In order to get out of my reading rut, I've picked up a few books on Asperger's Syndrome. Most recently, I've read The Curious Incident of the Dog in The Night-Time by Mark Haddon, and The Rosie Project by Graeme Simsion.
You can read the summary of Haddon's book here and Simsion's book here.
While the books certainly got me out of my rut (I devoured both books in a matter of days), upon reflection, I was left with a sort of troubled feeling. I first shrugged that feeling off as a symptom of reading a text that hit too close to home, but I later realized that it was actually my experience with Asperger's that made me easily pinpoint the fact that these writers were creating outlines of a diagnosis, rather than unique, fleshed-out people.
That's not to say I didn't enjoy the books. The plot lines were riveting, the secondary characters leaped off the page, and both texts were overall pleasant reads. But there is an inherent problem in viewing these texts as the holy grail of autism-depiction.
The protagonists in each book were at completely different stages of their lives, had different experiences, and were, shockingly, different people. However, on the page, they seemed uncomfortably similar in character, and followed a strict list of qualifications that make someone autistic:
-Views every situation as a formula
-Excessively analytical/scientific
-Lacks empathy
-Cannot understand the reason behind certain social niceties/social cues
While it is inevitable that everyone with Asperger's faces the same general issues, they don't magically lack personality because of the diagnosis. Yes, Christopher had a particular tenderness for animals and Don was a foodie, but these additions were thrown in in such a clunky, poorly thought-out way, it was almost as though the authors were going "oh wait! My autistic character needs a hobby" rather than saying "my [insert fleshed-out quality here] character needs a flaw."
And before you go off on me for calling Asperger's a flaw, let me acknowledge the fact that I mean this in the context of fiction (i.e. an internal/external struggle that makes life hard for the protagonist).
Rather than understand each character's personal struggle with social interaction, I was distracted by the fact that the authors kept saying they were trying to figure out the "scientific formula" for interacting with another human being. It would be a lot more telling (or at least more interesting) to understand what the characters were thinking during an awkward social encounter, or what their biggest fears about socialization were.
Not only do these characters exhibit the exact same laundry list of "autistic mannerisms," but they feed into the commonly believed half-truths about Asperger's syndrome. A huge misconception about a person with Asperger's is that he cannot feel empathy. It was almost straight of a textbook to read about Don's inability to understand the pain of the 9/11 victims.
This is a gross oversimplification. People with Asperger's are not sociopaths. They can feel empathy. The difference here is that they express their empathy in ways that a neurotypical cannot recognize or understand.
You'd think that getting a first-person narrative would help shed some light on that issue. But it doesn't.
Some of the most empathetic people I know also happen to be on the spectrum. For instance, there was a kid who was hanging out with his neighbor, but once said neighbor started lighting ants on fire for fun (twisted view of fun, but okay), he stormed back to his house in a rage that the ants were in pain and suffering.
That's some pretty deep empathy, if you ask me.
Another thing that gets to me about the depiction of Asperger's is that the characters go around announcing every textbook symptom they have. Like, "don't mind me, I'll just be over here avoiding eye contact and misinterpreting social cues."
That's a painfully self-conscious narrative. Most of us don't go announcing our flaws: "hey, nice to meet you; I'm a total commitment-phobe who also has abusive tendencies!"
I think not.
Maybe I've just met some strange individuals, but the least interesting thing to aspies I know (I really hate that word, but there's only so many times you can type "person with Asperger's" before wanting to smash your head with a hammer) is the qualities that make them different. A really authentic portrayal would be having the protagonist rant about dinosaurs for ten minutes whilst forgetting to say hello to someone.
I get that characters in novels are more poignantly self-aware, but still. There's gotta be a more natural way to integrate autistic behaviors.
Then again, I've only read two books on the matter. I'm sure part II will happen at some point in the future when I'm more well-read.
Have a lovely New Year, dear reader. And just remember for your New Years parties: Don't do what I WOULD do. That's what we here at Coffee, Yoga, and Life's Other Necessities call alcoholism.
Namaste.
Wednesday, December 30, 2015
Lessons From 2015 (The Year in Review)
So I know I did a Snapchat school year in review not too long ago, but as 2015 draws to a close, I thought I would join the rest of the world and reflect on the good, the bad, and the ugly (but I won't spend TOO much time reflecting on Donald Trump. Ba dum shhhhh).
'Cause nothing says "party" like some good, old-fashioned self reflection, amirite?
This blog might as well be called "oversharing with Kira."
Moving on...
A bit of a disclaimer: This is a personal year in review. Yes, there has been a multitude of cultural and political lessons this year (like, don't elect a president who has the vocabulary level of a two year old, or hey, let's not bomb the French), but I'll save that for another blog (these are the promises that I make when I know there's a project on the horizon that requires research and proper citations. These are the projects that stay on the horizon).
The number one lesson that has stuck with me this year is something that I've been aware of, yet haven't fully understood since middle school:
1) There is a natural ebb and flow to relationships. That doesn't mean you're necessarily losing someone for good, nor are you gaining a bff for life.
Basically, people change. Duh.
Sometimes, the assholes in your life will want to "flow" right out the window. Let them.
2) There is a difference between being considerate of others and letting others dictate your life. You don't exist in a vacuum--therefore, your decisions will affect those around you. But there is rarely a time that you will make a decision that pleases everyone. In fact, there will probably be times in your life when you feel like you are pleasing no one (no? Just me? Alrighty then!). Acknowledge the fact that even when it doesn't seem like it, those closest to you are aware of how each personal decision affects you, and, by extension, them. But don't let that make you crawl to the nearest hole and live in it.
Well this is getting mighty dark, isn't it (hole...dark...gettit?).
3) Be ridiculous.
My fondest memories aren't when I went to bars, consumed too many calories, and spent too much money. My fondest memories are when my friends and I decided to "tour" every ice cream venue in State College or performed an entire dance looking like I was on crack (spoiler: I wasn't).
Similarly, I'm at my most confident when I look my most ridiculous. This may be a me-specific thing, but wearing panda ears makes me think I'm queen of the world.
4) Sometimes, the alcohol just isn't worth it.
It's expensive. It makes your body rage with a vengeance you've never seen before. It makes you text either exes or the aforementioned assholes who should have flown out the window (figuratively speaking, of course). Alternatively, it makes you fall asleep on the floor and let your friends do this:
Note: This rule does not apply to Rumchata. It could never apply to Rumchata.
5) Don't do it for the story (or the Snapchat, or the Vine)
The story is not interesting to anyone but you. Especially when every story still ends in "and I was sad and ate a bowl of frosted mini wheats."
I do love me some frosted mini wheats.
6) Do something just for you.
This seems obvious, but as I've gotten older and had more responsibilities thrown at me, it's been harder to do something that doesn't benefit my resumé/schoolwork/career in some way. And I know that, with time, it'll just get harder. For me, the one thing that makes me forget life/worries/regrets has always been dance. Joining PSIDE (Penn State International Dance Ensemble) has probably made me the happiest I've been in ages.
Can you feel all the feels yet?
(However, this particular rule can often contradict rule #5, as dance makes for some fantastic Snapchats. Not even sorry.)
7) Lesson 7 is nicely summed up by a quote by John Lennon: "Everything will be okay in the end. If it's not okay, it's not the end."
I hope that your 2016 brings you happiness, joy, and cupcakes. In that order.
Namaste.
'Cause nothing says "party" like some good, old-fashioned self reflection, amirite?
This blog might as well be called "oversharing with Kira."
Moving on...
A bit of a disclaimer: This is a personal year in review. Yes, there has been a multitude of cultural and political lessons this year (like, don't elect a president who has the vocabulary level of a two year old, or hey, let's not bomb the French), but I'll save that for another blog (these are the promises that I make when I know there's a project on the horizon that requires research and proper citations. These are the projects that stay on the horizon).
The number one lesson that has stuck with me this year is something that I've been aware of, yet haven't fully understood since middle school:
1) There is a natural ebb and flow to relationships. That doesn't mean you're necessarily losing someone for good, nor are you gaining a bff for life.
Basically, people change. Duh.
Sometimes, the assholes in your life will want to "flow" right out the window. Let them.
2) There is a difference between being considerate of others and letting others dictate your life. You don't exist in a vacuum--therefore, your decisions will affect those around you. But there is rarely a time that you will make a decision that pleases everyone. In fact, there will probably be times in your life when you feel like you are pleasing no one (no? Just me? Alrighty then!). Acknowledge the fact that even when it doesn't seem like it, those closest to you are aware of how each personal decision affects you, and, by extension, them. But don't let that make you crawl to the nearest hole and live in it.
Well this is getting mighty dark, isn't it (hole...dark...gettit?).
3) Be ridiculous.
My fondest memories aren't when I went to bars, consumed too many calories, and spent too much money. My fondest memories are when my friends and I decided to "tour" every ice cream venue in State College or performed an entire dance looking like I was on crack (spoiler: I wasn't).
Similarly, I'm at my most confident when I look my most ridiculous. This may be a me-specific thing, but wearing panda ears makes me think I'm queen of the world.
 | ||
| The great froyo tour of 2015 |
 |
| I promise you, I'm not on drugs. We're just that weird. |
 | |
| I wore these to the mall with my roommate, and the "popular" crowd of middle school girls proceeded to sneer and cackle at me like I wasn't a billion years older than them. Clearly these girls have not experienced the joy of giving zero fucks. |
4) Sometimes, the alcohol just isn't worth it.
It's expensive. It makes your body rage with a vengeance you've never seen before. It makes you text either exes or the aforementioned assholes who should have flown out the window (figuratively speaking, of course). Alternatively, it makes you fall asleep on the floor and let your friends do this:
 |
The story is not interesting to anyone but you. Especially when every story still ends in "and I was sad and ate a bowl of frosted mini wheats."
I do love me some frosted mini wheats.
6) Do something just for you.
This seems obvious, but as I've gotten older and had more responsibilities thrown at me, it's been harder to do something that doesn't benefit my resumé/schoolwork/career in some way. And I know that, with time, it'll just get harder. For me, the one thing that makes me forget life/worries/regrets has always been dance. Joining PSIDE (Penn State International Dance Ensemble) has probably made me the happiest I've been in ages.
Can you feel all the feels yet?
(However, this particular rule can often contradict rule #5, as dance makes for some fantastic Snapchats. Not even sorry.)
