I Love You!

 I come into contact with dozens of people every day; hundreds or thousands if you count social media, which I do. People aren't any less real to me just because they’re behind a screen, revealed to me through a series of ones and zeros. I feel responsible for them all. I care about them all. I’m trying to think of the person I like least in the world right now. That’s a tough one for me, but guess what? I still want that person alive. I still want that person to have the potential for life and love and a job and a future and absolutely everything that people can ever experience.

Of all these people I see around me I know that at least one of them is currently going through the toughest time of their life. I see so many people struggling. I know that more than one is depressed, has anxiety, has an eating disorder, cuts themselves, or is struggling with their identity. I know that an overwhelming number of the people I encounter every day don’t feel good enough. Why does that matter to me, you ask? It matters to me because these facts destroy me. It matters to me because so many people are looking for someone to care about them and about what they’re going through. They think that nobody does. They think that the world simply doesn't have room for depressed people.

 I thought that! What else was I supposed to think? The world made me believe that. The people around me, well intentioned as they were, made me believe that. That’s not to say that they didn't care. They probably cared more than I’ll ever know. The fact of the matter is, they didn't know how to respond to me. Most hadn't experienced the specific things I had. Of the ones who had, most wanted to move on with their lives. They tried to help but it was obvious that they were tired of living in that dark, cold place in their minds. I absolutely cannot and never will blame them for that. I know how that feels now. I know how that feels, but I also remember all too well how the broken people feel. I remember wanting to pick up the pieces and not knowing how. I wanted someone to show me how. They eventually did, but not in the way that I originally expected. I took lessons from everyone I met. I liked how that girl smiled, as if she was trying to make friends with everyone. I liked how that boy failed at trying to help me every time, but that he kept trying. I liked that that girl from my school once told me to suck it up in what I think was probably the nicest way possible; I admired her strength. I loved how people I’d never met, nor will ever meet, treated depression and mental illness. I loved how willing they were to drop everything for a stranger having a bad day. Just to sit and talk.

I look at babies and behind the adorably chubby cheeks and dripping snot, I see overwhelmingly boundless potential. Every single baby is potential. I see people the same way. Adults are just babies who’ve narrowed down some of their options. I feel parental towards people I meet. I want the best for them. I want them to be happy and healthy and as carefree as possible. I want them to want that for themselves. I get disappointed with people sometimes because I see them making choices that will make them unhappy in the not too distant future. I don’t write them off; instead I hope for them. I think of how close we are, and what I can do to help them, and I do what I can.

Sometimes asking for help is the hardest thing to do. You don’t know who to ask and you think that maybe someone else needs it more. Well here’s something I discovered: If you think you might need help, you need help. Taking help from a friend or asking for advice won’t diminish some imagined supply of help and if the people who “need it more” want help, they can have it too! I guess, in the end, what I’m trying to say is that I’m here. I care. I’ll be a shoulder to cry on or an ear to listen. I might not be able to be anyone’s saving grace or hero but I’m not trying to be. I’m here and I care and sometimes that’s what people really need more than anything else.

Salsa

You know what really grinds my gears? Medium salsa. Why, you might ask? BECAUSE NO ONE CAN DECIDE EXACTLY WHAT MEDIUM SALSA IS. Sometimes, you open a new jar of medium salsa, and you just want that beautiful, but bearable, burn. After all, if you had wanted to be blown out of your seat, you would have gone with the hot. If you’re really attached to the taste of tomatoes and peppers, while also having the heat tolerance of a toddler, then you would have chosen the mild. That’s what medium salsa should be: a nice compromise between the two.

Now, it strikes me that there’s a perfectly rational reason for the medium salsa variation. Everyone has different tastes. Obviously not everyone is going to have the same opinion of the heat level that constitutes “medium”. Still, this is dog shit. Scoville scales exist don’t they? If you’re not using it to test the thing it was meant to test, then WHAT ARE YOU USING IT FOR? 

I admit, I know nothing about salsa production or testing but I don’t think that this is an unreasonable expectation. It’s 2014! Humans have waged countless wars. We created the plow and the automobile.  We've caused the extinction of more than a few species. Not only that, most Americans are privileged enough to have spent WEEKS complaining about Miley Cyrus’s dancing. You absolutely cannot tell me that we lack the resources or prevalence to moderate the heat of salsa.

I’m totally aware of the hilarity of this post. I am complaining about something that’s not a “real” problem and talking about the privilege of Americans. All the while, my privilege is part of what’s allowing me to talk about and post this. You know what makes this okay, what lets me overlook this fact? The fact that someone, somewhere, might see this and the Salsa Heat Regulatory Council of my imagination will put their brains together and fix this for good. 

Sick Day

Hey everyone. You'll have to excuse whatever mess this post turns into. I have a nasty cold and I'm taking the day to lay on the couch with junk food and watch a movie. This is different from other days because I'll feel gross while doing it. I'm going to start with (500) Days of Summer and then I might try to end the LOTR trilogy.

I haven't watched (500) Days of Summer for a long time. It always makes me think a lot. I've also been meaning to watch Annie Hall, which I've been told is the earlier, superior version of Summer. Anyways, I'm about to watch the movie with fresh eyes. For the first time I'm going to watch it as someone who's deeply interested in screenwriting and characterization. Since the last time I watched it I also learned about the Manic Pixie Dream Girl (MPDG) trope. For those of you who might not know, the MPDG is type of character. They're eccentric, bubbly, and girlish. They tend to be the love interest of the brooding, depressive male lead. They usually flit into the male's life for a while and encourage them to be more carefree and fun loving.

