumed it--or maybe it consumed me. If you haven't read it yet, go pick it up--or perhaps I'll let you borrow it, if you ask me nicely. One of the italicized portions was this: "Two or three things I know for sure, and one of them is that if we are not beautiful to each other, we cannot know beauty in any form." I sat and pondered this for a while after I finished the book. It's a perfect thought. And I thought about how if I changed it by removing beauty and adding a form of "value," that it would be just as true.

So I'm telling you here and now. I value you. I may never meet you. I may never shake your hand, kiss your lips, feel your touch. But I value you. Never stop fighting. Never give up. And never let them take you alive. Nolite te bastardes carborundorum.

The Power of a Book

This weekend is the last hurrah.

I start my new weekend job at Macy's for the Holiday season (and hopefully longer)this upcoming Saturday and it couldn't come at a better time. I have a paper due tomorrow, a midterm in my Crime in Victorian Literature class on Tuesday, and a French midterm on Wednesday. I have had many tutoring sessions in the past two weeks as well--it is the midterm crunch time.

I have been searching for a job since the beginning of Summer and I finally got a call back from the retail giant. My funds have seriously depleted and I was in dire need of rent money. Prayers were answered and I got the job on the day that I had my interview. Hallelujah!

For my Women and Gender Studies class, my professor requires her students to go out and do a bit of activism in the name of Feminism. I was all to happy too do this and when I found out that I could participate with my friend Sadie, I was even more elated. Sadie and I figured out where we wanted to volunteer for a day, picked a time, and off we went. We decided on an organization called Chicago Books to Women in Prison. These men and women come together every Sunday from 2pm to 5 pm and answer requests from women who are incarcerated in various prisons in eight states. I was excited at the opportunity to help out but I had no idea how it would effect me.

I did my best to fulfill their requests--some were probably more accurate than others--but with each one that I did, I felt a connection with the woman for whom I was choosing books. On each order, I put a personal note, saying that I hope they enjoyed the books. If I happened to pick something from an author that I really liked, I mentioned that as well. Some of the requests were more specific than others--I recall one said that she would like to have some sort of erotica because she can be so lonely "here." No matter what she did to get in there--my heart went out to her. It wasn't until now that I completely understood the power of a book.

I have always loved books. They were often my best friends and I used to cry when a series was over because it was the equivalent of my friends moving away, and all I had left were the memories that I could relive if I wanted to--sometimes I did. Sometimes I didn't. Books were uplifting to me. But I never once thought how it would be for a person who is shut off from society. I've certainly had my anti-social moments, but that pales in comparisons to what those who are incarcerated feel.

I had a great Sunday---and I hope you did as well. If you would like to seek more information about Chicago Books to Women in Prisons, you can find it at their website here: http://chicagobwp.org/about-us/

Elizabeth's Song

For the past five years I have teetered back and forth from wanting to be a writer to wanting to be a singer. As it stands, I am not musically inclined with the exception of my voice. I have a very good voice and I love to sing. Last year my friend Ryan asked me to sing for his band/project called Sunday Mourning Call and while my friends all told me not to get my hopes up, I did--I was getting my chance to sing. Well Ryan and I got busy doing other things and that was that.
A couple of weeks ago, he text messaged me saying that he had something he wanted to work on with me. I was intrigued, to say the least. And I laughed a little--because every time I set my course starboard side, something was always pulling me to port. I had come to grips that all I really want to do is get my MFA (after my time at Roosevelt, of course) and teach writing while perfecting the craft myself. And here it was again--the zany idea of singing, fluttering like a butterfly in front of my face. So I played along and followed the white rabbit down the hole.

Ryan and I made plans and met up to work on a song he'd written. I was so elated to be singing until I found out the reason why we were combining our efforts on this project. He had written a song for his co-worker. Actually, for his co-worker's daughter, Elizabeth.