I hope that your 2016 brings you happiness, joy, and cupcakes. In that order.
Namaste.
Thursday, December 24, 2015
A Very Grownup Christmas Part II
Somewhere the inner workings of my brain told me the best holiday-themed blog would be on cultural appropriation, but my better judgment told me to wait on that one.
You're welcome.
How about a story instead?
Once upon a time there was a 21 year old Kira. This particular Kira was troubled by her penchant for getting up at 5:00 in the morning every single Christmas, tearing her stocking apart like it was made of gold, and being convinced that it was appropriate to display more enthusiasm about Christmas than the average five year old.
This 21 year old Christmas enthusiast morphed into a 22 year old Grinch.
I'm not entirely sure how this happened in the course of one year, but I've seemed to forget that Christmas is actually happening. I mean sure, I'm grateful for the excuse to eat another Christmas cookie (and another, and another...), and I have more time to spend with my family, but somehow being too old to have (non-alcoholic) fun and being too young to have kids (seriously, don't remind me that I'm not too young to have kids) makes Christmas kinda just...there--like that friend of a friend that no one really likes, but you're too polite to say anything.
So really, Christmas, I'm doing you a favor by not telling you to leave. How generous of me.
It's not for lack of trying. My roommate, the ultimate Christmas enthusiast, has tried multiple times to put me in the holiday spirit with carols and festive decorations. She even let me scream that "like George Washington!" bit at the end of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer (and no one ever lets me do that). Yet despite my roommate's well-intentioned attempts to get me to feel joy, I cannot help but do this at the sight of anything festive:
Maybe it's the fact that, coming from a divorced family, I'm often the product of the inevitable holiday tug-of-war. No matter how kind and respectful of the other my parents are, it's just a matter-of-fact that the absence of family is a hundred times lonelier on Christmas.
(At least that's what I tell myself when I visited my mother in NYC and did all the shopping.)
At this point, the knowledge that I'll inevitably be separate from some part of my family makes me want to jet off to California, lay on a beach with a margarita (I don't know what the proper beach drink is), and go "hah, none of you win! I'm spending Christmas wallowing in my singleness and self-inflicted doom!"
Nothing says Christmas like a healthy dose of doom-wallowing.
Maybe it's the fact that State College seems to be on an on-again off-again relationship with snow (they're on a break at the moment). Maybe I'm bitter of the fact that Christmas break ceases to exist the moment I step into the real-world, so I'm practicing being unhappy. Maybe I haven't eaten enough cookies. Yeah no, it's definitely that last one.
Allow me to fix that immediately.
(And in case any of you think your Christmas card is absurd this year, allow me to introduce you to my family:)
Have a very merry Christmas, everyone.
Namaste.
You're welcome.
How about a story instead?
Once upon a time there was a 21 year old Kira. This particular Kira was troubled by her penchant for getting up at 5:00 in the morning every single Christmas, tearing her stocking apart like it was made of gold, and being convinced that it was appropriate to display more enthusiasm about Christmas than the average five year old.
This 21 year old Christmas enthusiast morphed into a 22 year old Grinch.
So really, Christmas, I'm doing you a favor by not telling you to leave. How generous of me.
It's not for lack of trying. My roommate, the ultimate Christmas enthusiast, has tried multiple times to put me in the holiday spirit with carols and festive decorations. She even let me scream that "like George Washington!" bit at the end of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer (and no one ever lets me do that). Yet despite my roommate's well-intentioned attempts to get me to feel joy, I cannot help but do this at the sight of anything festive:
(At least that's what I tell myself when I visited my mother in NYC and did all the shopping.)
 |
| The only picture I have from New York because I'm a narcissistic fuck (i.e. that time I forced my mother to learn Snapchat) |
Nothing says Christmas like a healthy dose of doom-wallowing.
Maybe it's the fact that State College seems to be on an on-again off-again relationship with snow (they're on a break at the moment). Maybe I'm bitter of the fact that Christmas break ceases to exist the moment I step into the real-world, so I'm practicing being unhappy. Maybe I haven't eaten enough cookies. Yeah no, it's definitely that last one.
Allow me to fix that immediately.
(And in case any of you think your Christmas card is absurd this year, allow me to introduce you to my family:)
Namaste.
Sunday, December 20, 2015
What's Next? (AKA the Massive Panic Attack)
I've seen this day looming. Stepping into my dorm freshman year, I made sure to remind myself that I couldn't get too cozy in the security blanket that is college. The very notion of entering the real world in a mere four years left me into a puddle of sweat--well, it was either that, or Penn State's brilliant idea to boil all of their students.
However, just because I'd heard of the "real world" lurking about, my idea of it was similar to how one might react to the apocalypse or Bigfoot. You've heard the anecdotes, you've sensed its presence, but you're almost positive you won't have to personally deal with it. Because people who use Netflix and sour patch kids to escape never have to deal with anything, right?
Welp, that day is here. Or rather, about to be here in 2 seconds flat. And yet. Adulting is still hard.
Having reached the first semester of my senior year, I've taken more time to indulge in my favorite activity: eating obscene amounts of ice cream. But in addition, I've had more time to reflect on where I've been, where I'm going, blah, blah, Lifetime movie crap, blah.
I can't blame this all on time, though. Even since freshman year, I would convince myself that because I didn't have a five (million) year plan, my life was over, everything would come crashing down, and that a schlump like me shouldn't be in college in the first place.
You'd think that at this point I would have been smart enough to come up with a five year plan for anxiety and depression, but noo, this was just reason to panic more.
Fortunately for me, I documented all my years ofinsanity careful planning and dug up this post. And while I'm probably not going to traipse around an ashram from an entire year (don't quote me on that though), one thing has remained consistent: I will do anything to avoid the 9-5 lifestyle. It's like I'm refusing to admit to myself that jobs exist. Like, for people. With degrees and shit.
But you know what they say about jobs.
No, Kira, what do they say about jobs, other than the fact that they help you put a roof over your head and food in your stomach?
Thanks, left brain. I got the rest of this post covered.
As it stands, not much has changed. I'm still applying to one grad program in rhetoric and composition. Just one--count it, I'm sure you won't.
In the words of my advisor, "applying to just one grad program is kind of a kooky thing to do." Then again, if it wasn't kooky, it wouldn't be me. At the very least, that's what I'll tell myself when I do exactly what I intended NOT to do and roam at the ashram for a year.
Yes, that's still in the works--something that requires no degree or marketable skills. Something that allows no makeup or dessert on weekdays. I sure know how to pick 'em.
(In all honesty, Shoshoni was amazing and life-changing and I'm eternally grateful that my first quarter-life crisis led me there. But still. The lack of makeup was a struggle.)
However, the third and final option is by far the "kookiest," and, coincidentally, the idea that I am most excited about: teaching English in South Korea.
I've never set foot out of the United States in my life. I have yet to see a k-drama or listen to k-pop. But sure, let me just pack my bags and jet off to the other side of the world. That sounds good.
I'm known for a lot things here at Coffee, Yoga, and Life's Other Necessities, but logical decision-making is not one of them.
However, unlike my decision to jet off to Colorado to panic about my impending doom in the adult world, the decision to go to Korea had some degree of level-headed thought to it. As it turns out, there is a multitude of benefits that go along with being aggressively anti-office job:
1) $$$$$$$. Might I just add that I picked the field that has zero money and zero job prospects. Teaching English in Korean public schools generally gets you about $2000 a month--this is already seeming pretty solid, considering that the school pays for your housing and utilities are like two bucks a month.
2) Travel. Contrary to popular belief, my lack of travel doesn't stem from a hatred of other cultures or pure laziness. See reason #1 for an explanation. The sheer lack of money paired with the prospect of not being up to my ears in student loans has kept me in this State College bubble for 22 years. To say I am ready to get out of here is putting it lightly. It's gotten to the point where, every time I step outside of my apartment and walk the exact same route to the exact same campus, I have to remind myself that there is, in fact, a world outside of State College, and that I do, in fact, have access to it. Shocker.
3) Fear. This seems counter-intuitive, but it's easy enough to get comfortable in a simple routine in a familiar setting. Does anyone else get that "itch" to experience life turned upside down? No? Just me?
Moving on, then...
4) Learning a new skill. While I've never had a desperate desire to become a teacher, it is a marketable skill that is a HUGE help for overcoming shyness and uncertainty. Even my brief stints as a TA/tutor demonstrated just how much of an impact teaching can have on your confidence--mostly out of necessity. If you are not convinced that your authority matters, no one else will, either. Enhancing these types of skills are almost expected of me as a "young person," and, regardless of my long-term goals, teaching and managing classrooms can only open more doors.
Even if they are doors to my house. At least I can say I tried.
Namaste.
However, just because I'd heard of the "real world" lurking about, my idea of it was similar to how one might react to the apocalypse or Bigfoot. You've heard the anecdotes, you've sensed its presence, but you're almost positive you won't have to personally deal with it. Because people who use Netflix and sour patch kids to escape never have to deal with anything, right?
 |
| Ah, to be young and gaining the freshman 15 again |
Having reached the first semester of my senior year, I've taken more time to indulge in my favorite activity: eating obscene amounts of ice cream. But in addition, I've had more time to reflect on where I've been, where I'm going, blah, blah, Lifetime movie crap, blah.
I can't blame this all on time, though. Even since freshman year, I would convince myself that because I didn't have a five (million) year plan, my life was over, everything would come crashing down, and that a schlump like me shouldn't be in college in the first place.
You'd think that at this point I would have been smart enough to come up with a five year plan for anxiety and depression, but noo, this was just reason to panic more.
Fortunately for me, I documented all my years of
But you know what they say about jobs.
No, Kira, what do they say about jobs, other than the fact that they help you put a roof over your head and food in your stomach?
Thanks, left brain. I got the rest of this post covered.
As it stands, not much has changed. I'm still applying to one grad program in rhetoric and composition. Just one--count it, I'm sure you won't.
In the words of my advisor, "applying to just one grad program is kind of a kooky thing to do." Then again, if it wasn't kooky, it wouldn't be me. At the very least, that's what I'll tell myself when I do exactly what I intended NOT to do and roam at the ashram for a year.
Yes, that's still in the works--something that requires no degree or marketable skills. Something that allows no makeup or dessert on weekdays. I sure know how to pick 'em.
(In all honesty, Shoshoni was amazing and life-changing and I'm eternally grateful that my first quarter-life crisis led me there. But still. The lack of makeup was a struggle.)
