Understanding Fat Shaming

Note: I'm calling people "fat" on purpose in this post. First of all, I want to own that word. It isn't a cuss word for God's sake. Secondly, I want to evoke an emotional response. Fat has been used as a hurtful word. It's a word that makes strong people cry. Cry if you need to, but it's time for the truth.

I realize I've already made a post tonight, but after my post about self-love (which included body image), I had a conversation with one of my best friends. I know that he doesn't hate fat people, but he said some pretty ignorant things regarding fat people in our culture. This was just another effect of fat-shaming on us. Someone who really means no harm can say things that are very hurtful without understanding the reaction that understandably roars in response. So, I could go on about what fat-shaming is, how it affects people, how to fix it, etc. But I'm not going to do that. Because the person I talked to tonight understands all of that, but still doesn't understand. Instead I'm going to tell you a story. I'm going to tell you a story of a girl who's been fat for *most of* her life. I want to share my own fat-shaming history. Some of this will be news to you and shared for the first time, but I've come to realize that stories are heard while rants about the harmful effects of unhealthy societal expectations often fall upon ears accustomed to the sound. So here's my story.

As a five year-old, my step sister told me I was fat. She told me I needed to lose weight. She also told me I was a wuss because I was afraid to get my ears pierced, while her best friend's little sister who was only three had already done it. She told me I looked like a boy because of my short hair. She told me I couldn't touch her barbies because I would mess them up, and although my memory has served me the kindness to block it out, it's likely she molested me. She was about nine years older than I and she was skinny and pretty and cool. She constantly told me in new and creative ways that I wasn't okay. As an adult I can look back at that time and see a girl struggling with her parents' divorce, probably dealing with her own history of sexual abuse, and of course her own issues with self esteem. But at the time, someone who was older than me and knew so much more than me was telling me I was useless. It didn't matter what anyone else said, because people are nice, even when they don't mean it. I wasn't the kind of kid to be mean unprovoked (that came with puberty, haha), or ever hit below the belt like that. So I assumed that she must be right, and everyone else was being nice to spare my feelings.

Being a bipolar kid, I was really intense. I would constantly talk, usually about myself, I interrupted people, I argued too quickly, and I was completely oblivious to this behavior. So when I had a hard time making friends or people pulled away, I assumed it was because I was fat. Later, issues developed because I would see popular fat people, and I couldn't understand what was wrong with me. At St. Mary's we had uniforms. Until the fifth grade, girls wore plaid jumpers. Because in fifth grade girls began to wear navy skirts, the sizes stopped at what they thought a little fourth grader ought to wear. I was bigger than the rest of the little fourth graders. Only four girls were in my class at St. Mary's, and the other three were tiny. There was a new seating chart at school and I overheard some of the other girls complaining about it because they had to sit next to me. Completely unaware of my affect on people, I assumed this was because I was fat. It makes no sense, but to my young mind it made perfect sense. No one wanted to sit by me because I wasn't cool, which correlated directly with size. And I was deeply hurt by it.

By fifth grade I'd found my love of dance. Being big in the dancing world is incredibly difficult. You always have to be better than the best girl, because you're judged before the music even starts. My cheerleading uniforms had to be altered because the biggest size was too small for me. For someone trying to fit into a new school, I was convinced everyone knew mine was different. My best friend at the time who was dealing with her own self esteem issues as well (noticing a common theme?) would make side comments to me about the extra red fabric we'd snuck onto my uniform so it would fit. I would respond in a way that preserved her feelings while my own heart was breaking over it. I just wanted to be normal, and I had no idea how. I couldn't even wear the same clothes, because junior clothes were too small for me. I had to shop somewhere else. My dance team in junior high was called the Cubcadettes. After I joined (along with some other heavier girls), we were coined in the hallways as the "Chubcadettes." That made it ten-times harder to go perform on that floor. My mom, who was the coach, and I argued constantly because I was already so self-conscious about being a fat dancer that I didn't want anything else to make me look stupid. Often she was right (although to this day I think getting us pom outfits that looked like cheerleader uniforms was a bad idea), but my bipolar turned our conversations into battles. I was already scared.

In seventh grade, I started to lose weight. I worked out a lot and started seeing a doctor for weight loss with my parents. It was working for me. That year was the first year that I auditioned for and made UDA All Star. It was an audition hosted through UDA and UCA (Universal Dance/Cheer Associations) that gave you an opportunity to dance in the Philadelphia Thanksgiving Day Parade. I was so proud of myself when I received that medal. I wore it all day. Mom gave me shit for it calling me a Special Olympian, which genuinely hurt my feelings at the time, but I wasn't good at expressing that, really. I was just so proud because I truly thought my weight was going to get in the way of me winning that medal and it didn't. (Later I had a huge internal crisis when I considered that they may have only given it to me to prove they weren't fat-phobic, but that's a whole other story.) I went and performed in Philadelphia. It was a really cool experience and I got a lot out of it. I talked about it non-stop (again with the intensity that I'm sure drove people up the wall).

I came back, and during PE one day I was walking the track with the same friend who had made those comments about my cheerleading uniform. I'd been on TV, and she said that she had been with some boys (I'm not afraid to call out Abraham Huffington because he's still a dick). She told me Abe had said if they could find my station they wouldn't be able to miss me because of my huge ass. Again with the silent heart break. All I could think was I'm trying so hard. I will never be good enough for you people. I really was trying to lose weight and I was working my ass off to do it--way more than any of my peers did to maintain their tiny physiques. I cried about it in the bathroom between classes. I was truly hurt. People had said things about that friend to me, but I'd always kept them secret to spare her feelings. I had wished she'd done the same for me, but at the time I genuinely believed she thought she was being a good friend. Now I believe she may have used that as an excuse, but was looking for a way to bring me down. Perhaps out of jealousy, perhaps to shut me up about it, or perhaps both. But I do believe he said those things. In junior high (I think this is true of most girls; boys are oblivious), I was convinced people were always talking behind my back. Every now and then I'd find a moment of peace where I'd convince myself not to be so self-centered and to realize I was not the topic of everyone's conversation. But in this instance I was proven wrong. Being proven wrong one time will poison everything that follows.