Elizabeth was born in a troubled state--amongst other health problems, she has a severe case of Cerebral Palsy and it broke Ryan's heart to not be able to say more than a "sorry" to her mother. Elizabeth is still in the hospital and her family (mom, dad and older sister) are staying in a Ronald McDonald house so that they can stay near to little Elizabeth.
I was completely humbled by her parents strength and Ryan's compassion for his friend and her family.
Ryan and I recorded a rough demo of the song and it's now up on the band's myspace page. http://www.myspace.com/sundaymourningcall

If you take a listen to "Elizabeth's Song," you'll also see another song I sang on with Ryan called "Heaven Knows I'm Afraid." Let us know what you think of them--but be advised that little Elizabeth's song is not completely finished--we have more lyrics we're going to put on it and we have to fix some sharp notes as well :)

I don't normally promote myself so shamelessly, but there's always a first for everything!

xox

The Search for Real Women

What is a "Real Woman?" No, really. It's not rhetorical--I really would like to know.

The question reminds me of a scene from The Cohen Brother's movie, "The Big Lebowski" when Mr. Lebowski asks The Dude "What makes a Man?"

The Big Lebowski: What makes a man, Mr. Lebowski?
The Dude: Dude.
The Big Lebowski: Huh?
The Dude: Uhh... I don't know sir.
The Big Lebowski: Is it being prepared to do the right thing, whatever the cost? Isn't that what makes a man?
The Dude: Hmmm... Sure, that and a pair of testicles.

All joking aside.

On Monday I was waiting to meet with a professor and I happened to be looking at the bulletin board outside of her office when something caught my eye. I saw an casting call for Dove's "Real Women" campaign and I thought, "Wow! How cool!" Then I started to read it.

It said that it was looking for "Real Women. 25-32 years old. Thin (under size 10)and naturally attractive." They also mentioned that they were only looking for women who were Caucasian, Asian, Hispanic, or a mixture of these. While they were looking for all types of hair (textures and colors), the ad also said they wanted healthy hair that they could "improve." They stressed they wanted "REAL WOMEN" not "aspiring models." So is that what makes a real woman?

Up until this point I had been really proud of Dove and it's sense of urgency to represent all women--not just the models. We've all seen these commercials:


or even this one:



I understand the importance of these ads. I really do. And I agree with most of the Dove Films I've seen but seeing this casting call--it really makes me feel like it's all a lie---all of the girls portrayed are "normal." Some talk about how the girls feel that they can't be themselves or no one will talk to them because they are "fat" (apparently one was anorexic and suddenly gained friends after she dropped some weight--though no pictures are shown of her being fat). I just don't believe it anymore. It's not real. I'm not saying they aren't real young women. I am saying that there are real women who don't fit into that stupid casting call advertisement. Being a woman has nothing to do with your size, nothing to do with your looks, nothing to do with your race.

So what does make a real woman? Something more than Dove has to offer.

A Different Oedipus Complex...

My eyes have always gotten me into trouble.

In second grade, they decided that they wanted to follow in my Great Grandmother's footsteps and without my consent, they allowed my vision to become blurry. No amount of carrots could change their minds. It was an ocular mutiny.

I chose the brown frames that my mother liked. Well, they were more of a tan-ish color, but I remember putting them on in Opti-World in Melbourne, Florida and realizing that there were glasses on racks where before it was just fuzzy beams of light. My mother's eyes wept.

My next pair of glasses that owned me were of blue plastic frames and they swallowed my entire face. They allowed me to see how cute the boys were, but in turn, they were a shield to them. Boys didn't like girls with four eyes, no matter how pretty the color.

When I discovered contacts, I felt that surely the boys would see my blue eyes. Sometimes they were bright blue. And at others they were a slate grey. Occasionally I received compliments on them and they grew a little more blue.
Around this time, my eyes became bigger than my stomach. And I hid behind food to mask their inquisitiveness. They practiced their flits and flutters--their doe eyed gazes to imitate Oliver when he pleaded with the beadle, "Please Sir, I want some more." As my body swelled, no one bothered to look at my eyes anymore. They're always getting me into trouble.

My eyes vigorously trained themselves in the art of Irish Smiling, the Dramatic Roll, and Irish Ice. But once they challenged my stomach to see who could be the better box office smash, they cowered away to learn new tricks. They practiced the best judgmental looks, the Bette Davis, and despite the loneliness, the bedroom eyes. They even cooperated with my underachieving lips; they smirked at the chance to work with the Blues.