However, the third and final option is by far the "kookiest," and, coincidentally, the idea that I am most excited about: teaching English in South Korea.
I'm known for a lot things here at Coffee, Yoga, and Life's Other Necessities, but logical decision-making is not one of them.
However, unlike my decision to jet off to Colorado to panic about my impending doom in the adult world, the decision to go to Korea had some degree of level-headed thought to it. As it turns out, there is a multitude of benefits that go along with being aggressively anti-office job:
1) $$$$$$$. Might I just add that I picked the field that has zero money and zero job prospects. Teaching English in Korean public schools generally gets you about $2000 a month--this is already seeming pretty solid, considering that the school pays for your housing and utilities are like two bucks a month.
2) Travel. Contrary to popular belief, my lack of travel doesn't stem from a hatred of other cultures or pure laziness. See reason #1 for an explanation. The sheer lack of money paired with the prospect of not being up to my ears in student loans has kept me in this State College bubble for 22 years. To say I am ready to get out of here is putting it lightly. It's gotten to the point where, every time I step outside of my apartment and walk the exact same route to the exact same campus, I have to remind myself that there is, in fact, a world outside of State College, and that I do, in fact, have access to it. Shocker.
3) Fear. This seems counter-intuitive, but it's easy enough to get comfortable in a simple routine in a familiar setting. Does anyone else get that "itch" to experience life turned upside down? No? Just me?
Moving on, then...
4) Learning a new skill. While I've never had a desperate desire to become a teacher, it is a marketable skill that is a HUGE help for overcoming shyness and uncertainty. Even my brief stints as a TA/tutor demonstrated just how much of an impact teaching can have on your confidence--mostly out of necessity. If you are not convinced that your authority matters, no one else will, either. Enhancing these types of skills are almost expected of me as a "young person," and, regardless of my long-term goals, teaching and managing classrooms can only open more doors.
Even if they are doors to my house. At least I can say I tried.
Namaste.
Thursday, November 26, 2015
Thank You For Existing With Me Here Today
Transitions do weird things to me--I'm sentimental, then I'm scared, then I realize I'm relieved to stop doing the first thing I was moaning about in the first place. I may be an extreme liberal, but personal change has always scared the s*** out of me. Based on my reaction to transitioning from State High to Penn State, you would have thought I was jetting off to the other side of the world.
If that's the case, flights back home are mad cheap.
In true Kira fashion, I've been reflecting on my life in State College about six months prematurely (I've also been freaking out about what to do post-graduation six months prematurely, but let's pretend that never happened). All of a sudden, I've reflected on 22 years ofpassive aggressive post-it notes loving times with family and friends, and written exactly 0% of a paper that's due in a week. Because #priorities.
My biggest concern has always been leaving the people that I encounter, that I love, that I call myself close to. I've never dealt well with transient friendships. I was a wreck basically every day at Shoshoni because everyone kept leaving. I've considered kidnapping my best friends and taking them with me to Colorado, or Korea, or wherever I may end up next. I've kept these same friendships for so long, it seems almost impossible to function without them. I think I'm just getting out of the denial period in which I convince myself that my friends and I will live in a house made of chocolate together.
In an almost poetic state, I ended up learning about the feasibility and importance of leaving behind certain people/experiences/desires through the re-emergence of one friend from high school and another from fifteen years ago. In the course of one summer, I was enthralled with the idea of letting these two guys pull me out of my regular State College bubble, terrified of the weird and uncomfortable adventures they led me on, and thrown into a fit of rage when everything went to hell and they stopped speaking to me.
(Without going into too much detail, it was essentially a story of boy-meets-girl, boy-and-girl-have-awkward-conversations, boy-gets-into-screaming-match-with-girl-and-girl's-roommates).
All while studying for the GRE's. What an unforgettable summer.
For the longest time, I regretted ever coming into contact with these people. I wanted to forget ever spending time with anyone who disrupted my relationship with my established friend group, to scream at them for repeatedly disappearing and re-appearing when convenient.
Coincidentally, this was also the time that I wanted more chocolate than I could ever handle.
However, upon further reflection, I've grown less angry at these people and at this situation. Sure, this is partly due to time, but I've also realized that without these ephemeral friendships, I wouldn't know how to properly deal with saying goodbye. In a messed-up, paradoxical sense, the relationships that brought out my worst allowed me to learn how to grow into my best.
Pure poetry, if you ask me.
Okay so it wasn't that straightforward, but my point is (and I do have one) that it turns out that those picture-book ideals about "everyone teaching a lesson" were right. Even the most tumultuous or temporary relationships serve some sort of purpose--it's just hard to see that purpose if you're still in them. As my wise friend Megan once said about the role others may play, "maybe they're a scene, maybe they're a chapter, maybe they're the goddamn intermission."
Intermissions serve a purpose, too. They're where you get the most candy.
While this past summer is an example of an extreme falling-out, I've slowly been able to apply the same concepts to less dramatic encounters. I've realized that temporary relationships don't equal a failed novel--they're more akin to an interesting chapter.
While it's certainly going to be much harder to apply that logic to friendships that have kept me sane for 10+ years, it makes the move away from home that much less daunting.
So for the intermissions and chapters alike, thank you for existing with me here today.
Namaste
If that's the case, flights back home are mad cheap.
In true Kira fashion, I've been reflecting on my life in State College about six months prematurely (I've also been freaking out about what to do post-graduation six months prematurely, but let's pretend that never happened). All of a sudden, I've reflected on 22 years of
My biggest concern has always been leaving the people that I encounter, that I love, that I call myself close to. I've never dealt well with transient friendships. I was a wreck basically every day at Shoshoni because everyone kept leaving. I've considered kidnapping my best friends and taking them with me to Colorado, or Korea, or wherever I may end up next. I've kept these same friendships for so long, it seems almost impossible to function without them. I think I'm just getting out of the denial period in which I convince myself that my friends and I will live in a house made of chocolate together.
In an almost poetic state, I ended up learning about the feasibility and importance of leaving behind certain people/experiences/desires through the re-emergence of one friend from high school and another from fifteen years ago. In the course of one summer, I was enthralled with the idea of letting these two guys pull me out of my regular State College bubble, terrified of the weird and uncomfortable adventures they led me on, and thrown into a fit of rage when everything went to hell and they stopped speaking to me.
(Without going into too much detail, it was essentially a story of boy-meets-girl, boy-and-girl-have-awkward-conversations, boy-gets-into-screaming-match-with-girl-and-girl's-roommates).
All while studying for the GRE's. What an unforgettable summer.
For the longest time, I regretted ever coming into contact with these people. I wanted to forget ever spending time with anyone who disrupted my relationship with my established friend group, to scream at them for repeatedly disappearing and re-appearing when convenient.
Coincidentally, this was also the time that I wanted more chocolate than I could ever handle.
However, upon further reflection, I've grown less angry at these people and at this situation. Sure, this is partly due to time, but I've also realized that without these ephemeral friendships, I wouldn't know how to properly deal with saying goodbye. In a messed-up, paradoxical sense, the relationships that brought out my worst allowed me to learn how to grow into my best.
Pure poetry, if you ask me.
Okay so it wasn't that straightforward, but my point is (and I do have one) that it turns out that those picture-book ideals about "everyone teaching a lesson" were right. Even the most tumultuous or temporary relationships serve some sort of purpose--it's just hard to see that purpose if you're still in them. As my wise friend Megan once said about the role others may play, "maybe they're a scene, maybe they're a chapter, maybe they're the goddamn intermission."
Intermissions serve a purpose, too. They're where you get the most candy.
While this past summer is an example of an extreme falling-out, I've slowly been able to apply the same concepts to less dramatic encounters. I've realized that temporary relationships don't equal a failed novel--they're more akin to an interesting chapter.
While it's certainly going to be much harder to apply that logic to friendships that have kept me sane for 10+ years, it makes the move away from home that much less daunting.
So for the intermissions and chapters alike, thank you for existing with me here today.
Namaste
Wednesday, September 9, 2015
Ex Machina: Failing the Bechdel Test, But Not Feminism
So I realize I'm a little late to the whole Ex Machina conversation. For months, I was convinced that a film that was ostensibly only about AI was not for me, and that I would be much more content watching Amy Schumer fall in love with a kooky, good-natured guy instead.
Boy, was I wrong. I was speechless for at least an hour after the credits stopped rolling. The following hour consisted of me yelling "but what even ARE humans," and scaring the neighborhood children.
I love a good ethical debate--Alex Garland, writer/director of Ex Machina was not afraid to confront hard-hitting issues such as "is it moral to imprison a machine that has the possibility of consciousness?", "are we entitled to play God? What happens when playing God leads to our ultimate demise?", "do machines deserve equal rights to humans?", and "why is Norway so pretty?"
There were so many moral/ethical issues, it took me a full day to even consider the notion of feminism in this film, not to mention the fact that narrow gender roles is one of the primary themes. What took me by surprise, however, was Angela Watercutter's Argument that Ex Machina is an anti-feminist film.
I have no problem being skeptical of so called "feminist" films. Almost everyone who'd seen Mad Max raved about how progressive it was to see a woman with more than one line--unheard of! And *gasp* she could both plan ahead AND stand up for herself! Surely not!
But I digress. My ambivalence towards Mad Max is for another time.
Ex Machina may seemingly fail the Bechdel test* (in which two female characters have to discuss something other than a man), but that doesn't mean it fails women completely. If anything, Garland makes his audience question our preconceived notions about the role of women, and what men are actually entitled to.
One of Watercutter's primary arguments is that Ava falls into the stereotype that women use seduction to get what they want, and that she is defined by her sexuality. Watercutter states, "Ava does prove to be the smartest creature on the screen, but the message we’re left with at the end of Ex Machina is still that the best way for a miraculously intelligent creature to get what she wants is to flirt manipulatively" (Wired).
Yes, Ava objectively uses her sexuality to get what she wants, but Watercutter fails to understand that while Ava plays into female stereotypes, she does so with an ulterior motive: to achieve complete autonomy, to escape the "male gaze" that she has been trapped in for so long. Ava's goal isn't to win over Caleb so that she can be his perfect lover; she is toying with Caleb's most prominent vulnerability in order to win independence. The ultimate hero is Ava alone. It is also important to note that Ava is not a one-dimensional sex machine--she is simply skilled at noticing others' weakest traits. Ava could have easily tried to seduce Nathan in order to escape, but she realizes those attempts would be futile. Thus, Ava takes a more violent approach when dealing with Nathan. If stabbing someone in the chest and watching them bleed out isn't strong-willed, nothing is.