This same friend also revealed to me that Sarah Simpson was calling me "Weight Watchers Dancer" behind my back. At the time, there was a Weight Watchers commercial with a plus-sized dancer. I guess that was supposed to be me. I was afraid to ever be around her again. I was so embarrassed. She was stick thin, a dancer, and everything I would never be. The only thing that made me feel better was being mean. Granted, my form of meanness never involved lying. I only told people how much of a bitch she'd been. I was so embarrassed that I wouldn't even use her words, but I'd say she was skinny and not that good of a dancer. I'd say she was mean and I didn't understand why people liked her... and people agreed with me. When my weight loss became more visible, she and her friend cooked up a rumor that I was bulimic. It was as if they were trying to say that, yeah she can be skinny, but only if she cheats. Again I was miserable. I worked my ASS of to lose weight. I was running, lifting weights, dance class, dance team, stretching and doing situps in my front room while I watched criminal minds... and they were going to say I was cheating? I was so pissed. But horribly, more than truly recognizing her cruelty, I continued that thought process: this is what everyone thinks. She's the only one enough of a bitch to say it out loud. And I felt worthless.

By 8th grade I'd lost a lot of weight. I was around 40 lbs lighter with a lot more muscle gained. I felt healthy. I still wanted to lose weight, but I was really proud of where I'd gotten. One day I dropped a bunch of stuff after the last bell. As he was passing, Dylan Reed mumbled, "like a cow" under his breath. I was done. I kept working out and eating right out of habit. But when the time stopped being readily available to hit the gym and the food not quite as accessible, I stopped caring. I didn't make the time or choose to eat healthy. What did it matter? I was never going to be skinny, no matter how hard I worked. I was never going to be as skinny as Sarah Simpson. She could eat all the pizza she wanted and look that way forever. She had it easy. Slowly, the weight crept back on. Cruel passing comments remained. Finding dance clothes to fit was still an issue. Changing in PE was devastating... High school.

On and off through high school I struggled with cutting, inappropriate relationships with boys, and all the other goodies bipolar brings to a hormonal teenage girl. I hated myself and I had no clue why. And I don't think I was ready to understand. I wasn't ready to say, I think I'm fat and I'm afraid no one likes me, because just the thought would make me cry. I didn't even like myself enough to really try to get to the bottom of why I was unhappy. College came and after an incredibly rough first year I began to truly find myself. My diagnosis with bipolar disorder gave me something I'd never really had before. For the first time I knew what was driving people away, and it had nothing to do with me being fat. I could acknowledge that the things I truly hated about myself were symptoms and not character traits. It was so freeing that I began to really come to terms with what it really meant to love myself. I learned that secrets are evil. The more you silently convince yourself you aren't worth it without consulting the people who love you, the less likely you are to succeed. Loving yourself is necessary to be healthy both physically and mentally.

So that's a story of fat-shaming. It took a mental health diagnosis and 19 years of struggle, but I learned that my body did not define me. I am smart, I can write, I can sing and dance, and I love children and books and Doctor Who and Harry Potter and and and... my size has so little to do with me. Granted, with the danger of generalizing I will state, that oftentimes, MY (not true for everyone) weight is a sign of how I'm doing emotionally. If I'm heavier it means I'm eating emotionally and I don't have the energy to work out. This is depression, folks. That is bad. But now that I know myself better, I know I'm not depressed because I'm fat. I gain weight when I'm depressed. And right now, after a year of self-discovery, I finally feel ready to tackle my health. But that's what it took for me. If I'd started any sooner, I wouldn't have been ready, and I'd have wound back up right where I started. Everyone has to find their own individual journey.

With that said. Fat-shaming is never okay. Ever. It is a sensitive topic because of the way it's been handled in the past and therefore must be handled sensitively now. Otherwise it's simply pointless. America is fat. Okay. Instead of making that broad and obvious statement, do something to teach kids about eating healthy. Tell them that loving your body is the first step to taking care of it. Tell them that it doesn't matter what someone else thinks of their bodies--they have to be their own champions. Okay? So shut up about the problem and be a solution. The solution isn't a lecture circuit. It's about appealing to people's emotions. Making them feel worth the effort. It's hard to understand what it's like to be fat in our culture unless you've been there, but hopefully this will give you a better idea of what it's like, and hopefully that will allow you to support healthier messages and to smash what hurts the people already struggling so painfully with self-hatred.

Day 2: V-Day "I'M BEING HEALTHY DAMMIT!"

This is obligatory because I've promised to blog every day of lent. But this is also obligatory because Valentine's Day is a mixed-blessing. I personally love Valentine's Day. It's got candy, chocolate, dates (with lovers, friends, and family), and you get to make a little note to tell someone you love them. And shut up to all the, "but you should express your love all year" people. Just. Shut up. I do fucking express my love all year. I say it every damn day and mean it when I say it. I give hugs, send nice messages, call to check in on people, and buy random-ass things I know they'll enjoy because I love the people in my life. And they do the same for me. Now. This is a WHOLE DAY set aside to celebrate love. We have days to celebrate boxing, the births of famous people, the deaths of famous people, all of the United States presidents at once... why do we hate on a day set aside for love?
Now. I recognize that media has turned made it about romance. I get that. That's cool. But whether or not you buy (eh-hem) into that is up to you. Because I'm a single lady, I choose not to. With a boyfriend, sure, I'd probably bring some romance into it; but I will never neglect the other people I love. Valentine's Day is both over and underrated. It's taken over jewelry industries and chocolate companies, and fancy restaurants. But it has not been recognized for it's full potential.

Okay. Moving on.

Woohoo! Holding strong. This is also V-Day to fight abuse against women and girls for those of you interested. I was blessed with a million gifts of candy that I had to turn away (or put away) because of Lent. But somehow it didn't feel like that much of a chore. I'M BEING HEALTHY DAMMIT! So I don't have a whole lot to say on that one.
Note that all day between these pictures I drank a lot of water and ate a lot of nuts and seeds. I just took a container to all my classes. Here's da foods:

Breakfast: Quaker oatmeal made from water with cherry juice to drink

Lunch: Spinach salad with broccoli, carrots, cucumber, and olive oil &vinegar. Granola cereal with soy milk (already gobbled up). Zucchini and peppers. An apple. And soy milk to drink.