To help them out, I learned make-up tips to make them seem bigger, brighter, and more glamorous. Black eyeliner, liquid or pencil; color popping shades, thirteen dollars a shade...but they'll pay me back, once they got the love and respect they thought they deserved.

And then one day, when my eyes weren't paying attention, they caught the interest of a pair of brown orbs. But because my eyes were so in love with each other, no other pair stood a chance. They still don't understand why they're so lonely. They blame my stomach. They blame my lips. They grow tired at the endless reasons why--never looking at the real culprits in the mirror.

My eyes are always getting me into trouble. So much that sometimes, I think I'll go blind.

Thirty.

Three days ago I hit a milestone--I turned thirty, and thirty is a funny number. When you're not thirty, it is almost as if you are a little kid looking up at the jungle gym, wondering how you're going to conquer such a thing. And year by year, you strategize, draw up plans, and reach your arms up to touch the cold, scary metal. By the time you can touch the bars, you don't really want it. You long for the days that you were content playing on the swings and going down the slide--why, why did you choose the jungle gym. You've just heard that life on top of it is just amazing--the view, incredible. Suddenly this jungle gym has become the Eiffel Tower.

And then, you climb. You take time to enjoy the sights and smells along the way, ingesting everything your senses can latch onto. Some days are better than others--but you weather the storm and conquer the metal of ages--and you sit on top of the world thinking, "I am thirty. Look at all I've done!" Actually--that's not you at all, that is more or less your parents, friends, lover, what-have-you. You will never see your progress because you're fixated on others in their climb. There isn't a mirror that you can view your amazing and daring feat to make it to thirty--perhaps if there were one, you wouldn't have made it. But the air and view up here is incredible and you're glad you've made it thus far, while taking a pause to remember everyone who didn't.

Okay, so maybe I've romanticized it a bit--turning thirty is scary---I'm not married. I don't have children. I will be getting a Bachelors in English in the Spring but I'm graduating with students who are twenty-two or twenty-three. I live alone. I am unemployed. I don't even have a cat.
But I'm really not bitter. And I don't regret anything. Everything I have been through has shaped me into the person that I am...and I like myself. Yes, I wish I could have made better decisions about school and being more active in my community as well as my health, but if I had to go back and do it again, even though I know it's a bullshit scenario (who wouldn't benefit from a second go), I don't think I would. If I hadn't gone to Roosevelt University, I would not have met the amazing people I have met. My writing has definitely improved and I've been opened up to new experiences.

Looking back at my life, I'm glad that I'm thirty. I'm old enough to know better--but young enough to laugh it off. And I'm looking forward to the next thirty--however, I plan to prolong it as long as I possibly can.

So my advice to you young whippersnappers...because you knew it was coming--it's rather trite--but enjoy it. Sometimes it's better to just sit one night out of "fun" with your friends in order to discover who you really are as a person. Because if you get to your thirties and you haven't the slightest idea...you'll be in a much worse situation than you ever thought possible.

A Secret Smile

It's amazing what a little crush can do.

Here you are, minding your own business, when all of a sudden you are attacked by a fleet of soundless butterflies in your stomach, bubbling up to your heart like a poison, or perhaps some fourth grade science project involving a homemade volcano. It's messy, unpredictable, and nerve racking. And by the time the poison has reached your mouth, you smile ever-so-slightly.

It's not love. Because what's love? Love cannot possible prolong this feeling; if anything, it only kills the crush. The crush causes day dreams; love, only nightmares of losing that person or thing. A crush is like having too much coffee one morning and around eleven o'clock you feel like you're going to bounce out of your skin. It brings this feeling that you know you are made for bigger and better things. It feels like a crisp November morning, filled with new and inviting smells, sounds, tastes, and eye candy. Everything's candy.
And if nothing happens? It's no big deal. It's just a crush. They aren't meant to be taken seriously--if you disagree, you aren't using the crush responsibly. Crushes are harmless by design but can be a vehicle to obsession if driven by the wrong reasons and ill intentions...so for now, put it on cruise control. Trust in the good time. And let it ride.

I have a little crush. And He'll never know. Because it's my secret. Mine to tell my girlfriends and giggle. An almost-30-year-old. Giggling. Basking in the glory of all that is feminine. All that is human. All that is me. Me and my crush.