Watercutter is immediately defensive when we see Ava from the male gaze, and while it's uncomfortable to watch, that's Garland's point. It's not exactly feasible to discuss the problems with oversexualizing women if you fail to show the problem at hand.
One of the most troubling things about Ex Machina is how it tricks the audience into believing that Caleb is a heroic, reliable character. In the beginning of the film, he garners information and processes everything at the same speed/level as the audience--consequently, we begin to trust him, to root for him. However, just because Caleb is a good guy (which, by the way, we never get confirmation from Ava if he's telling the truth about being a good person), and, in comparison to Nathan, treats Ava like a princess, he is entitled to "trap" her into a romance. "He's such a nice guy," we argue, "he deserves her!" We expect the "happy" ending to consist of Ava escaping one form of imprisonment, only to enter another.
Garland takes that expectation and smashes it with a hammer. Or, better yet, stabs it with a knife.
So maybe it was a little extreme of Ava to let Caleb slowly die in Nathan's office, but she has to go to extreme measures to extricate herself from imprisonment--whether it be physical or emotional. The lasting message that Ex Machina leaves us with is that this is Ava's story. She doesn't need anyone to rescue her, or even to accompany her. She doesn't stop fighting until she can reach a place where she can solely rely on herself. In the end, the male gaze is shattered. She is free.
*Just a small technicality, but we don't actually know if Ex Machina passes the Bechdel test or not, seeing as Ava whispers in Kyoko's ear, presumably about strategizing Nathan's death--not exactly the same as talking about how cute some boy is, n'est-ce pas?
Boy, was I wrong. I was speechless for at least an hour after the credits stopped rolling. The following hour consisted of me yelling "but what even ARE humans," and scaring the neighborhood children.
I love a good ethical debate--Alex Garland, writer/director of Ex Machina was not afraid to confront hard-hitting issues such as "is it moral to imprison a machine that has the possibility of consciousness?", "are we entitled to play God? What happens when playing God leads to our ultimate demise?", "do machines deserve equal rights to humans?", and "why is Norway so pretty?"
There were so many moral/ethical issues, it took me a full day to even consider the notion of feminism in this film, not to mention the fact that narrow gender roles is one of the primary themes. What took me by surprise, however, was Angela Watercutter's Argument that Ex Machina is an anti-feminist film.
I have no problem being skeptical of so called "feminist" films. Almost everyone who'd seen Mad Max raved about how progressive it was to see a woman with more than one line--unheard of! And *gasp* she could both plan ahead AND stand up for herself! Surely not!
But I digress. My ambivalence towards Mad Max is for another time.
Ex Machina may seemingly fail the Bechdel test* (in which two female characters have to discuss something other than a man), but that doesn't mean it fails women completely. If anything, Garland makes his audience question our preconceived notions about the role of women, and what men are actually entitled to.
One of Watercutter's primary arguments is that Ava falls into the stereotype that women use seduction to get what they want, and that she is defined by her sexuality. Watercutter states, "Ava does prove to be the smartest creature on the screen, but the message we’re left with at the end of Ex Machina is still that the best way for a miraculously intelligent creature to get what she wants is to flirt manipulatively" (Wired).
Yes, Ava objectively uses her sexuality to get what she wants, but Watercutter fails to understand that while Ava plays into female stereotypes, she does so with an ulterior motive: to achieve complete autonomy, to escape the "male gaze" that she has been trapped in for so long. Ava's goal isn't to win over Caleb so that she can be his perfect lover; she is toying with Caleb's most prominent vulnerability in order to win independence. The ultimate hero is Ava alone. It is also important to note that Ava is not a one-dimensional sex machine--she is simply skilled at noticing others' weakest traits. Ava could have easily tried to seduce Nathan in order to escape, but she realizes those attempts would be futile. Thus, Ava takes a more violent approach when dealing with Nathan. If stabbing someone in the chest and watching them bleed out isn't strong-willed, nothing is.
 |
| Her evil plan is working |
Watercutter is immediately defensive when we see Ava from the male gaze, and while it's uncomfortable to watch, that's Garland's point. It's not exactly feasible to discuss the problems with oversexualizing women if you fail to show the problem at hand.
One of the most troubling things about Ex Machina is how it tricks the audience into believing that Caleb is a heroic, reliable character. In the beginning of the film, he garners information and processes everything at the same speed/level as the audience--consequently, we begin to trust him, to root for him. However, just because Caleb is a good guy (which, by the way, we never get confirmation from Ava if he's telling the truth about being a good person), and, in comparison to Nathan, treats Ava like a princess, he is entitled to "trap" her into a romance. "He's such a nice guy," we argue, "he deserves her!" We expect the "happy" ending to consist of Ava escaping one form of imprisonment, only to enter another.
 |
| A perfect depiction of "the male gaze" |
Garland takes that expectation and smashes it with a hammer. Or, better yet, stabs it with a knife.
So maybe it was a little extreme of Ava to let Caleb slowly die in Nathan's office, but she has to go to extreme measures to extricate herself from imprisonment--whether it be physical or emotional. The lasting message that Ex Machina leaves us with is that this is Ava's story. She doesn't need anyone to rescue her, or even to accompany her. She doesn't stop fighting until she can reach a place where she can solely rely on herself. In the end, the male gaze is shattered. She is free.
*Just a small technicality, but we don't actually know if Ex Machina passes the Bechdel test or not, seeing as Ava whispers in Kyoko's ear, presumably about strategizing Nathan's death--not exactly the same as talking about how cute some boy is, n'est-ce pas?
Sunday, September 6, 2015
Your "I'm Not Homophobic, But..." Argument Doesn't Fly.
I don't usually post such blatantly angry blogs, but I felt that this had to be said. Just be warned, this is a full-fledged rant, so if that's not your thing, please click away and enjoy some cat gifs. Cat gifs have never failed me.
My homophobic friend, however, has (oooh a transition; she must be a writer).
The other night, a few friends and I wanted to go to Chumley's--Penn State's sole gay bar. I'd gone once before, and practically died of deliciousness when I tried their Rumchata and alcoholic frappacinos. Those of that had gone before maintained that we'd had quiet, pleasant experiences there, and those of us that hadn't were soon on board after hearing "chocolate and alcohol" in the same sentence.
Except for one friend (we're using that term verrrry loosely here). As soon as he learned that we were taking him outside of his "comfort zone," he very loudly asked "who here wants to go to a gay bar?" To which my friend and I very enthusiastically raised our hands, because if somebody was about to take us away from our Rumchata, there was going to be a problem.
This post is for "that friend" who "isn't homophobic, but..."
That question is inherently bigoted and hateful, as it holds the implication that there is something undesirable about stepping foot into a gay bar. It makes about as much sense as hearing a gay person refuse to go into literally any other bar in State College because it is a "straight bar." My friend was under the assumption that, because he did not fit into a specific minority, it was scary, or unappealing somehow--which, by that logic, means that he can't be around women or racial minorities as well.
As if that wasn't hateful enough, my friend continued to assert that he would refuse to walk into Chumley's, that we'd "found his breaking point." He stated that, instead, he would "awkwardly hit on girls at Indigo," a MUCH more dignified way to spend your time, if you ask me.
This is where shit gets real. If you claim that you are not a homophobe, that you're really, deep down a nice guy, then proceed to deny the fact that gay people are humans too, you need to do some serious self-reflection. Then get a serious education. You may not be beating anybody up or setting anyone's houses on fire, but refusing to acknowledge a certain minority as worthy (or even tolerable) is, guess what, just as hateful as any act of violence. It is perpetuating the systematic intolerance that gay people have had to fight for literally hundreds of years. It is re-defining white, male, straight privilege as "normal." It is stating that objectifying and dry humping women at a club is a perfectly respectable activity, while having a conversation with a fellow human being is reprehensible and not worth any straight person's time.
It's laughable that there's still controversy over setting up ONE establishment where gay people can feel safe and secure. It's even more laughable that you've probably had conversations and, dare I say it, pleasant interactions with gay people without knowing their sexuality, but put a label on them and all of a sudden they're threatening you with their appletinis and penises.
You know where I've seen grossly oversexualized, animalistic behavior? At "straight" dance clubs. Which you seem to have no problem glossing over, since it benefits your straight male needs.
What gets me is that you think that this form of intolerance and discomfort is deemed more justifiable, more acceptable than other (more logical) forms of discomfort. If, for instance, you took your gun out and started waving it around me, chest puffed out and testosterone levels through the roof, I would begin to feel a little uncomfortable--justifiably so, seeing as GUNS FUCKING KILL PEOPLE. But if I were to say "raise your hand if you want ____to put his gun away," or simply asked you to put your gun away, I would be "stripping you of your rights as an American citizen," or deemed just plain crazy (which in itself is a problem that perpetuates sexism, but that's for another post). I'm not saying that every homophobic person has a gun, but my point is that other people's discomfort is seemingly illogical if it fails to benefit you as a privileged straight, white man.
Your life is not in imminent danger at a gay bar. Your sexuality is not in imminent danger. The only thing you are in danger of is seeming like a class-A asshole.
No one's asking you to be gay. No one's even asking you not to be proud of your sexuality. You must be very brave, stepping into a world that pours privilege on you and benefits you every single day. But what we are asking you to do is realize that this is the 21st century, you've already lost your homophobic battle, and that you can spend an hour in a room with people who are different from you. You might even learn something about the world.
My homophobic friend, however, has (oooh a transition; she must be a writer).
The other night, a few friends and I wanted to go to Chumley's--Penn State's sole gay bar. I'd gone once before, and practically died of deliciousness when I tried their Rumchata and alcoholic frappacinos. Those of that had gone before maintained that we'd had quiet, pleasant experiences there, and those of us that hadn't were soon on board after hearing "chocolate and alcohol" in the same sentence.
Except for one friend (we're using that term verrrry loosely here). As soon as he learned that we were taking him outside of his "comfort zone," he very loudly asked "who here wants to go to a gay bar?" To which my friend and I very enthusiastically raised our hands, because if somebody was about to take us away from our Rumchata, there was going to be a problem.