Dinner Appetizer: Salad with carrots, broccoli, edamame, sunflower seeds, and olive oil & vinegar. (Noticing a trend?) That's unsweetened ice tea to drink.

Dinner: The server swore all of this was cooked in oil. Grilled green beans, sweet potato fries, and rice pilaf.

Nighttime Snack: THESE THINGS ARE SO GOOD.

I worked out by myself today (something I rarely do) and just jogged a mile running the last lap. That's really about it. Other than that because of leaving my shit everywhere I had to power walk all over campus which did hell on my calves. "Sometimes love don't feel like it should..."

This is what I wrote in my journal this morning:
Today for myself I will work out. I know it's kind of required, but I'm actually excited about it today.
Today I will make valentines for everyone on Union Board.
Today I am most excited to eat with Jim and Grandma.
Today I am most anxious about changing my routine (adding workout and eating in towers).
Today I am thankful for soy milk.

So, I'm not going to post my meals on here every night because I do it on Facebook all day long. It's getting a bit redundant. Plus the pictures litter up the post and I don't get to say much else. Here's my page to go like it if you want to follow my sweet, sweet vegan ass. 

You should also probably follow me on Twitter because I'm fun.

For those of you who are new, here's the post that explains what the hell I'm doing.

This Election and My Uterus

I'm a pretty loud-mouthed liberal, so I doubt many of you wonder my reasons for voting for Obama. But as a woman, I wanted you to know where I'm sitting. Where are you?

Abortion and Birth Control
This didn't used to be so close to my heart, but this has hit home. First of all: I'm on birth control because I have cramps from hell. My insurance provides that for me because I need it in order to attend class regularly and perform to the best of my ability at work. I'm also a (somewhat) sexually active, adult woman. Even if I had perfectly normal periods and didn't require medication to regulate them, I would be on birth control, because that's the responsible thing for me to do. My insurance company should still support me in making that responsible decision. When I have sex, I am not only on birth control now, but I use condoms--responsibility, folks. If I were to get pregnant under those circumstances, I sure as hell would get an abortion. I am in no way ready to have a child and I in no way want one.

I'm offended and creeped out that these GOP politicians are so concerned with my sex life. I will do whatever the fuck I want with this body, I will be as safe as I can when I do it, and if all that falls through, I will not further curse this nation with the birth of another unwanted child. Tell me how the Republican Party can oppose birth control, abortion, and funding for social programs? You don't want to help prevent pregnancy? Cool. You don't want to help end what you did not want to help prevent? Ummm... You don't want to support the child that would not prevent coming into this world? Fuck you. That is greed.

Many want to argue that this is not a War on Women. I call bull shit. If a man gets a woman pregnant by rape, incest, or consensual sex, he can walk away. He holds no legal responsibility while the woman clearly does. He commits a legal abortion by disappearing, leaving the mother to deal with that kid. A woman doesn't get that option. If she becomes pregnant and is forced to carry the child to term, then she is responsible. The world may never know who the father is--but she is marked. That child is hers. She has to drop everything to raise it. Or adoption, whatever. But let's be real. We have enough kids in the system. Maybe we should put a little more emphasis on those children who are already alive with friends, talents, interests, and loves.
And I love when some say they're only okay with abortion in cases of rape and incest... yadda yadda. Because the woman wants to go to court after she was raped to prove it was rape... meanwhile the child comes closer and closer to the point in its term where abortion is no longer an option. Incest? Maybe she doesn't WANT the person to know she's pregnant. And in the end, how do we prove any of this? We can't, really. Not even science is positive on that. So all y'all are full of shit. You're just trying to make yourselves feel better about telling rape victims they have to raise that baby. This is just something that cannot be government regulated.

Here are some further concerns I don't have the energy to write about in detail:
Capital Punishment
The War on Terror
Fear of Theocracy
Public Programming (a weak attempt at appearing fiscally conservative)
Foreign Relations
Medicare and Social Security
Gay Marriage
Equal Pay (without the help of binders)
My future in a mental health field

Justin Bieber Overrated and Exploited

I have plenty of problems with popular music. It's fine for dance music, I think, but I cannot take it seriously. There are musicians who know how to read music and don't need complicated equipment to cover their inability to carry a tune. Those musicians can't get ahead because our music industry is shallow. It's unfair, and that's what bothers me.

So I'm not a Bieber fan. He's not as horrible as some say. But he's certainly not worth his popularity level either. I just watched a special on Justin and his mom on television (another reason this shit is terrible for us). He was serenading her (dripping with cheese), and he got so sharp he changed key. Jesus Christ. How do people like this get famous for their "talent?" *sex, cough cough* He's an attractive kid. Girls freak out (in utterly irrational and creepy ways) about him. They're selling his sex appeal, whether or not people realize they're buying into it.

So, on this show, they were focusing on the trials his mother had faced in her childhood. When I still watched TV (took it seriously, at least) I would have found it a very moving program. She was molested, she was an addict, she attempted suicide, she became pregnant with Justin when she was a teenager, yadda yadda. First issue: They turned it into an issue of pro-life/pro-choice. She was encouraged to abort Justin and chose not to, and now he's such a big deal. I think it's pretty clear that I'm pro-choice (just look at the rest of this blog). I was offended that they used her heartache as a conservative promo.

I'm sure this woman was encouraged to give all this up. At one point in my life, I would have said she was an advocate. She was telling young people that you can come out of addiction, and to get help after sexual abuse... but now I know better. Justin Bieber's mom isn't going to make our youth feel better about their own heartaches. Justin's music is becoming more serious as his PR people are trying to convince the public he isn't still 14 (even if he looks it), because songs like Baby are already getting old. His fans are growing up. And just as his music is attempting a more mature feel, they're trying to do the same with his personal life. They're going to do anything to push that new image, including exploiting his mother's past (or lying about it).