I hate this. I don't hate the MPDG, I hate the fact that the classification exists. It's as if women can't be who they want. It implies that they're only around to enhance the man's life and they don't have their own aspirations. Everyone has some aspiration of their own. Summer doesn't want to be with Tom but that doesn't make her a blank page. I think that the reason she's so often cited as a classic MPDG is because the story is from Tom's perspective and that's how Tom sees her. Unfortunately, many people don't seem to be able to view movies from perspectives other than the one presented.

I believe in the idea that books belong to their readers. I believe that every reader brings themselves to the story and reads it in their own way. That's part of what makes stories special and the same applies to movies. So I realize that it's stupid and condescending of me to comment on the way other people view movies but I wish that they would put themselves in the place of other characters more often. So I guess that's the moral and conclusion of the post. I hope you're all staying healthy and away from me. And don't forget to go buy some of that After Valentine's Day chocolate.

How Bible Camp Taught Me To Hate My Body.

I was an admittedly ugly child. Sure, I cared. I wanted to be the pretty girl, I wanted to be the skinny girl, I wanted to be the desired girl. But what I wanted more than any of that was to be the intelligent girl with interesting things to say. I wanted to be the girl that people took seriously. So yes, I knew I wasn't attractive, I thought about it every so often, and I didn't really care that much.

My parents got divorced when I was in the fifth grade. Before the divorce, I had attended a Catholic school. I’d never been to a public school. So when I experienced public schooling in sixth grade, I had a major culture shock. I think it’s pretty safe to say that public school kids lose a majority of their innocence sooner than Catholic school kids. Or maybe that was just me. Regardless, everything from attitudes, to sexual and drug knowledge, to body images were different. Switching from private to public schooling was the first of many times my worldview had been reshaped.

I don’t remember exactly when I first went to church camp. I’d honestly never thought about the idea of church camps while in Catholic school. Why go spend a summer at a camp for God when you spend every Friday and Sunday bored out of your mind for him? But my dad met my step-mom around the same time I entered the public school system. Church camp had been a part of her and her kid’s lives for a few years at that point I think. Naturally, my dad, brother, and I joined in this ritual soon enough.

The first time I went without my parents (I was with my soon-to-be-step-sister Nikki), I had a huge attitude about the whole thing. I still identified as Christian, no doubt about that. I think I just had a hard time playing nice with others. I remember feeling hugely superior and above all of the activities they were doing. (In all fairness to little me, looking back, I still get a weird feeling about it all). Once I started to adjust to the culture of camp a little more, I got more into all the little rituals and activities. Or at least I pretended I was. In reality I was just attempting to smother the little cynical voice of reason in the back of my mind. It was once the Stockholm Syndrome had set in that I experienced The Body Shaming Beach Ordeal. 

The councilors took our cabin (or the part they were responsible for) down to the beach after sunset. They told us to pick out a rock, whichever one we wanted but fairly large. They then distributed permanent markers and told us to write ten things about our bodies that we don’t like. TEN! I distinctly remember another girl asking “What if we can’t think of ten things?” to which one of the councilors replied, “Try your hardest.” So there I was, on a dark beach with a rock and a sharpie in my hand, digging deep for the most mentally harmful activity I’d been asked to do in my entire life up to that point. I think I got about three things down before I ran out of ideas. How many body parts are there? How many things can be wrong with a person? Most of all; why did I have to piece apart my body for these people? I didn’t get ten things down. I waited until our time was up. 

After they were done scribbling body hate, the councilors instructed everyone to read their list aloud. I waited for my turn and found out just how many pieces a body can be broken into. As I listened to the insecurities of my peers, I evaluated myself. Did I like my eyes, my hands, my thighs, my feet, my pores? Who knows?  I hurriedly scribbled some of these things on my rock before it was my turn so that I’d have the appropriate number of awful characteristics to share with the group. This whole thing was humiliating. There’s no other word for it. But the way they presented it made it feel as if we were performing some super secret ritual designed to bring us closer. They read some bible verse about loving ourselves and then told us to go to the end of the dock and throw our rocks as far into the lake as possible. This was to symbolize us releasing our bodily hatred and letting God love us the way we were. Of course it didn't matter that I didn't actually hate myself.

Now, I’ll admit, I felt free throwing that rock. In that short amount of time, some part of me had submitted to the fact that I was supposed to hate my body. In the following days, that night stuck with me. I couldn't shake the insecurities that everyone around me had. I felt like the abnormal one for not feeling the same way…or maybe I did feel the same. I mean, my thighs were pretty huge. Right? In the time that followed, I looked at my body a lot more. I started to pick it apart. I no longer lived in a body. I lived in my head and possessed arms, legs, a stomach, feet, hands, hair, eyes, and so on. I stopped questioning the advisability of hating yourself. It became a fact, underlying everything I did. And when life got really rough a few years later, I took it out on my body. I ate poorly if I ate, and I did other reprehensible things to myself that I won’t recount for fear of people attempting the same.

I've come a long way since then. I don’t purposefully punish my body for anything anymore. In fact, I love myself. I love my body. I’ve recently realized that this concept is revolutionary to many. It makes me sad that we live in a world in which bodily confidence is the weird stance. It makes me absolutely sick that we live in a world where girls punish themselves for things beyond their control and for enjoying themselves. It makes me angry that summer camps, and indeed adults in general, feel the need to push young girls to be ashamed of themselves. I don’t know if I’ll ever be a parent but if I am, I’ll make sure that my little girl (or boy!, boys are susceptible too) knows that she or he is loved and that your body is meant to be lived in and not reviled. In fact, bodily hate is such a construction of the Middle Ages. After the Renaissance shouldn't we be over all this shit?

By now you've probably realized that I spend too much time on Youtube. So I've decided to include some Extra Credit Viewing. I love Laci Green and feel that these two videos are a wonderful commentary on body shaming and societal expectations. 

1.https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ik19cU1UKb4

2.https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8XhTA4xOxCc