This post is for "that friend" who "isn't homophobic, but..."
That question is inherently bigoted and hateful, as it holds the implication that there is something undesirable about stepping foot into a gay bar. It makes about as much sense as hearing a gay person refuse to go into literally any other bar in State College because it is a "straight bar." My friend was under the assumption that, because he did not fit into a specific minority, it was scary, or unappealing somehow--which, by that logic, means that he can't be around women or racial minorities as well.
As if that wasn't hateful enough, my friend continued to assert that he would refuse to walk into Chumley's, that we'd "found his breaking point." He stated that, instead, he would "awkwardly hit on girls at Indigo," a MUCH more dignified way to spend your time, if you ask me.
This is where shit gets real. If you claim that you are not a homophobe, that you're really, deep down a nice guy, then proceed to deny the fact that gay people are humans too, you need to do some serious self-reflection. Then get a serious education. You may not be beating anybody up or setting anyone's houses on fire, but refusing to acknowledge a certain minority as worthy (or even tolerable) is, guess what, just as hateful as any act of violence. It is perpetuating the systematic intolerance that gay people have had to fight for literally hundreds of years. It is re-defining white, male, straight privilege as "normal." It is stating that objectifying and dry humping women at a club is a perfectly respectable activity, while having a conversation with a fellow human being is reprehensible and not worth any straight person's time.
It's laughable that there's still controversy over setting up ONE establishment where gay people can feel safe and secure. It's even more laughable that you've probably had conversations and, dare I say it, pleasant interactions with gay people without knowing their sexuality, but put a label on them and all of a sudden they're threatening you with their appletinis and penises.
You know where I've seen grossly oversexualized, animalistic behavior? At "straight" dance clubs. Which you seem to have no problem glossing over, since it benefits your straight male needs.
What gets me is that you think that this form of intolerance and discomfort is deemed more justifiable, more acceptable than other (more logical) forms of discomfort. If, for instance, you took your gun out and started waving it around me, chest puffed out and testosterone levels through the roof, I would begin to feel a little uncomfortable--justifiably so, seeing as GUNS FUCKING KILL PEOPLE. But if I were to say "raise your hand if you want ____to put his gun away," or simply asked you to put your gun away, I would be "stripping you of your rights as an American citizen," or deemed just plain crazy (which in itself is a problem that perpetuates sexism, but that's for another post). I'm not saying that every homophobic person has a gun, but my point is that other people's discomfort is seemingly illogical if it fails to benefit you as a privileged straight, white man.
Your life is not in imminent danger at a gay bar. Your sexuality is not in imminent danger. The only thing you are in danger of is seeming like a class-A asshole.
No one's asking you to be gay. No one's even asking you not to be proud of your sexuality. You must be very brave, stepping into a world that pours privilege on you and benefits you every single day. But what we are asking you to do is realize that this is the 21st century, you've already lost your homophobic battle, and that you can spend an hour in a room with people who are different from you. You might even learn something about the world.
Saturday, September 5, 2015
Anorexia Triggers: How to Stop
It's been ten years since I was diagnosed with anorexia. Having had only a brief flirtation with this illness--although it didn't feel very brief at the time--I can easily make the distinction between a "past life," something that hardly feels connected to me anymore, and who I am at age twenty-two. However, despite being technically free of anorexia for eight years, I still battle with disordered thinking--something that, no matter how irrational it may seem, will never completely go away. Not a day goes by when I don't think about my weight, or compare my body to those around me. While I rarely act on it, I have consistently wished I was twenty pounds thinner, regardless of my weight at the time.
It's exhausting. It's infuriating. And for those of us who aren't on the brink of death, it's seemingly ignored.
While there's a lot more awareness about how we can actively combat anorexia, we seem to forget about the long-term recovery process. I'm lucky enough to be surrounded by supportive friends, family, and cake, which has helped me become as fully recovered as possible (especially the cake). But I've noticed, that on any given day, there are multiple trigger warnings for anyone with disordered thinking/body image issues.
It's easy enough to pinpoint the sickly skinny models, the weight loss commercials, the "pro-ana" websites. Those, while deeply concerning, have been covered to death. I'm talking about more personal trigger warnings, something that friends and families of recovering anorexics should be aware of and make an effort to stop.
I live in an apartment of four girls. At this point, it's almost expected of us to make generally negative comments about our bodies. One of the first things we bought for our apartment was a bathroom scale. And when one of us makes a disparaging comment about her body, the rest of us infer, "well, if she hates her body, I must be a disgusting, horrifying creature." And then we throw out all our cupcakes, which is just sad, since cupcakes make everything better. But there are days when we seem to engage in "who can hate her body the most" competitions, with weight almost always being the winning argument.
I'm not saying we can feasibly live in a world where we stop talking about our weight or bodies in general. That's unrealistic, especially in good old 'Murica. But there's a difference between working towards health and obsessively measuring. And while everyone's experience is different, I've noticed that when others begin obsessively comparing/measuring, I think I'm at fault for not doing the same thing.
One of the least helpful things you can do around a former anorexic is count calories. Especially when you go out to eat. I just want to eat my burrito in peace. The caloric content in a given food does not connote its nutritional value. If I had to point out one thing that perpetuates obsessive disordered thinking, it would be calorie counting.
Barring the point that it's exceedingly boring to hear someone else's food intake of the day, it's also exceedingly risky. Again, it perpetuates unhealthy comparisons. Among girls, the "oh my gosh, I ate so much," complaint is oftentimes a humble brag about how little food they can survive on. When I hear a friend complain about being full from smelling a pancake, I can only conclude that I am the scum of the earth for needing three complete meals a day (ice cream not included).
If you do not want to hear my stomach imitate what can only be described as the mating call of a killer whale, don't talk to me about how you "ate so much."
I know these triggers aren't malicious, and nobody wants someone they love to suffer through an eating disorder. These comments, in most cases, go unnoticed, but it affects us more than you may think.
(Also, I'm aware that somewhere in the middle of this post, I went full-on sarcastic on you guys. My apologies for the change in tone. Apparently I'm not able to cover serious topics without throwing in a burrito reference or five. Let's chat about my sarcasm problem over a burrito).
Namaste.
It's exhausting. It's infuriating. And for those of us who aren't on the brink of death, it's seemingly ignored.
While there's a lot more awareness about how we can actively combat anorexia, we seem to forget about the long-term recovery process. I'm lucky enough to be surrounded by supportive friends, family, and cake, which has helped me become as fully recovered as possible (especially the cake). But I've noticed, that on any given day, there are multiple trigger warnings for anyone with disordered thinking/body image issues.
It's easy enough to pinpoint the sickly skinny models, the weight loss commercials, the "pro-ana" websites. Those, while deeply concerning, have been covered to death. I'm talking about more personal trigger warnings, something that friends and families of recovering anorexics should be aware of and make an effort to stop.
I live in an apartment of four girls. At this point, it's almost expected of us to make generally negative comments about our bodies. One of the first things we bought for our apartment was a bathroom scale. And when one of us makes a disparaging comment about her body, the rest of us infer, "well, if she hates her body, I must be a disgusting, horrifying creature." And then we throw out all our cupcakes, which is just sad, since cupcakes make everything better. But there are days when we seem to engage in "who can hate her body the most" competitions, with weight almost always being the winning argument.
I'm not saying we can feasibly live in a world where we stop talking about our weight or bodies in general. That's unrealistic, especially in good old 'Murica. But there's a difference between working towards health and obsessively measuring. And while everyone's experience is different, I've noticed that when others begin obsessively comparing/measuring, I think I'm at fault for not doing the same thing.
One of the least helpful things you can do around a former anorexic is count calories. Especially when you go out to eat. I just want to eat my burrito in peace. The caloric content in a given food does not connote its nutritional value. If I had to point out one thing that perpetuates obsessive disordered thinking, it would be calorie counting.
Barring the point that it's exceedingly boring to hear someone else's food intake of the day, it's also exceedingly risky. Again, it perpetuates unhealthy comparisons. Among girls, the "oh my gosh, I ate so much," complaint is oftentimes a humble brag about how little food they can survive on. When I hear a friend complain about being full from smelling a pancake, I can only conclude that I am the scum of the earth for needing three complete meals a day (ice cream not included).
If you do not want to hear my stomach imitate what can only be described as the mating call of a killer whale, don't talk to me about how you "ate so much."
I know these triggers aren't malicious, and nobody wants someone they love to suffer through an eating disorder. These comments, in most cases, go unnoticed, but it affects us more than you may think.
(Also, I'm aware that somewhere in the middle of this post, I went full-on sarcastic on you guys. My apologies for the change in tone. Apparently I'm not able to cover serious topics without throwing in a burrito reference or five. Let's chat about my sarcasm problem over a burrito).
Namaste.
Wednesday, August 26, 2015
A Formal Complaint: Where Did Interest in Professors Go?
So I realize I could be particularly sensitive to this issue, seeing as I am the product of academia, but I've noticed a trend among many college students: they'll talk about what fantastic classes they've taken/are going to take, but cannot remember the name of the professor. In my creative writing class, a student mentioned having taken that class before, but failed to remember if her professor was male or female. In a course as subjective as creative writing, and at a time when need for letters of recommendation (*cough cough*) is fast approaching, it is essential that you work with a compatible professor.
I've certainly been guilty of this in the past. My parents, if they knew of a highly regarded professor, would encourage me to take a class with him or her, only for me to respond with, "you don't know my life or my schedule!" which resulted in too many English classes entirely devoted to vampires and indie video games.
I understand that it's unrealistic to only seek out the highest quality professors throughout your college career, but this lackadaisical approach to college professors doesn't only hurt the people who spent weeks slaving over a hot syllabus for you, but it hurts you as well. Yes, your class may be required, or the course topic may interest you so much you think that the professor is irrelevant, but what we fail to see is that these professors tweak their classes to match their areas of expertise, their interest.
To illustrate, let's look at an example from my spring semester English course. This course was advertised as Engl 490: Women Writers. I was led to believe I would be reading some Virginia Wolf, some Brontes, some Austen--however, my professor's area of expertise was in the study of the young girl. As such, this class quickly transformed into an experimental women's studies class in which we read about *warning, gross* anal fissures and bands called "Pussy Riot." Which would have been fine, had I signed up for a women's studies class.
Ironically, I've learned the importance of researching my professors just in time to graduate. But it's so much more refreshing to take my major courses with a yoga-loving, memoir-writing professor than to suffer through what can only be described as Dracula fan-fiction.