Justin didn't do such a good job on the program. His singing was only the beginning. He was clearly uncomfortable being present for his mother discussing her history of sexual abuse, and the thought of aborting the child that now sat next to her. When the subject of her suicide attempt arose, he said, "everyone makes mistakes." Is there not a more politically correct response? How about, "I'm so happy she's here now. She means the world to me." or "I know my mom had a lot going on, and I'm so inspired by her ability to turn her life around." Not... it was a mistake. I guess we all do that. What the hell, bro? Aren't you coached better than this? Or perhaps they shouldn't have subjected the poor kid to that horribly uncomfortable situation in the first place.

I don't read magazines for the same reason. I don't care what anyone says about someone famous. I don't know them personally, so I don't care if they broke up with their boyfriend, or if they're pregnant, or anything really. Not unless someone endorses something I believe in or has a performance that speaks to me will I be interested in that person as an individual. And I sure as hell won't use television or magazines to gather the information I'm seeking.

The exploitation of our big "stars," is disgusting. It's unfair to them. That environment cannot be healthy, which is why we end up with girls like Lindsay Lohan--she is a product of our sick fascination. I won't be surprised when Bieber comes out the same way. We've created this world in which we admire images of famous people who have been edited to look a specific way, and have resources to trainers and dietitians that most of us don't have. We want to be them... and then we make jokes of the people we once admired--the ones who have broken. And we take pleasure from it. Because when someone we're jealous of fails, it feels good. We celebrate their successes, just as we make comedy of their downfalls. Check yourself, people.

On Compassion, Self Love, and Roadkill

The air smells of pleasant decay—the pleasant smell of dying trees. I often say road kill smells good. I get looks. It’s not that I want to bottle it and replace my Chanel, no. I just acknowledge the inevitability of death. I don’t think it’s gross. It doesn’t even make me that sad anymore (although I still hold a soft spot for cats), because that animal meant nothing to me in its life, and it doesn’t mean anything to me in its death. That comes up often in my mind. 9/11 was no exception to my confusion. So, distorted faces and that quickly drawn air held tightly in our lungs comes from… nothing real. Breathe it in. I breathe that body in the same way I take in the smell of drying leaves. Neither could have lived forever, and that would be an exhausting life indeed.

Roadkill

 I have to remind myself constantly that much of what I “hate,” or “dislike,” or “find unattractive,” is culturally instilled and doesn’t much reflect the way I really feel. Culture is inescapable—we are influenced by where we come from and who has ever meant anything to us. That is part of what makes all of us so interesting. There is a culture within my household that can never be replicated anywhere. That’s brilliant. But yet: I find that I’m getting to a point in my life in which the harm of value judgments is becoming apparent. Just as culture is inescapable, so is judgment. But for years I used that as an excuse for being an insecure bitch. (I was pretty normal in that regard.) That insecurity was masked by my ability to focus the attention on someone else; on someone with pants that are too tight, or someone who is awkward, or even someone who is unkind to others. That’s an interesting concept. Two wrongs, eh?

 Judgment isn’t all that inescapable—it’s just really fucking hard. It’s that hard for three reasons, I think. 1) I do it all the time, and it’s hard to catch. 2) I’m mortified at how often I do it. 3) I force myself to consider why I was thinking or saying that—about others or myself.

I’d say number three is the hardest. It’s exhausting to delve into my insecurities all the time. It’s exhausting to figure out where they come from. And more than exhausting it’s painful.

I’m trying really hard. It’s going to make me a better, happier person. Just like deciding road kill doesn’t actually smell that bad and daddy longlegs are acceptable snacks, and that I should not be sad for the loss of someone I don’t know; most of the parts of our world that we think are bad, are not a big deal, and we'd be happier if we stopped hating. I assert that everyone is good. Every single person is good. Everyone does bad things. Sometimes those bad things are unforgiveable—that’s the nature of human relationships: feelings get hurt. But behind those bad things are feelings of inadequacy or pain. You can’t tell me that in a moment of sadness you’ve never lashed out at someone. Sometimes that’s all I ever see of someone. That happens to all of us. We have one interaction with someone, and it was bad—so we assume we don’t like them, right? And it’s not that I pity them. I don’t pity my “enemies.” I just acknowledge their goodness. I’d want someone to do the same for me.

I hate what religion does to people oftentimes. I hate that the goodness of a person is masked by the hate they’ve been taught. And you know what? That is a lot bigger than ignorance. There are things I know nothing about, that I’m ignorant to, but because compassion is already within us, I can be kind to them. Ignorance isn’t the problem—it’s learning the wrong thing. And still. I don’t pity those people. I will still be kind to them, as hard as it is for me. I will be kind to the goodness in them, and as it arises, I will be honest about my distaste for what I know is incorrect in them. Hate is taught.

Lately this has been on my mind. Actually, it’s on my mind all the time, because apparently I am ruthless in there. And I wanted to share it. I know I talk about this a lot in a lot of different ways. But it took a few different takes for me to finally understand what it means to be compassionate. And I’ve made it clear that I believe we all have it in us. Based on your culture of home, it’s harder for some to get there, but I know it’s possible. And compassion towards others and yourself is the only way to learn to love yourself. The only way. I repeat that statement with an emphasis I can’t give you with the written word.

Love the shit out of yourself. Look (really, really hard if necessary) for the good in others. Tell that voice that tells you that you look fat in that dress you love to shut the hell up. Because you know that hearing it from someone else does nothing. You have to believe it yourself. I just talked to Sara about this, which is why I decided to make a post. I think Sara and I are kicking our own asses, and one another’s. Let me know if you want in on the love.

Facebook and Fanny Packs

For sorority recruitment, we all had to deactivate our Facebook pages. Whoah. My whole world feels a little different right now. And I'm really okay with it. I feel a little bit... free? I have to limit my Facebook usage! This feels kind of like camp--like a weight's been lifted from my shoulders.

I ask only that you guys share my posts to Facebook in my absence.

So. Now for the real post.

Katlyn sent me her Vera Bradley fanny pack in the mail today. She is so incredibly generous. You may think it's weird I'm so excited about this. But I think it's one of those camp inside jokes. Except there's not really a joke--it's just something camp people get. BUT IT'S CRAZY EXCITING. I can't wait for an excuse to wear it. I wrote her a thank you card. I've had so much fun with all my letters!

Kisses.