I've taken course where I felt like my professor didn't care to get to know our names or stories, and I can confirm that its a pretty shitty feeling. However, it's more justifiable, seeing as, in the course of a semester, an average professor has 75+ students, and the student has 7 professors at most. Professors are *gasp* human, and are therefore not immune to feeling un-appreciated or undervalued. And when it comes time to write your letters of recommendation, they will certainly remember that feeling.
I know this is nothing profound, but it was just on my mind. For the most part, your professors work hard. They're basically the celebrities of the world of academia. Treat them as such.*
*I may be exaggerating a leeeeetle bit here, but seriously. I've met some professors who might as well be rockstars. They're that cool.
Namaste.
I've certainly been guilty of this in the past. My parents, if they knew of a highly regarded professor, would encourage me to take a class with him or her, only for me to respond with, "you don't know my life or my schedule!" which resulted in too many English classes entirely devoted to vampires and indie video games.
I understand that it's unrealistic to only seek out the highest quality professors throughout your college career, but this lackadaisical approach to college professors doesn't only hurt the people who spent weeks slaving over a hot syllabus for you, but it hurts you as well. Yes, your class may be required, or the course topic may interest you so much you think that the professor is irrelevant, but what we fail to see is that these professors tweak their classes to match their areas of expertise, their interest.
To illustrate, let's look at an example from my spring semester English course. This course was advertised as Engl 490: Women Writers. I was led to believe I would be reading some Virginia Wolf, some Brontes, some Austen--however, my professor's area of expertise was in the study of the young girl. As such, this class quickly transformed into an experimental women's studies class in which we read about *warning, gross* anal fissures and bands called "Pussy Riot." Which would have been fine, had I signed up for a women's studies class.
Ironically, I've learned the importance of researching my professors just in time to graduate. But it's so much more refreshing to take my major courses with a yoga-loving, memoir-writing professor than to suffer through what can only be described as Dracula fan-fiction.
I've taken course where I felt like my professor didn't care to get to know our names or stories, and I can confirm that its a pretty shitty feeling. However, it's more justifiable, seeing as, in the course of a semester, an average professor has 75+ students, and the student has 7 professors at most. Professors are *gasp* human, and are therefore not immune to feeling un-appreciated or undervalued. And when it comes time to write your letters of recommendation, they will certainly remember that feeling.
I know this is nothing profound, but it was just on my mind. For the most part, your professors work hard. They're basically the celebrities of the world of academia. Treat them as such.*
*I may be exaggerating a leeeeetle bit here, but seriously. I've met some professors who might as well be rockstars. They're that cool.
Namaste.
Saturday, August 15, 2015
The Lipstick Yogi
I rolled out my yoga mat, as I had done a million times before. Sitting in the corner of the yoga studio, I had gotten into the pattern of allowing myself the luxury of maintaining a healthy distance from my classmates, while still being able to observe their practice. It was the voyeur's dream.
I had just settled into a stiff, creaky half lotus, when a classmate rolled her mat beside mine. I peered up at her--she greeted me with an uninhibited smile.
"I just wanted to say, I love your hair," she said, gesturing to my newly-red locks. "Is that henna?"
As far as I knew, henna was that stuff that I had tried to slap on my body five years prior that made me look like I had rolled around in dirt.
I shrugged. "Just regular hair dye." I grew increasingly self conscious, and tried to discretely rub off my violently purple eyeshadow. What was perceived as a great investment in my self-esteem amongst my roommates seemed a terrible felony at the yoga studio. You mean to say you paid money to pour chemicals on your head for the sake of your appearance?? The horrors!
"Oh, you should really look into henna. Nature's pantry. It's amazing stuff."
I wasn't sure when nature got a pantry, but I had the sinking suspicion I was terribly un-enlightened for lacking this knowledge. Perhaps if I used organic lotion and put wheatgrass on my head, I would be able to do a headstand by now.
Somehow I doubted it.
I have been doing yoga for about four years. It's been a positive constant in my life--I love the feeling of complete surrender after falling into that final savasana. I have learned to better express gratitude--both for myself and others. It's an added bonus that I can stand on my hands and make people go "oooh." But, paradoxically, with that ability to finally maintain some level of ease, I also have that nagging feeling that I don't quite fit. I smile and nod when my fellow yogis discuss homemade lotion recipes and kambucha. I've had fleeting desires to rid myself of superfluous material goods, only to realize that Ulta is having a sale, and that red lipstick makes me forget that I'm not actually queen of the universe.
I know I've written about this before. One of my first posts addresses the internal struggle of finding the balance between "fashionista" (meaning I bought a pair of jeans once) and "spiritual being." Since then, I've realized that my own inner peace has nothing to do with the type of jeans I'm wearing, and if anything, exfoliator does wonders for that third eye chakra. It took an embarrassingly long time to realize this, but enlightenment is not a "one size fits all" formula. What strikes me, however, is that--at least from the outside--one size seems to fit most. It's like the yoga pants debacle of 2014, only with more chanting, but equal amounts of spandex.
Although I've technically been going to yoga since senior year of high school, I hesitated to call myself a "serious yogi" until this past fall--part of this was an excuse to laze around my apartment for months on end and completely avoid physical activity of all forms--but a major factor was that I feared letting go of my casual yogi status, as in my mind, that required forcing myself into a mold that I knew I could never fit myself into--I'm not nearly flexible enough.
There was a particular quote from Erica Kaufman, the owner of Lila Yoga Studios, that resonated with me: "yoga doesn't change who you are. It frees who you are." I certainly see how this would be true--reducing my anxiety has allowed me to focus on more meaningful, deeper aspects of myself. Yet I still struggle with the concept that so many yogis' "selves" align with one another. Yoga class is quite possibly the most open, least judgmental environment on this planet, yet there are times when I wonder if I'm doing something wrong, that I can't be taken seriously as a disciple or teacher.
Which brings me to my next point. As someone who is studying to become a yoga teacher this coming school year, I am volunteering myself to "fit the yoga mold," at least in the most abstract sense. I've struggled between the desire to fit in and my need to be true to my most authentic self. Which is really a bummer, since I was told I should have gotten past this struggle like, five years ago. I'm still waiting on that whole self-acceptance badge I was told would be waiting for me at the finish line of my teenage years.
It's quite possible I'll be able to just rock the "lipstick yogi" look and make it a trend of sorts. But seeing as my middle school attempts to initiate the jeans/skirt trend flopped, I don't have high hopes.
Excuse me while I go buy organic everything.
Namaste.
I had just settled into a stiff, creaky half lotus, when a classmate rolled her mat beside mine. I peered up at her--she greeted me with an uninhibited smile.
"I just wanted to say, I love your hair," she said, gesturing to my newly-red locks. "Is that henna?"
As far as I knew, henna was that stuff that I had tried to slap on my body five years prior that made me look like I had rolled around in dirt.
I shrugged. "Just regular hair dye." I grew increasingly self conscious, and tried to discretely rub off my violently purple eyeshadow. What was perceived as a great investment in my self-esteem amongst my roommates seemed a terrible felony at the yoga studio. You mean to say you paid money to pour chemicals on your head for the sake of your appearance?? The horrors!
"Oh, you should really look into henna. Nature's pantry. It's amazing stuff."
I wasn't sure when nature got a pantry, but I had the sinking suspicion I was terribly un-enlightened for lacking this knowledge. Perhaps if I used organic lotion and put wheatgrass on my head, I would be able to do a headstand by now.
Somehow I doubted it.
I have been doing yoga for about four years. It's been a positive constant in my life--I love the feeling of complete surrender after falling into that final savasana. I have learned to better express gratitude--both for myself and others. It's an added bonus that I can stand on my hands and make people go "oooh." But, paradoxically, with that ability to finally maintain some level of ease, I also have that nagging feeling that I don't quite fit. I smile and nod when my fellow yogis discuss homemade lotion recipes and kambucha. I've had fleeting desires to rid myself of superfluous material goods, only to realize that Ulta is having a sale, and that red lipstick makes me forget that I'm not actually queen of the universe.
I know I've written about this before. One of my first posts addresses the internal struggle of finding the balance between "fashionista" (meaning I bought a pair of jeans once) and "spiritual being." Since then, I've realized that my own inner peace has nothing to do with the type of jeans I'm wearing, and if anything, exfoliator does wonders for that third eye chakra. It took an embarrassingly long time to realize this, but enlightenment is not a "one size fits all" formula. What strikes me, however, is that--at least from the outside--one size seems to fit most. It's like the yoga pants debacle of 2014, only with more chanting, but equal amounts of spandex.
Although I've technically been going to yoga since senior year of high school, I hesitated to call myself a "serious yogi" until this past fall--part of this was an excuse to laze around my apartment for months on end and completely avoid physical activity of all forms--but a major factor was that I feared letting go of my casual yogi status, as in my mind, that required forcing myself into a mold that I knew I could never fit myself into--I'm not nearly flexible enough.
There was a particular quote from Erica Kaufman, the owner of Lila Yoga Studios, that resonated with me: "yoga doesn't change who you are. It frees who you are." I certainly see how this would be true--reducing my anxiety has allowed me to focus on more meaningful, deeper aspects of myself. Yet I still struggle with the concept that so many yogis' "selves" align with one another. Yoga class is quite possibly the most open, least judgmental environment on this planet, yet there are times when I wonder if I'm doing something wrong, that I can't be taken seriously as a disciple or teacher.
Which brings me to my next point. As someone who is studying to become a yoga teacher this coming school year, I am volunteering myself to "fit the yoga mold," at least in the most abstract sense. I've struggled between the desire to fit in and my need to be true to my most authentic self. Which is really a bummer, since I was told I should have gotten past this struggle like, five years ago. I'm still waiting on that whole self-acceptance badge I was told would be waiting for me at the finish line of my teenage years.
It's quite possible I'll be able to just rock the "lipstick yogi" look and make it a trend of sorts. But seeing as my middle school attempts to initiate the jeans/skirt trend flopped, I don't have high hopes.
Excuse me while I go buy organic everything.
Namaste.
Sunday, August 2, 2015
I Sing the Body Electric: A Review of Urban Decay's Electric Pressed Pigmment Palette
So I'm trying something new here at Coffee, Yoga, and Life's Other Necessities and delving into the world of makeup reviews. Which probably means I'll write this review, forget that I ever made this commitment in the first place, then in five months go "oh my gosh guys, I'm so sorry it's been so long since I've posted a review!"