The Value in Letter-Writing

We have a great gift past generations lived without. When I want to talk to my mom, I can call her, and assume that she will answer or call back. Immediate satisfaction. I can have an entire conversation via text message telling all my girlfriends, in a group message, how a date went. They can immediately ask questions, and likewise, I respond immediately with all the juicy details. I use my cell phone all the time to talk to friends and family; to quickly tell them I love them, or relay bad news.

But letters. What happened to letters?

When I pass the computer table, I always peek in hopes of seeing my name printed in pen on an envelope. When I do see my name, I get super excited. My shoulders shoot straight up to my ears, I make silent, happy claps, and I hop from foot to foot. I don’t think I’m the only person that likes letters or cards. Everyone gets a little excited! It takes no real effort to send a text message. It’s become part of our lives. You can do it standing up, sitting down, on a bus, on the toilet, under your desk in class… and we’re so good at it now. I’ve come to expect that a person respond to my text within the next five minutes. But there’s nothing special about that.

Letters are different. You have to sit down with something to write with, and something to write on. You have to correct your own spelling and grammar mistakes. And since you’re there, you feel compelled to say more thoughtful things. In order to fill up that space, you come up with more to talk about. And you don’t just relay those things that happen to you, do you? You talk about the way they made you feel. Sometimes I write a letter and I learn things about myself that I hadn’t taken the time to notice. I don’t believe I can say the same for texting.

And when you start writing, back and forth, back and forth… you start to get excited about your next letter! You’re waiting and you start to anticipate that response. And when it comes you feel somehow relieved that they still care, and that they can still find you. And that response! In that time you’ve thought of so much to tell them! You’ve done so many cool things, and met some strange people…

What about letters? What happened to them?

Just because we have the option of immediate satisfaction, doesn’t mean we can’t still practice patience. It doesn’t mean we can’t stop to make an effort to tell someone how much they mean to us. It doesn’t mean we can’t feel a sense of satisfaction when we read our name on the envelope.

Amanda sent us post cards.

Write me a letter, friends. I promise I’ll write you back.

Adventure Time--and other gag-worthy children's shows

I wish it would stop moving. And promoting unhealthy eating habits.

Television has potential to be educational. Sure. Okay. That's not what I'm talking about. Dora and Barney? I got no beef. Adventure Time. Are you effing kidding me? I only watched one episode, and this is what I found:

1. Sexual innuendos
2. Poor grammar
3. Borderline cursing
4. Poor boundaries; both verbally and physically
5. Pointless, lesson-less, mind-numbing entertainment

 This is inappropriate for children. This is an example of why we should be teaching our children healthy messages about their bodies and sexuality--because television shows, directed towards our youth, are doing it for us. The kids watching this show aren't old enough to be exposed to sex in this way, but if parents allow their kids to watch it, they should probably be watching too in order to explain and ask their child to question those things that bother them. Seriously.

Also. The grammar. In shows directed towards adults, poor grammar is used as a comedic tool that references a lack of educated, a low socioeconomic status, child-like speech, or even people of specific regions (particularly the south). I don't always agree with that in shows for adults, because I think it furthers our skewed ideas of culture, but I'll admit I've laughed. We watched this show. They didn't laugh. The kids just assumed it to be correct. When children are that young, they're still learning what's okay in our society. They're still idolizing their parents, teachers, older peers and siblings... they haven't found themselves quite yet (as if we ever do, ha!). But they're taking in the images on the tv screen. Television is our culture's most popular babysitter. They didn't laugh because they still think they're being taught. They think it's correct.

I'm sure you do.

 Borderline cursing. I tend to think cursing is overrated. Words are words, nothing more or less. Some words are weighted with a certain kind of power that they're child-like alternatives lack. Darn/damn, frick/fuck, shoot/shit, etc. But there are words that are arguable. Pissed, sucks, God, etc. This show makes use of those arguable curse words as well as the "almost" words. Now, these are things we don't let kids say. Personally, I think it shouldn't matter as much as it does. Kids have feelings equally as important as adults', yet they're not permitted to use the same powerful speech we use. But society says otherwise. We punish kids who cross that line, or eve toe it. We can't punish kids for words like sucks, pissed, God, frick, danged, or whatever; if we allow them to receive their education from a talking box. They'll say what they hear. We need to either normalize ourselves to children cursing, or we need to stop the source from which they hear it.

Boundaries! I watched one character hold another's ass while they made it dance for them... with no pants on. Granted. It's a cartoon, and it's a dog. But they gave the dog an ass that resembled a human's... and the character was holding it. They bite each other. They lick each other. They had a baby (which they'd stolen), and shook it around because it wouldn't "jiggle" for them. They wanted to "get down," and the baby was "ruining the mood." Nuff said.

All in all, it's a lame show. It's not actually that well-done. The script isn't interesting or informative. There's not really music between clips. The plot is dumb and unrealistic. Nothing important comes from it. That was a wasted hour in those kids' lives. It's an hour they could have practiced reading, created art, listened and danced to music, played a game in the yard, or even talking to one another--quite a lost art. I was offended, really. I am so over television. My children will watch PBS and documentaries. Nothing. Fucking. Else. Oh, my God. No hope for humanity. :(

"Lump off"

I busted a little kid's head today.

Okay, not really. As I mentioned, I was blessed to spend the whole day with Miss Kairyn Grace. First I made her biscuits for breakfast because Kayla had suggested it, and now that it was in Kairyn’s head, I didn’t want to say, “sorry girl, I don’t have much by way of logical thinking skills, so my anxiety says let’s eat cereal instead.”  Besides the fact she would have looked at me and said, “Dede, you’re crazy,” I couldn’t let the damn biscuits defeat me. So Kayla preheated the oven for me. That part was done and over with. One less thing to worry about. But when I put them in I forgot to change it to bake instead of preheat, so they took foreverrrrr to… (is that baking or cooking?). And I felt guilty making her wait for breakfast and allowing her mind to be poisoned by television that long. I’d already promised she could watch until breakfast was ready. And you don’t change rules when it comes to TV with these kids. I’d have had a mutiny on my hands.