And so it goes.
This whole review thing is convenient for two reasons: 1) It gives me an excuse to fawn over colorful, shiny things without seeming mentally insane, and 2) It gives the illusion that I am actually skilled in the art of makeup application. Spoiler alert: I'm not--though I can now do my water line without crying. Does that count?
So the other day, I thought "what's better than saving money for rent/groceries/adulting? I know--spending $50 on eyeshadow I could never wear for said adulting!" And thus the Ulta splurge began.
Outrageous expense aside, this palette is PRETTY--pretty enough that I can't contain my excitement in lowercase letters. I spent about a week going online and staring at pictures of this eyeshadow. Then, when my order finally arrived, I spent about a week opening and closing the palette, reveling in that magnetic click, and occasionally squealing at the colors.
This palette is not for the faint of heart (additionally, those with real, grownup jobs). Once that color goes on, it shows. Once it seemingly comes off, it still shows. I've had pink eyelids for about two weeks now. But if you're like me and want a bold look for watching Netflix and reading books a night on the town, Urban Decay has got you covered. Thus far, I have used Jilted and Urban and not ended up looking like the Joker. It helps to invest in a roommate who will yell "Kira! You look like a clown! Where is your blending brush?"
It's also helpful to invest in a blending brush. There goes week #2 of groceries.
For my fellow brown eyed girls, I would strongly recommend avoiding the pinks and reds such as Slow Burn and Savage. However, blues and purples go on beautifully. I still have no idea what yellow is doing there. Yellow looks good on approximately 0% of the population.
As I've learned from experience, if you want to look like you've spent more than two minutes putting on eyeshadow, you should spend more than two minutes putting on eyeshadow. But you should also blend these violently colorful shades with more neutral tones such as brown (this is turning into a $100 investment--funny how that happens).
If you blend some brown into your crease, magic will happen. And by magic, I mean the roommate you've just invested in will squeal, "your eyes look so pretty! I was beginning to lose hope in you!"
Also, for the shimmer obsessed, Revolt is pretty much the best thing that has happened on this planet. Every other makeup guru seems to dismiss Revolt as un-interesting and useless, but I've also lived by the school of thought that your look is not complete if you don't look like you've got some glitter glue stuck to your eye.
But seriously, it's a lovely addition to the palette.
Fringe is probably my favorite shade here, but I have yet to find a way to apply it without looking like I've got a bruised face. After a few more hours of experimenting in my room, I'll let you all know how it works out.
As a whole, for the broke college student, this is probably not a wise investment. For the average, normal adult, this is also probably not a wise investment. But I invested anyway.
And for those of you who are looking for actually skilled makeup gurus, HAH, joke's on you! But also, here's a look done by Jaclyn Hill that (supposedly) the average woman can emulate:
Enjoy your face eyes.
And so it goes.
This whole review thing is convenient for two reasons: 1) It gives me an excuse to fawn over colorful, shiny things without seeming mentally insane, and 2) It gives the illusion that I am actually skilled in the art of makeup application. Spoiler alert: I'm not--though I can now do my water line without crying. Does that count?
So the other day, I thought "what's better than saving money for rent/groceries/adulting? I know--spending $50 on eyeshadow I could never wear for said adulting!" And thus the Ulta splurge began.
Outrageous expense aside, this palette is PRETTY--pretty enough that I can't contain my excitement in lowercase letters. I spent about a week going online and staring at pictures of this eyeshadow. Then, when my order finally arrived, I spent about a week opening and closing the palette, reveling in that magnetic click, and occasionally squealing at the colors.
 | |||
| LOOK AT ALL THE PRETTY COLORS |
It's also helpful to invest in a blending brush. There goes week #2 of groceries.
 |
| "Sunset," and other pretentious names |
 | ||||
As I've learned from experience, if you want to look like you've spent more than two minutes putting on eyeshadow, you should spend more than two minutes putting on eyeshadow. But you should also blend these violently colorful shades with more neutral tones such as brown (this is turning into a $100 investment--funny how that happens).
If you blend some brown into your crease, magic will happen. And by magic, I mean the roommate you've just invested in will squeal, "your eyes look so pretty! I was beginning to lose hope in you!"
Also, for the shimmer obsessed, Revolt is pretty much the best thing that has happened on this planet. Every other makeup guru seems to dismiss Revolt as un-interesting and useless, but I've also lived by the school of thought that your look is not complete if you don't look like you've got some glitter glue stuck to your eye.
But seriously, it's a lovely addition to the palette.
Fringe is probably my favorite shade here, but I have yet to find a way to apply it without looking like I've got a bruised face. After a few more hours of experimenting in my room, I'll let you all know how it works out.
 |
| "The lizard" |
As a whole, for the broke college student, this is probably not a wise investment. For the average, normal adult, this is also probably not a wise investment. But I invested anyway.
And for those of you who are looking for actually skilled makeup gurus, HAH, joke's on you! But also, here's a look done by Jaclyn Hill that (supposedly) the average woman can emulate:
Thursday, July 9, 2015
Write On: How Real Should Interpersonal Hardships Be?
The other day, a friend and I were talking about how to fictionalize personal struggles. I'm not shy about my preference for stories about people and their lives, so it's no surprise that a great deal of my material comes from my own struggles with growing up, family, and friends. During overly hormonal particularly difficult times, my stories ended up sounding like a 150 page whine-fest about how a boy who talked to me twice didn't like me. That's some serious literature right there.
Since then, my writing has progressed, but my basic sources of inspiration have stayed the same. I have no trouble painting the characters who I associate myself with in a negative light, but it gets tricky when you start to reveal unflattering truths about those who are closest to you. Especially when the best writing typically stems from tumultuous relationships with said close family/friends.
Having experienced this moral dilemma, I can't say there's an obvious right or wrong answer. I once wrote a piece that centered around a very dark period between me and my mother, and quality-wise, it turned out to be some of my best writing. I soon learned that my mother was not comfortable with sharing that piece of her life in the context of my piece. While I was annoyed that I would have to re-write an essay that could affect my grade, I realized that keeping a positive relationship with my mom was worth more than a shiny GPA. In that case, the answer was obvious--I was writing a non-fiction piece, and I'd gotten very explicit lack of consent. Non-fiction is a little more black and white. If you're writing entirely about a real person with real issues, they always have the right to veto that piece. That's not censorship--rather, that's protecting another person.
However, fiction is where interpersonal drama often becomes more ambiguous. My friend brought up an excellent point when he was discussing his own writing project. He mentioned the fact that while his writing is far less autobiographical than my own, he focused on troubled family dynamics (particular parental pressure) because of his own relationship with his mother. He noted that if someone ever wanted to buy his screenplay, he would jump at the chance, but there was still that nagging concern about what his family would think if they read his screenplay or watched the movie. Coming from an exceptionally supportive family, I immediately assumed that his parents would realize that his own happiness and success was the most important, and they'd be proud. However, this isn't always the case. Oftentimes this is why some of the best writers are the most isolated (also, alcoholism. But that's for another time).
I'm normally an advocate for being overly careful not to step on anyone's toes, in the case of fiction writing, I'm still a firm believer in facing hard, unflattering truths. I'm not saying you should go spouting out your best friend's deepest, darkest secrets alongside their name and address, but limiting one's creative outlet in fear of hurting someone's feelings is, in its purest form, censorship. You shouldn't walk up to your father and say "hey look, your emotional unavailability made me unable to form meaningful relationships!" (think how awkward THAT Thanksgiving would be), but on paper, that's free game. Not only is this creative freedom therapeutic, but it's real. More often than not, the reader can tell when you're trying to tip-toe around the core issue, and it makes for a very artificial, very dull story. In most cases, poignant trauma and distress seamlessly translates to poignant fiction.
It's also important to realize that fiction--at least, good fiction writing--very rarely features one-dimensional characters. Just because a certain character seems more troubled than others, that does not mean that she is the clear-cut "villain." Exhibiting flawed, complicated moments just shows that the world is full of flawed, complicated people--which family dynamics often enhance.
The moral of the story is not "I hate my mom," or "life would be so much greater if my great Aunt Tina stopped chugging bottles of wine and calling me fat." Stories that expose troubled family dynamics do more than simply point fingers. They make us realize something about human nature, about growing up, about ourselves.
Namaste.
Since then, my writing has progressed, but my basic sources of inspiration have stayed the same. I have no trouble painting the characters who I associate myself with in a negative light, but it gets tricky when you start to reveal unflattering truths about those who are closest to you. Especially when the best writing typically stems from tumultuous relationships with said close family/friends.
Having experienced this moral dilemma, I can't say there's an obvious right or wrong answer. I once wrote a piece that centered around a very dark period between me and my mother, and quality-wise, it turned out to be some of my best writing. I soon learned that my mother was not comfortable with sharing that piece of her life in the context of my piece. While I was annoyed that I would have to re-write an essay that could affect my grade, I realized that keeping a positive relationship with my mom was worth more than a shiny GPA. In that case, the answer was obvious--I was writing a non-fiction piece, and I'd gotten very explicit lack of consent. Non-fiction is a little more black and white. If you're writing entirely about a real person with real issues, they always have the right to veto that piece. That's not censorship--rather, that's protecting another person.
However, fiction is where interpersonal drama often becomes more ambiguous. My friend brought up an excellent point when he was discussing his own writing project. He mentioned the fact that while his writing is far less autobiographical than my own, he focused on troubled family dynamics (particular parental pressure) because of his own relationship with his mother. He noted that if someone ever wanted to buy his screenplay, he would jump at the chance, but there was still that nagging concern about what his family would think if they read his screenplay or watched the movie. Coming from an exceptionally supportive family, I immediately assumed that his parents would realize that his own happiness and success was the most important, and they'd be proud. However, this isn't always the case. Oftentimes this is why some of the best writers are the most isolated (also, alcoholism. But that's for another time).
I'm normally an advocate for being overly careful not to step on anyone's toes, in the case of fiction writing, I'm still a firm believer in facing hard, unflattering truths. I'm not saying you should go spouting out your best friend's deepest, darkest secrets alongside their name and address, but limiting one's creative outlet in fear of hurting someone's feelings is, in its purest form, censorship. You shouldn't walk up to your father and say "hey look, your emotional unavailability made me unable to form meaningful relationships!" (think how awkward THAT Thanksgiving would be), but on paper, that's free game. Not only is this creative freedom therapeutic, but it's real. More often than not, the reader can tell when you're trying to tip-toe around the core issue, and it makes for a very artificial, very dull story. In most cases, poignant trauma and distress seamlessly translates to poignant fiction.
It's also important to realize that fiction--at least, good fiction writing--very rarely features one-dimensional characters. Just because a certain character seems more troubled than others, that does not mean that she is the clear-cut "villain." Exhibiting flawed, complicated moments just shows that the world is full of flawed, complicated people--which family dynamics often enhance.
The moral of the story is not "I hate my mom," or "life would be so much greater if my great Aunt Tina stopped chugging bottles of wine and calling me fat." Stories that expose troubled family dynamics do more than simply point fingers. They make us realize something about human nature, about growing up, about ourselves.
Namaste.
Sunday, June 21, 2015
15 of my favorite feelings
In light of the recent Vlogbrother's video titled "15 of My Favorite Feelings," I thought I would follow suit with the positivity and discuss my own favorites. This won't be terribly deep, but sometimes you just need a little light-hearted optimism in your life, despite having the rest of the world throw jaded cynicism at you (bitter? Who, me?).
1) Cuddling.
Sure, this is sappy and girly, but honestly, it's trendy amongst females for a reason. And it's not romance-specific either. My friend Megan and I have perfected the art of drunk cuddling, which is not for the faint of heart. But if you want to get sappy and romantic with me, one of my all time favorite feelings is falling asleep mid-cuddle with someone you really love. Fortunately for me, my pillow pet has been a loyal cuddle buddy since day one of college. #foreveralone
2) When you finally finish a writing project.
It doesn't happen often, but that rush of euphoria after finishing a story/script/series of rants will never get old. This is especially nice when the project has nothing to do with school--although I won't argue that I don't love that sigh of relief when I crank out the final draft of a fifteen page Shakespeare essay.
3) Conversely, when you get an idea for a project.
This honestly works better when other people are involved. I get excited by solo ideas, but I'm rarely motivated to finish them. However, when 50% of the idea is someone else's, I feel obliged to finish the task. It doesn't hurt that I also get to squeal and whoop in public places with said project partner and look like complete idiots together.
4) Back scratches
This is like getting a massage, listening to Enya, and eating ice cream all at once.
5) Dancing when nobody's watching.
As our generation becomes more and more immersed in social media, it feels like there's no activity that's left un-documented. This is nice for the memory-loss prone such as myself, but there's also something liberating about doing something just for yourself--especially when said thing unleashes your inner goofball.
6) Eating chocolate therapy ice cream
Ben & Jerry knows. It always knows.
7) Drinking water after a long workout
I'm not gonna lie, I don't love the taste of water. But after I've poured out buckets of sweat on the treadmill (my nemesis), there's nothing more refreshing than a huge gulp of water--even better when it's followed by a massive cookie and/or cupcake.
8) Being the example in class
There's no way to sound this without sounding like a giant narcissist, but I've been the "example" in more than zero college classes, and let's just say a little external validation never hurt anyone.
9) Hip-cracking
My version of knuckle cracking. Because I'm actually eighty years old.
10) Running around in the rain
Because I'm actually five years old.
11) Finishing a good book
12) Having an intense (but good) conversation
Anything related to politics, philosophy, or identity, and I feel like I'm in heaven.
13) Freshly washed hair
14) Writing on a chalkboard
This is something that literally every student in my second grade classroom fought over. We planned pretend classes during recess just so that we could write on the chalkboard. I'm not sure why it's so satisfying, but until the chalk squeaks, everything is wonderful.
15) Sleeping in a freshly made bed
Extra points if I've been away from home for a while and feel like I'm going to fall over from sleep exhaustion.
1) Cuddling.
Sure, this is sappy and girly, but honestly, it's trendy amongst females for a reason. And it's not romance-specific either. My friend Megan and I have perfected the art of drunk cuddling, which is not for the faint of heart. But if you want to get sappy and romantic with me, one of my all time favorite feelings is falling asleep mid-cuddle with someone you really love. Fortunately for me, my pillow pet has been a loyal cuddle buddy since day one of college. #foreveralone
It doesn't happen often, but that rush of euphoria after finishing a story/script/series of rants will never get old. This is especially nice when the project has nothing to do with school--although I won't argue that I don't love that sigh of relief when I crank out the final draft of a fifteen page Shakespeare essay.
3) Conversely, when you get an idea for a project.
This honestly works better when other people are involved. I get excited by solo ideas, but I'm rarely motivated to finish them. However, when 50% of the idea is someone else's, I feel obliged to finish the task. It doesn't hurt that I also get to squeal and whoop in public places with said project partner and look like complete idiots together.
4) Back scratches
This is like getting a massage, listening to Enya, and eating ice cream all at once.
5) Dancing when nobody's watching.
As our generation becomes more and more immersed in social media, it feels like there's no activity that's left un-documented. This is nice for the memory-loss prone such as myself, but there's also something liberating about doing something just for yourself--especially when said thing unleashes your inner goofball.
6) Eating chocolate therapy ice cream
Ben & Jerry knows. It always knows.
7) Drinking water after a long workout
I'm not gonna lie, I don't love the taste of water. But after I've poured out buckets of sweat on the treadmill (my nemesis), there's nothing more refreshing than a huge gulp of water--even better when it's followed by a massive cookie and/or cupcake.
8) Being the example in class
There's no way to sound this without sounding like a giant narcissist, but I've been the "example" in more than zero college classes, and let's just say a little external validation never hurt anyone.
9) Hip-cracking
My version of knuckle cracking. Because I'm actually eighty years old.
10) Running around in the rain
Because I'm actually five years old.
11) Finishing a good book
12) Having an intense (but good) conversation
Anything related to politics, philosophy, or identity, and I feel like I'm in heaven.
13) Freshly washed hair
14) Writing on a chalkboard
This is something that literally every student in my second grade classroom fought over. We planned pretend classes during recess just so that we could write on the chalkboard. I'm not sure why it's so satisfying, but until the chalk squeaks, everything is wonderful.
15) Sleeping in a freshly made bed
Extra points if I've been away from home for a while and feel like I'm going to fall over from sleep exhaustion.
Sunday, May 31, 2015
Sexual Assault: Law Versus Cultural Attitudes
In the recent Washington Post article titled "Feminists Want us to Define these Ugly Sexual Encounters as Rape. Don't Let Them," Cathy Young argues that feminists are trying to categorize every regretted sexual experience as an assault that should be punished by law. In this piece, she tries to inculcate the idea that "only yes means yes" is an absurd, puritanical notion that takes away the mystery and intrigue in sex. While Young makes some insightful comments about our society's tendency to demonize men in these cases, she fails to acknowledge the fact that sexual aggression can be perfectly legal, while still revealing troubling cultural attitudes about consent, power, and what constitutes a "positive" sexual experience. Not every instance of coercion is rape. But even when there are no legal repercussions, we should still question the appeal of persuading someone who's clearly reluctant into sex. What is it about somehow "winning" that's sexy? There is still the persistent implication that if you don't want sex or show any signs of hesitation, you are wrong and just don't know it yet. That attitude has to change.
Young argues, "this crusade against 'rape culture' oversimplifies the vast complexity of human sexual interaction, conflating criminal sexual acts such as coercion by physical force, threat or incapacitation — which should obviously be prosecuted and punished — with bad behavior...even in the first incident, in which the man knowingly pressured me into something I didn’t want, I could have safely said no to him." What's troubling here is that Young is blaming herself for an encounter that she was pressured into--this justification for her partner's behavior is a prime example of victim blaming. Technically, he didn't do anything wrong; technically, Young always was physically capable of saying no. But everything in this situation is justified by technicalities. I do not know the details of Young's particular relationship, but there is a multitude of similar situations in which someone is physically capable of saying no, but emotionally she is trapped. Maybe she knows that if she says no, she will be guilted or punished in some way. Maybe she feels that she is fighting a losing battle. Whatever the case is, it is deeply concerning that we are taught to brush off the idea that being pressured into sex is not just inevitable, but is also acceptable.
Sex isn't a battle--you shouldn't conquer another human being in one of their most intimate, vulnerable moments.
Young also makes the fallacious argument that "only yes means yes" forces us to consider every less-than-ideal sexual encounter an assault. Without getting too graphic on the Internet, I'd like to use my own personal experience to refute that argument. There have been instances where I've responded with a resounding "yes," only to regret it later because I was a young and stupid person who made young and stupid decisions. I'm not about to go and call my ex a rapist because I didn't think things through at the age of 18. The biggest difference, however, is that I did not feel pressured into doing something I would later regret, and I did not feel as though I would be punished for saying no.
Young also seems to make the claim that because she was also sexually pushy in her lifetime, that counteracts the times that she was a victim: "besides, I know that sometimes the roles have been reversed. There was the ex-boyfriend I thought I was seducing in the hope of getting him back — only to realize, the one time he finally said no harshly enough, that it had been more pressure than seduction. If I were to claim victimhood, I would either have to admit to being a perpetrator as well or fall back on a blatantly sexist double standard." Here, Young fails to recognize that she is perfectly capable of being both the victim and the aggressor at different times in her life. While this is a seemingly gendered issue (seeing as the number of male aggressors highly outweighs female aggressors), seeing a case in which a woman is overtly sexually aggressive does not make it "right" in some way. It doesn't mean that Young should be behind bars this very instance, but perhaps she, along with everyone else who has felt the need to have full power in similar instances, should examine why the power dynamic was so skewed.
We've gotten to a point where we can definitively say that rapists should be locked behind bars--that's not the dialogue we need to be having. The next step is to make people realize that persistent persuasion isn't sexy, and instead of relying on the reactor in the situation to say no, maybe we should teach the instigators to stop demanding a "yes." It'll be a hell of a lot more enjoyable that way.
Whew, that was a serious rant. My next post will be chock full of gifs or something to make up for it.
Namaste.
Thursday, May 7, 2015
A Year In Review, As Told By Snapchat
So how did this year pan out? Well...
I studied hard...
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I made healthy choices that would benefit my mind and body...
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My friends and I improved our style and made smart fashion choices...
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I learned how to adult...
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...And I made new friends who always appreciate me
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Namaste.
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