Okay. So then I didn’t remember that I hadn’t actually ever turned the oven on. And I spent a panicked 5 minutes trying to figure out how to turn it off. Kairyn was patting my upper thigh because it was all she could reach in a comforting way. Finally I called Kayla to have her fix it, because heaven knows I couldn’t have done it on my own. And then I finally realized I’d never turned it on in the first place. AND in the process of trying to turn it off I’d reset the clock to be around 5 hours and 13 minutes off, and that the oven had an automatic light. It wasn’t bright because it was hot… just… because it was automatic. That was redundant, but I thought saying it again may help you realize how ridiculous of a person I am.

All that aside, I chatted with the chickie while she enjoyed the fruits of my labor (?), and she ate it with a fork. A fork? “Dede. Why did you give me a fork?” And I just looked at it for a minute, and then I looked at the biscuit. And I said, “I don’t know.” And we laughed and laughed because these may be our last minutes together that I actually remember before the brain damage from my seizure-head-injury totally wipes my memory and makes me crazy. (Looooooooooong story short, I had a seizure in dance class and got rushed to the ER because I hit my head. No broken neck, no concussion. I’m fine. But I like to blame all the stupid stuff I do on my brain damage.) That’s why I was laughing anyway. She was laughing because I gave her a fork to eat finger food.
And because it was pretty funny, I wanted to put it on Facebook, but all of a sudden, I couldn’t remember how to spell biscuit. And I wasn’t even getting close enough for Tonks (my iPhone) to give me any reasonable suggestions besides brisket. And because I talk out loud, Kairyn saw that I was struggling and frustratingly suggested I call her mother for the answer about 400 times before I finally remembered how to spell it. And then I was positive I was going to lose my mind. I’m never having a seizure and hitting my head again.

And then we were going to watch Totoro and color Disney Princesses as I’d failed to do yesterday. Damn it. But Totoro is on VCR. I’m not sure if it exists on DVD, but if it does, the person to buy it for me gets a free hug. I’d tried to watch Totoro with her the day before, but I couldn’t figure out how to get the VCR to work with their TV. And today it was going to work! I would not let it defeat me. Kairyn said, “Dede, it’s just a movie. We can just listen to Justin Bieber because that’s easier.” I think she was trying to be comforting again, as she will, but I was all, “I’ve got this Kairyn. Just give me a bit.” She rolled her eyes.

And then it worked! *Applause!* And she was genuinely excited because she loves that movie, and so do I. And when we got tired of coloring we just snuggled on the couch watching it together. And because I’m a big stinking hormonal train wreck lately, I cried when the girls found out their mom wasn’t coming home from the hospital yet. I also cried when we watched Bolt and when I listened to the Wicked soundtrack all the way through. That stuff will tear. You. up! Seriously. “Sure, I meant well -Well, look at what well-meant did. All right, enough; so be it. So be it, then. Let all Oz be agreed I'm wicked through and through. Since I cannot succeed Fiyero, saving you, I promise no good deed will I attempt to do again. Ever again.” Sheesh. Tell me that doesn’t make you want to sob. Okay, it doesn’t? Cool. Just me. (A side note. Spell Check tells me the ‘doesn’t’ in “doesn’t make you want to sob” is supposed to be don’t. So: Tell me that don’t make you want to sob.?? I would beg to differ Mr. Check.)

Cheese sticks are a perfectly acceptable meal for lunch... Right?

I got way off track. Anyway. So then we went to the park. And we swang/swinged/swung (IT WAS SWUNG, GRANDMA! TAKE THAT, YOU SLUT!) and it was whimsical. Really it was. And then she went on the merry-go-round thing with two other charming children who were really nice to her and they all had a great time. Then I busted a kid’s head open. Sort of. He was little and wanted to ride too, and I spun them, and all of a sudden he flew off into the gravel and started wailing uncontrollably. And the other kids are looking at me, horrified, like that poor child! Or more like they were afraid I was going to beat them, which is a disturbingly common reaction among kids in the event of a crisis. And after a really long time trying to calm him down long enough for me to ask the First Aid questions I’d never really gotten to ask before, his day care provider showed up.

And he had blood ALL over his head. But because I’m all certified, I knew that head wounds bleed like crazy, even if they’re not very severe, just because of where they are. Plus, the kid was wiping it all over the place and wiping is wet eyes, so then he had blood all over his face too. He looked like the survivor of a devastating car wreck, and he was crying like the only survivor in a car full of his immediate family. His day care lady freaked and called his mom, because apparently she didn’t know what the hell to do. The camp counselor in me was way more prepared for that shit than she was. She was actually kind of mad at the kid. Apparently he busts his head all the time, and the way she said he did it, made me feel like I was off the hook like, NOT MY FAULT, PEOPLE!  Now that knew people really thought that I was innocent, I could chillax. Because I was kind of afraid the 5, 6, and 7 year olds thought I had done it on purpose and the day care woman would judge me, even though she should have been watching him, not me.

So then Kairyn and I left because I was afraid to be there when the mom showed up. And we looked for Indian beads. Later we played a game where I threw pennies while she closed her eyes and then she looked for them—much like playing fetch with a puppy.
The end.

Makeup is NOT Antifeminist

Yes makeup, yes feminist.

*I would like to note that I wrote this geared towards women because of the feminist nature of the post. However, these truths are applied (often in reverse) to men who wear makeup as well. Men should not feel bad about interest in cosmetics, and no assumptions or judgments should be made concerning a man’s sexuality because of his use of makeup. I try to be sensitive to my male readers on this topic, because I acknowledge the flaws of our gender dichotomy. <3 to y’all.

I love makeup. I love makeup because it is art. It is art in the same way tattoos, piercings, and clothes are art for our bodies. It’s a form of artistry I’m not half-bad at. I appreciate cosmetic application as an expression of personality and a creative outlet. I like picking colors that look good together and finding the perfect shade of foundation for my skin. And I love helping other women do the same. I’m a Mary Kay consultant. I’m also a feminist.

And I know that’s hard for some people to grasp, because the way in which people use makeup can be antifeminist, and the way in which people interpret a woman’s use of makeup can be antifeminist. But makeup is never antifeminist. Some women do not wear makeup because they don’t like it. Just fine. Some women don’t wear it because they want to push social boundaries. Just fine. Some men and women are attracted to a certain style of makeup. Just fine. But makeup is often viewed in ways I find problematic. Following are my issues with makeup and my explanations of those.

What makeup is not:

1. A requirement for beauty.
2. A requirement for women.
3. An invitation for sex.

Further explanation:

1. Physical beauty has nothing to do with images on TV or in magazines. Physical beauty is something every single woman has. Some man or woman who is in touch with their sexuality and their wants and needs will find her attractive. Ugliness lies in behavior and isn’t present in physical appearance. I don’t believe in ugly. I do believe in unattractive. Something may be unattractive to me, which to me means that I find it unattractive; and not that it is by nature unattractive. Just because I do not find someone attractive does not mean they are inherently unattractive; someone else still might. Makeup isn’t what makes a woman beautiful. It can highlight the things she is most fond of. Maybe a woman really appreciates and loves the shape of her lips. If she wants to accentuate that, I take no issue with that. All that means to me is that she loves herself enough to have found a part of herself she is willing to show off. And the same goes for a woman without makeup! If she finds herself attractive without makeup on, then she need not wear it. I know I’m beautiful without makeup, but I still enjoy it. I wear makeup a lot, but I sometimes (more often lately) allow my face to go without. I need to remind myself that I’m beautiful without it, and I am confident enough to show it off without fear of how others feel about it. I find myself attractive, and if someone else does not, I’m not bothered by that. I don’t find everyone attractive either! It’s crazy to expect everyone to be attracted to me. A woman’s beauty comes from her attractiveness which is a combination of her personality and her physical appearance; which does not have to match societal standards of beauty to be beautiful. Damn the man.
2. It’s absurd to define a woman’s femininity by her interest in makeup. Perhaps she just feels more comfortable expressing her creativity elsewhere. A woman is a woman by choice, and if she does indeed identify as woman, then she is a woman. Her style of dress, her career, nor her interest in cosmetics can take that identity from her. I’m concerned that a woman can feel less of a woman because of another person’s idea of attractiveness. Often that idea of what is attractive is defined by images on TV (curse television), and I take issue with that because...
   
   
   A) images of women on TV are often achieved by unnatural means and are unattainable by nearly every other woman. It is unfair to expect that of women. Women should not be attempting to fit themselves into our cultural cookie cutter, because not everyone fits! Women should instead accept their appearance, although always aiming for health. But some women are healthy at a size 14 (this girl, for instance). Some women are healthy at a size 0. No body is the same. And the cookie cutter is getting more and more complicated. The cookie cutter has breasts that are not proportionate to the rest of the tiny body. The cookie cutter has skin that is darker than is healthy for the popular blonde hair often associated with it. Blondes tend to have fairer skin and are more prone to skin sensitivity and sunburn. This cookie cutter leaves women feeling hopeless and unfeminine. Women try to lose weight to look like those skinny women, but the weight first comes from their breasts! Women try to tan, but then age more rapidly—another natural process our culture is terrified of, as if looking younger means you aren’t actually approaching death. A woman in her natural state is attractive to someone as she is. There isn’t one way to be beautiful, and it’s ludicrous to think that because a woman doesn’t look like a Barbie—something nearly physically impossible to achieve without cosmetic surgery –she isn’t attractive! And,
   
   
   B) people who are attracted to those images are often only attracted to those images because they feel a social obligation to be, as if not finding Kim Kardashian attractive would make them less of a man. (I only say man because women are generally not expected by society to find Kim Kardashian attractive.) So, TV Heads (people who allow television to think for them) can only be attracted to them physically which is only half (although still important) of attraction. That means these people are experiencing a very shallow sense interest in these images, and they are assuming that they will be wholly attracted to a woman that displays that image in the “real world.” However, they are lacking the equally important part of attraction: personality. This leads to misinterpretations and unrealistic expectations. For instance, women with large breasts are often considered sexual—regardless of their personality—because our society encourages young men to find large breasts sexually attractive. Also, I’m bothered because I don’t think TV Heads are really in touch with their sexuality. Every single person attracted to women is not likely attracted to the same kind of woman, and vice versa. A person that lets their TV think for them is often not aware of what they do find attractive. They think that only certain physical bodies are supposed to be found attractive, and someone who finds a 300 pound woman attractive is wrong. But honestly, I believe that person is far more in touch with their sexuality and their physical needs, because they’ve come to that conclusion on their own. Society had nothing to do with that decision. I respect that.
3. I feel ridiculous that I have to say this at all. Guys and gals: just because a woman wears a style of makeup our culture tends to pair with sex doesn’t actually mean she wants to have sex. You may say, “Maddie! People don’t really think that!” But tell me if you’ve heard this: “Her makeup looks so slutty.” You have. And the word ‘slut’ is associated with sex! But be sure to check the etymology on that! When someone calls someone a slut because of the style of a woman’s makeup, they’re insinuating that woman wants to have sex because of that. Culturally, red lipstick and thick, black eyeliner are associated with prostitution and thus women who are initiating sex. But further consideration needs to be made: Perhaps she just likes the aesthetic appearance of that style of makeup. Is it not possible she just finds herself attractive in that style of makeup? Also, we should consider the likely possibility that she may feel pressured to present herself as a sexual being, because she may see herself as such. By calling her a slut, you’re confirming her belief that her purpose is to please men; nothing more. We need to be a lot more careful about our judgment of women—everyone has a story, and you don’t know everything! I get that it’s pretty much written in our DNA to judge people and categorize them, but we’ve come quite a long way since the days of a necessary, biological sense to protect ourselves from warring tribes, in order to carry on our race. In fact, we’re dangerously overpopulated. Seriously. It’s unnecessary. And people. Assuming a woman wants to have sex with you just because you think her makeup screams it, makes you look kind of desperate. And desperation + the flippant use of the word ‘slut,’ makes you a tool. Congratulations. You’re an asshole. Nice guys don’t really finish last.

In short. Makeup is a form of artistic expression. I don’t like for women to feel as though their beauty depends on it. And I don’t like women to feel as though their womanhood is unbreakably bonded to cosmetics. And I don’t like when a woman is labeled a slut because of the way she wears her makeup (or anything she does, really). But I love makeup. I’d appreciate if other feminists stopped harping on it.

But for the sake of you feisty women: I do think women should wear it less. I think they should experiment with their natural, physical beauty and learn to accept themselves as they are. They should look for things they’re proud of instead of focusing on what they’re ashamed of on their bodies. And the confidence to go without makeup is impressive, only because of our culture’s emphasis on it. Try it out for a while every now and then, just to remind yourself of how beautiful you are, and to get in touch with why you’re really putting that face on in the morning.

No makeup, no big deal.

Why I Don't Watch Television

Kyle: I said in my first post ever that I would remain the conductor and y'all would still be my passengers. A person's name doesn't change just because they do. I think that's how I'm justifying it.

Now for the actual post.

I'm on a feminist kick. I don't know if all this progressive thinking is a phase of my higher education, or if I'm really starting to think a little differently. I've noticed that the less I engage in Facebook, the less television I watch, and the more I read; the more I really start to think about where I'm at. I think about the world I'm living in. I choose to always think of the things that bring me joy, but I do not ignore what upsets me. And I'm upset by this patriarchal society. And I hadn't thought much about it before. I was probably a feminist before, but I wasn't pissed off enough. It was also hard for me to see where our patriarchal society really affected me because I was so immersed in that society and had never taken time to question it. Again. I think an overdose of Real Housewives, My Sweet 16, and any show that glorified the lives of the famous filled the time in which I should have really been thinking about the world around me. I know y'all are going to get sick of my reality television rants, but I think it's a serious thing.

Television (with the exception of educational television or artistic work) is 1) a waste of time, 2) an easy way for media to reinforce patriarchal ideas as well as stereotypes and create a standard of beauty to a vulnerable or young audience, and 3) is all managed and produced by the very rich, which gives that one percent we liberals are always complaining about, power that is undeserved and truly scary.

I used to watch television to know what clothes were cool, and if I didn't own those clothes I somehow felt inferior or angry that no one would provide them for me. That led to some severe ungratefulness on my part. *Sorry Mom* I used to watch television to know who was important, completely overlooking the fact that being a good artist does not make a person any more invincible than any other; it only magnifies their successes and failures in an exploitative manner. I used to watch those shows and let it reinforce my hatred towards small town life and "country bumpkins." I used to watch television to wish my life was like someone else's.

Instead, I could have been making my life the way I wanted it. I could have been reading more books, or exercising more, or talking to people who helped me to open my mind to new and brilliant things. There's nothing wrong with television until we expose children to anything besides educational television (PBS, people), because it again reinforces stereotypes and teaches children to want, want, want those toys on the commercials. They are so unnecessary, but those ads, as ads will, make them seem like the only way to achieve popularity or coolness. That is teaching children at a young age to allow media to tell them what is acceptable, cool, and what is beautiful or good-looking--the standard thereof. What toys would they be interested in if TV wasn't telling them what to be interested in?

Those Disney channel shows I loved so much reinforced the belief that nerds were uncool, and "normal people" were beautiful and rich. Those "normal people" didn't have glasses and they weren't above the weight our standard of beauty says is okay. And although those "normal people" weren't rich by standards of that show, they still managed to have lots of cool, beautiful clothes, and huge houses. Their moms were almost always at-home mothers. Their fathers liked reading the newspaper and drinking coffee. And although the fathers always made decisions for the family, the mother always knew what was best, and the father's plans would always fail. The mother would quietly shake her head, smile, and fix everything. Don't believe me? What about road trips where the dad won't get directions although the wife suggests it, and then they're lost? The man gets to make the decision. The man makes a fool of himself. The woman fixes it. That's we how we, in the 50s, began to justify the apparent sexism in television, but now it's ridiculous. And I'm not sure why men put up with it, frankly. Men aren't always meat-head brutes that are far less intelligent that their wives... not always. There are plenty of intelligent men, and plenty of working women. <--and why are the "less intelligent" sex given the career?

The "popular kids" in those shows weren't actually that popular. No one really liked them, but everyone pretended to. Everyone was nice to them although they were mean to everyone else. It was about once a season that someone would stand up to them. And they were always blonde with huge boobs and revealing clothes. Those were the girls knocked up in my high school... not the homecoming queens. These shows gave me a very skewed idea of social interaction, of how to handle bullying, of what was "lame," "normal," and "popular." It taught me to glorify and aim for that popularity. It taught me what was normal, which was actually more like the very top of middle class, which is definitely not the norm. Also, who gets to kiss Aaron Carter in junior high? Who needs to be kissing anyone in junior high?

On a personal note, I think I watched television as a coping mechanism. I didn't always want to think. If I didn't like myself, I could immerse myself in something besides thought. Because thought could lead to scary places. But I was immersing myself in something that began to think for me. That wasn't okay, either. I think we do the same thing with our cell phones now and with clubs and committees and classes and parties and anything that takes our time away from centering and mindfulness... because we're afraid of what we'll find if we spend too much time in our heads.

I've continued to watch public television. And if I like a show enough, then I'll buy the series and watch it on DVD. But I don't need to see those commercials. I don't need to get caught up in a train wreck of a TV show or the cat fights and pettiness of those rich-people-reality-tv shows. <-- The Hills, Jersey Shore, My Sweet 16, Housewives of whatever God-forsaken county... I don't need any of it. And if I have to buy a series, then I really have to think. Keeping something in my cart is harder than hitting an on button. I really have to think, if this show enforces stereotypes, will I be able to recognize and question them? Will this show have the power to tell me what is beautiful? If the answer is no, then it's not a purchase I feel bad about.

Word Vomit Wrap Up in 5:

1. I'm developing and learning about more feminist ideals.
2. I'm kind of disgusted by what's on TV.
3. Kids are still easily manipulated by images and speech, and what they find on television gives them false ideas about life and doesn't allow them to think for themselves.
4. Television takes the space of time during which we should think about ourselves, our lives, our failures and achievements, and what we define as such. It doesn't allow us to be mindful or conscious. It takes time from reading, meditation, prayer, conversation, or anything that would further our journey toward self-discovery.
5. Television is packed full of stereotypes, patriarchal themes, and images of what is "beautiful." I need to experience real people to help me define behaviors of different cultures, I need to defy and question patriarchal society, and I have my own eyes, thanks.